“Understood.”
“Good.” He leans back in his chair again and for the first time since I’ve known him, he smirks. “You’re going places, Gentry. Just make sure to send me tickets to your first big league game.”
“You’re one of the firsts on my list.”
He nods then says, “Get out of here and go lift. Time to step it up to another level.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Coach; I’m already bringing it this year.”
I take off and head toward the weight room with extra pep in my step.
Captain. The Big Leagues. Hell, that conversation couldn’t have gone any better.
Pictures of previous student athletes flank the hallways, reminding me of the rich athletic history within these walls. My photo might be up here one day. My mom would love that. It’s rare when Coach Disik has any seniors on his team, because his players are usually drafted after their junior year. I knew I had the potential to be drafted after my junior year, but to know it’s closer to reality is fucking incredible.
This changes everything. My entire outlook over the next year. Me.
I was going to grind anyway, but now that I have a chance of accomplishing my biggest goal, I know where my head will be all year: on the field, in the weight room, and putting time in the cages.
“Oh shit, what happened?” Carson asks, taking in my concentrated brow when I walk into the weight room.
Still in shock, I hop onto the exercise bike next to him and start warming up my limbs. “He named me captain.”
“Seriously? Holy shit, that’s huge.”
“He also said I need to enter the draft after this season.”
“Could have told you that,” Carson says, laughter in his voice. “You’re going places, man, just don’t try to take my kneecaps out when we’re playing against each other and you’re sliding into second in the big leagues.”
I smile at my friend, who has exactly the same potential as me. “I can’t make any promises.”
Chapter Six
EMORY
I pat my skirt down and sit tall in my chair, hoping I don’t mess this up.
Mrs. Flower scans my résumé and questionnaire, her lips pursed, showing off her lipstick that’s in desperate need of a touch-up. The color has fallen in the cracks of her lips, drying out and making her look a little impish.
Her lipstick is pretty much the only thing I can read on this woman. Talk about a poker face. If it wasn’t for the abundance of wrinkles marring the corners of her eyes, I would think she was injected full of Botox from how expressionless she is.
I’m dying to know what she thinks. The silence is slowly eating away at me. Is she impressed? Annoyed? I don’t have much experience working in a library, only a year, but that should be good enough for an internship, right?
I heard all the desired internships are within the athletic department, so working in the library should be a piece of cake, but then again, judging by the way Mrs. Flower has a perpetual crease between her eyes while reading my résumé, I’m going to assume it’s not as easy as I initially thought.
Dottie is interning with her dad’s multi-billion-dollar corporation whereas Lindsay, studying to be a teacher, is applying for internships at local schools. She was tempted to apply for an intern position in the equipment room at the sports events center, but we talked her out of that pretty quickly.
It’s been a few weeks since we started school and even though Lindsay might be slightly obsessed with going to the baseball loft every weekend, we’ve been able to curb her craving by taking the train into Chicago on the weekends and exploring the city, doing touristy things like taking pictures in front of “The Bean” and catching some pretty amazing off-Broadway shows—courtesy of Dottie’s dad. If it wasn’t for her very wealthy father, we would be spending the weekends kicking a tossed-up piece of paper around on the floor. But he’s always treated us as his daughters and spoils us. I’m not mad about it, nor do I forget how grateful I am to have such great friends in my life.
Slowly, Mrs. Flower sets the résumé down and stares me in the eyes through her red thick-framed glasses. I try not to wither under her gaze but hold strong instead.
“How are you with authority?”
“Handling authority or being authoritative myself?”
“Being authoritative,” she says, eyes narrowing in. There’s no question, Mrs. Flower—despite the fluffy last name—has no problem holding a firm upper hand. I’m pretty sure she patrols the library, occasionally bending over to pull the ruler out of her ass only to slap students across the tops of their hands with it.
“I don’t have a problem with it, especially with peers. I don’t like rule breakers.” Solid answer.
She slams her hand on the desk, nearly causing me to piddle myself. By God, I think I just tooted from sheer surprise. Hold it together, Emory.
“Situation,” she yells. What’s happening? “You are returning books in the history section, and you hear giggling. You turn down the aisle of local history and see two hooligans fondling each other. Pants at ankles, bra on the floor, what do you do?”
Oh Jesus, okay, I see what she’s doing. Better ways to interview, but I’m not going to point that out. Being that Mrs. Flower has her dress shirt buttoned all the way up her neck, I shouldn’t be surprised by her question. Thankfully when going over interview tactics with Dottie, she told me to take a few seconds before answering so I don’t say something stupid. For instance, my initial answer to Mrs. Flower’s question was oddly, “Slap the guy on the bare ass with an encyclopedia and reprimand him for being indecently exposed in public.” I’m going to guess that’s not the answer she’s looking for.
Think . . .
Naked. Penis.
Naked penis.
A picture of a hot dog comes to mind and I hold back a snort while curbing my lips down into a frown to avoid any type of smile.
Clearly I’m still far too immature to be doing grown-up things.
Okay, she wants authority; here is my version of being authoritative . . .
“I would, uh”—shit, don’t pause, it shows weakness—“I would take a picture on my cell phone”—ha! Good one—"then tell them to get dressed and follow me to your office or else I will take the picture to the Dean.”
She leans back in her chair, observing me.
Lips purse.
Hands fold over her desk.
Brows sharpen.
Okay, not the best answer. Threatening to expose someone’s bare butt isn’t kosher, nor allowed I’m sure, but then again, I wasn’t really expecting that question. How do you apprehend fornicators in the library? They’ll just bolt. Hell, I’ve shamefully done it before with Neil. You get caught, but you run for your life, your belts jingling as you trot in shame.
“You would take a picture?”
Nervously, I laugh. “I know it’s not the best solution, but it’s the only way I could think of that would hold them accountable for their actions rather than running away.”
Mrs. Flower drums her fingers on the desk. “I’m not in the market to expose nudes, Miss Ealson.”