Page 21 of Play For Me

After much discussion, the program administrators decided you were the best choice for this specific situation. There’s a particular, top tier athlete on this team whose training requires a good deal of attention. This player suffered a near career ending injury last season. She’s doing well, but her training protocol needs to be carefully monitored. We have every confidence that you’ll be the perfect student trainer for the job—working closely with the training staff, of course. This athlete has the potential to continue to play professionally aftercollege, possibly even make the national team one day, so the department is committed to doing everything we can to help ensure a healthy season of play.

Jay and Emerymust have seen something on my face, because they’ve both come to crowd around me and read the screen.

“Wow,” Em murmurs. “That’s a pretty big compliment, right? A national team caliber athlete? And it sounds like they chose you specifically to work with her.”

Jay slaps my back. “What’d I tell you, man?”

But there’s more to the email.

Before I shareany personal information about the athlete in question, I need to remind you of the department’s policy regarding confidentiality. This athlete comes from a high-profile family and will likely receive a good amount of attention from both local and national press. It’s of the upmost importance that everyone working in the department is committed to fostering privacy for the athlete. Specifically, no information is to be shared with any press source at any level. All requests for information are to be sent to the team’s coaching staff. Medical information is to be kept in strict confidence.

“Shit,”Jay says, looking at me with wide eyes. “National press? Who the hell is this person?”

But the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me that I already know. A national team level athlete. A high-profile family.

Feeling numb, I scroll down the email until I see the highlighted athlete profile. Jay sucks in a sharp breath beside me but I barely hear him. I’m too busy staring at Cecelia Ransome’s name on the screen.

SEVEN

CECELIA

“I think I’m dying.”

I toss a towel at Helen, who is currently lying flat on the grass, arm thrown over her face as she tries to catch her breath.

“I feel great,” I say cheerily, earning me a middle finger.

I’m only exaggerating a little bit. Yes, I’m sweating my tits off, my thighs are burning, and I’m so out of breath it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. But what does that matter? I’m on a soccer field.

“Do you think we’re done?” Kia asks, collapsing next to Helen. “Because I really need us to be done.”

“Don’t think I can stand at this point,” Helen agrees

The practicehasbeen pretty brutal. It’s a freaking scorcher today and we’ve been running drills outside for the past two hours, shuttle runs and suicides and seemingly endless tuck jumps. And that’s on top of the mini scrimmage we played this morning and an optional hour in the weight room—which everyone took advantage of because, hello, roster cuts are coming up.

But the grueling training schedule can’t get me down. Not when I was watching the second half of the season from the bench last year, still deep in recovery from my surgery. Everyopportunity I have to step on this field feels like a gift, and I sure as hell am going to treat it that way.

“All right ladies, bring it in,” Coach Carla calls from across the field, and there’s a subdued murmur of relief. It would probably be a lot louder, if everyone wasn’t too wiped out to talk.

We all manage to drag ourself over to the side of the field where Coach is standing with four people I can’t quite make out with the bright sun in my eyes. I’m pretty sure one of them is Devon, the head athletic trainer, but the other three, two guys and a girl, aren’t familiar.

“Oh my God,” Helen says suddenly, grabbing my arm. She sounds a lot less tired. “It’s that gorgeous guy from The Daily Grind the other night.”

“Who?” I ask, squinting at the guys. One of them is much taller than the others, tall enough that he has to practically bend down to talk to Coach. But then he lifts his head and I realize exactly who it is.

The guy from the Kappa Sig party. Solomon something or other. The one who acted like such a dick when Vega spilled the punch.

This is the second time I’ve seen him since then—in line at the cafe being the other—and it hit me like a gut punch both times. He really is unfairly attractive standing there in grey track pants and a black athletic department polo shirt. And I hate that I know how much more attractive he is without the shirt on.

“He’s so tall,” Helen continues, and she’s definitely not being quiet enough to ensure he can’t hear her. “I love tall men.”

“Tall is overrated,” I mutter, but she’s too deep in obsessionville to respond.

“Seriously, how tall do you think he is?” she goes on. “Six-four? Jesus, I would climb that man like a tree.”

“He can probably hear you,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “Good. A guy that hot should know that he’s hot and that we appreciate all the hotness.”