I nodded but twisted my hands in my lap.
He stood, grabbed a radio and a clipboard, then marched out the door so quickly, I barely had time to keep up. “Ain't my fault you wore those shoes. I don't slow down for anyone. If you can't keep up, I'll consider you lazy.”
And that was how I spent my morning.
I walked faster than I ever had, my shoes clicking on the cement floor. He showed me the offices where the trainers, EMTs, and coaches spent most of their time. I visited the various gyms and weight rooms, the mats, the pool, and the film room. We walked around the track at least twenty times, going over where the water house was, the spickets, the hoses, and the water bottles. It was noon when we finished the tour, and blisters upon blisters formed on my ankles. But, I would not let him win. Not today.
“The Special Teams group is out practicing. They need water. Consider this your first assignment.” He narrowed his eyes and had an innocent expression cross his face as I eyed the distance between the field and water house, then my footwear choice. The email from my counselor specifically said that I would only meet to talk today. There weren't supposed to be any duties until classes began. Joke was on me. This was an internship with the devil.
“Okay.” I dug deep inside myself for my iron-clad determination. In high school, I’d filled countless coolers. Football games, volleyball tournaments, and baseball games—I’d been the goffer. When I wasn’t being someone’s “go get it” bitch, I’d taped ankles, cleaned wounds, held hands, and watched athletes cry. I could do this.
He whistled at someone and strode off in the other direction.
This was a test. And I would pass it.
I made my way to the storage room back inside the stands. I pulled out all three and carried them to the water house. It was open, thank god, because I refused to ask for help. I began filling the first one.
With it filled, I added ice. It was a blistering summer afternoon, and the players had to be dying. Hell, I was sweating my ass off, but my dress was so dark, sweat wouldn't be noticeable. The cooler was heavier than most trays I carried waitressing. I lugged it to the bench, sweat dripping down my face. One down, two to go.
I did it again, and on the third one, my arms burned. Shit. This job required me to have more muscles, and more muscles meant gym time. Ugh. I was wiping my neck with the back of my hand when someone snuck behind me.
“Excuse me, but I'm not used to seeing people dressed like this on the field.” I twisted to see a friendly, grinning man. He stood at least six feet, dressed in khaki shorts and a navy polo. What was it with football people and polos? They were not stylish, at all.
“Ah, yes. About that. I was under the impression I would get a tour, and that's it. But I officially began my internship today. I'm Grace Turner.” I held out my hand, and he took it in his large one.
“Hi, Grace Turner. I'm Logan Rice. Nice to meet the new intern. Congrats. I've heard it's hard as hell to get picked for it.” His voice was gentle and reassuring.
I couldn't help but smile at him.
“Thank you. I hate to brag, but I worked hard to get it. Spent last year shadowing the volleyball AT and did clinical hours at the rehab center. Hence, why I'm in this dress hauling water coolers onto the field. You’re the defense coordinator, right? Started two years ago and could be credited for having one of the best defenses in the Midwest?”
“I like a woman who knows her stuff.” He winked. Aw hell. It was such an old-fashioned thing, but damn. “But yes, that’s me.”
“You're so young, though.” Hello, word vomit. “When I picture defense coordinators, I picture a bunch of old guys with beer bellies. You surprised me. That's all. Good for you.” I hope that saved me from more embarrassment. I’d had enough for the day, thank you very much. But, karma enjoyed messing with me.
He grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “You aren't entirely wrong. I am young, but, to quote you, I worked my ass off to get here.”
“Good for you,” I said again, awkwardly repeating myself. We shared a smile. I glanced at the players on the field working on kicks and plays. The combination of the sounds, smells, teamwork from every staff member flowed so smoothly. The sense of belonging helped fuel the void of not having a family left. This already felt like home. “How long have you been working with the team?”
“Oh, a couple years. I played in college and didn't want to go through the draft. Loved the sport and knew the coach. Voila.” He held out his hands in a gesture I used often.
I laughed, my shoulders finally relaxing. “Well, I'm glad to find a friendly face here. I'm going to have my work cut out for me.” I sighed, looking around the field and found Asshole Anderson glaring, and I mean, glaring at me. His piercing stare hit me, hard. I forced myself not to flinch.
Logan followed my gaze and let out a slow whistle. “So you’re paired up with Anderson? How’s that going?”
“Yup.” I popped the ‘p’ at the end of the word.
He grimaced for a second. Then he ran a hand through his hair, scrunching up his face. “Damn.” He shook his head, this time smiling. “He's one of the best, but he's a real dick.”
I burst out laughing. “I'm not sure if this is a test or not. If I agree with you, you might tell him and I'd be fired. If I defend him, I look like a brownnoser. So, I'll choose this moment to make my exit. Nice meeting you, Logan.”
“You too, Grace Turner.” He winked at me again.
I bid farewell and found Asshole Anderson walking my way. I tried to hide my wince. I refused to show him weakness. But damn, I needed ice. I began to ask him what else he wanted me to do, but he interrupted me. Rudely, crassly, and I wanted to punch him.
His jaw tensed as his hooded eyes narrowed into slits, his rough voice hardly more than a growl. “You can go now.”
That was all he said. No good job, or nice work. No critiques or directions for the next time to show up. He spun and walked away without a backward glance.
Screw that.
I strode after him, ignoring the awful sour feeling in my gut.
“Mr. Anderson?” I yelled.
He halted.
I walked over to him, fists clenched. Should I call him Mr. Anderson? Brock? I had no freaking clue. “I did everything you asked without complaint. When do I show up next?”
He whipped around, his teeth clenched for reasons beyond me. “Tomorrow.”
“Seven?” Excitement and dread poured through me. I would get great experience starting early, but I knew without a doubt, this was going to be hell.
He nodded, looking at me with disdain. “Wear more appropriate clothing tomorrow, and don't be late.”
I nodded, not willing to feel guilty about my outfit. He was a mean, unhappy man. Screw him—I was here for football and a potential career.
I checked my Fitbit app on my phone as I limped to my car. I walked over seven miles that morning. I groaned into my fist as I hobbled out the main gate.
Gilly called and I immediately called her back, telling her everything. She gasped, moaned, and cursed at all the right parts. She demanded we go pick out new clothing. Of course, I gave in. I had no choice. The extra money I made waitressing was going to go toward a new wardrobe, and although the job was a dream, I wasn’t wild about my new uniform. There was no cool way to wear polos.