Page 97 of The Cheerleader

But maybe my body has no idea what that is, and meeting the person who could be responsible for a dream I don’t dare to dream coming true is so intense that my only real response can be fear. The association is too close.

Holding onto my cool as if this were an extension of the game and I’m still facing down the threat of a tackle ready to pounce, I nod. It occurs to me that I’m not sure I’m supposed to be talking to him according to the rules, but if he doesn’t care, I don’t. I have little to lose.

Acknowledging the unlikelihood of dreams becoming reality eases my tension a notch.

I nod.

He ups his smile. “You open to the West Coast? I hear you have ties to a family farm.”

I shrug while my gut churns at the mention of the farm, and fresh sweat pops out, defying my cool demeanor.

“I want to play football.”

He nods. “Good to hear. I can tell by the way you run like your life depends on it.” He eyes me, and if he expects a response of any kind to that, I disappoint him, keeping my cool stare in place, unwilling to chance a crack in my armor.

“Man of few words, I see.”

I automatically think of Susie and respond. “So I’ve been told.”

His mouth twitches in a smile. “I guess that’s okay. You’re living up to your reputation as a cool customer with a fierce game face.”

“My game face is who I am.”

He nods, and I know he has no idea what I’m talking about, that being fierce is how I survive, but at least he’s not asking.

Making a monumental effort to act like I care, to own up to the reality that I do care, I say, “Anything else you need to know?”

“Not now. You’ll have something to prove at camp—if we draft you.”

I nod, ready for this conversation to end as my guts churn and threaten to heave some Gatorade.

“One other thing—are you represented?”

“You should have led with that one.” I don’t bother censoring my thought, and he grins.

“I’m tricky like that.”

“You already know the answer.” If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be talking to me directly, but he asked the question to send me the message that I should get representation.

Maybe I should. I had no reason until now, and there’s no way I wanted to jump the gun. No way I wanted to admit to myself there was a possibility I’d need it. More sweat pops out, and I swipe my forehead, not caring if I look more uncomfortable than cool anymore, hoping I don’t heave in the next few seconds.

He nods. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet I’ll be talking to you again.”

He walks away with that cryptic statement.

The churning and twisting inside me doesn’t stop even with the end of my conversation with the devil of temptation himself. The temptation to hope cuts me up inside as I try to hold it back.

Fuck, I want to believe I have a shot. But my old man’s voice in my head is enough to dampen the urge to hope.

I take in a lungful of dirt- and sweat-scented air. My kind of air. The smell grounds me enough so I can walk away.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Susie

We’re standing around after the game, still too revved up to let it end and leave, talking about what to do to celebrate.

“Dane’s having a party,” Sherry says.