The Southern Nights Series Page 8

  “And cut,” the director yells with a huge grin. “Perfect.” He shakes my father’s hand zealously. “You two were great. Great chemistry. Laney, you’re a natural.”

  “Thank you.” I think. There didn’t feel anything natural about being filmed for three hours. But if he liked it, that’s all that matters.

  “Hungry, kiddo? I promised the crew some dinner when we wrapped up.”

  “No. I’m good, Dad.” I wrap my arms around myself. My stomach is in knots, and my chest is aching. He didn’t show up. “Maybe a milkshake later.”

  “You got it.” He knocks my chin with his fist, lightly, lovingly. He knows something’s wrong.

  A second later, the bells of the diner jingle as Kam comes barreling through the front door. “Did I miss it?”

  I stare at him silently over the counter. “You missed it.” I try to keep my emotions in check, but I am so fed up.

  “Shit. Laney, I’m so sorry.” He starts his spiel. “My agent called last minute. A reporter wanted an interview. It was only supposed to take a few minutes—”

  “I got it, Kam,” I interrupt him curtly.

  “Lemon . . .” He coos my nickname remorsefully. I’m not mad. I’m just hurt, and Kam’s apologies just aren’t cutting it anymore. No matter how sincere.

  “No more apologies.” I shake my head sorrowfully. “Why don’t we just call this what it is.”

  “What’s that?” Kam’s baby blues flash with concern.

  “Quits.”

  “This is not quits, Lemon.” He’s stern.

  “I can’t do this anymore.” My voice is small. So small, I barely recognize it. So hurt, I can barely stand it.

  “Come on, this was just a hiccup.” He tries to argue, maybe reason. Either way, I’ve made my mind up.

  “It’s a hiccup that’s going to keep happening for the rest of your life. I know who you are, and I would never want to change that. But I have competed for attention most of my life. With my mom and my dad, and now you. I’m tired of vying,” I stress. “I would like to be put first, just once.”

  I’m not trying to sound like a whiny two-year-old, but that’s just the reality of my life. I don’t feel unloved. I know my parents love me. But my mom takes ‘career driven’ to another level. I barely ever see her, and it’s been that way for as long as I can remember. When my father’s career picked up, it became the same way. He was constantly working, or filming, or cooking. And now that Kam is in the spotlight and the center of attention, it’s happening with him, too. I get it, but I’m starting to resent him, and I hate that. Because I love him, truly, with all my heart. But I love myself, too. It’s going to tear us apart, eventually, so I’m just trying to make the split amicable. For all our sakes, especially his mother and my father, since they began dating shortly after Kam and I got together. Apparently, there was some leftover attraction from high school. You could almost see the sparks fly.

  “Laney, you are the most important person in my life.” The sincerity in his voice nearly has me reconsidering. Then his phone rings, ruining the moment. “Shit,” he mutters, as he looks at the screen. He’s conflicted about picking it up or continuing with this conversation. I know who’s calling him. It’s Sam the Magic Man, his agent, who calls him every freaking five seconds lately.

  “Go ahead, pick it up. Talk to him. I know you have to.” It’s part of the game. Kam is going to the NFL, and this is part of the path to get there.

  “Lemon, this isn’t over,” he says strictly, the phone ringing in his hand.

  “Yes, it is.” I start to walk away.

  “Lemon!” Kam raises his voice as I disappear into the kitchen. “Lemon!” The phone annoyingly rings again. “Lemon! Damn it! Hello.” I hear him snap just before the door swings closed behind me.

  Three Years Later

  Spring Semester, Senior Year

  Kam

  I BREATHE IN the spring air as I walk across campus. It’s early morning. Well, relatively. Being up at eight-thirty is hellish for most college students, but normal for me. I’ve already worked out, eaten breakfast, showered, and dressed. It’s just part of my routine—the routine I’ve followed since I stepped foot on this university three and a half years ago.

  I walk into the communications building and find room 202. I stop short when I see the last face I ever expected to see sitting in the third row, playing on her phone. Her hair is pulled up into a tight bun with a few tiny red streaks standing out against the deep dark brown. She’s wearing cutoff shorts, a black T-shirt, and white Converse. The sight of her actually makes my heart palpitate. It still stings when I think about the day we broke up. “Let’s call this what it is . . . quits.”

  I never quit.

  I walk up and quietly slide into the desk next to her. “Well, well, well . . .” Laney looks up with just her eyes when she recognizes my voice. I think she’s just as thrown as I am. “What is an architect major doing in an eight-thirty a.m. sports broadcasting class? On a Friday, no less?”

  She huffs and puffs as she cocks her head to look at me. “I needed a one-credit class, and this was the only one I could fit into my schedule.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure it wasn’t because you just wanted to see me?” I purposely tease her.

  “I can assure you, it wasn’t. If I wanted to see you, all I’d have to do is pick up the school newspaper, or go to their website, or turn on ESPN.”

  “None of those things compare to being seen in the flesh.” I smile brazenly.

  “Nope, you’re right about that.” She points to my neck.

  “What?” I place my hand on the skin.

  “Bite mark.”

  “Oh.” I chuckle.

  “Same old Kam,” she remarks as the professor writes his name on the whiteboard in front of us. He’s very young, maybe mid-thirties, but dressed like a twenty-something frat boy—plaid polo, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. This class is going to be cake.

  I sneak glances at Laney as we go over the syllabus. She looks older, more mature, but some attributes are still exactly the same—long silky legs, a plump, pouty mouth, and a perky rack. She’s still sexy as hell and as tempting as sin.

  I try not to think about how her exotic perfume affects me as the professor glosses over each bullet point. It seems like he’s more eager for this class to be over than the students are.

  At the forty-five minute mark, he calls it.

  “Next week, have chapters one through three read and prepare to participate. Dismissed.”

  I walk next to Laney as we slowly exit the room. “Partners for the final project?” I ask her.

  She shrugs, considering. “Sure, why not. We can just report on you.”

  “An interview?” I beam.

  “I know how much you like to hear yourself talk,” she digs lightly.

  “Wear a skirt for the Q&A. I like legs, too,” I banter back.

  “Kam!” She smacks me on the stomach just as a guy with glasses and both hands gripping the straps of his backpack walks up to us. He doesn’t look happy.

  “Hey.” He snakes his arm around Laney’s waist possessively and stares me down. Is this guy for real?

  “Hey.” She smiles up at him. “Steve, this is Kam.”

  “Yeah, I know who he is. Mr. Big Shot Quarterback,” he says, standoffish. He has an accent sort of like Laney’s. He’s definitely not from around here. “Ready to get out of here, Lay?”

  “Lay?” I curl my lip. That’s the worst nickname ever.

  Steve glares. I just eye him up like the dufus he is. Is she seriously with this guy?

  “See you next week, Kam.” Laney sighs melodramatically.

  I lean forward, encroaching on her personal space just to fuck with Steve. “Later, Lemon,” I rasp, winking arrogantly, then walk away.

  Laney

  FUCKING. KAM.

  He would stroll into the only, one-credit BS class I have ever taken. If it wasn’t for a four-credit independent study I took last semester, my cred
its wouldn’t be all messed up, and I wouldn’t have had to sign up for sports broadcasting on Friday freaking morning. Now, I get to spend the next three months with Kam and his inflated ego—and his gorgeous eyes and sexy mouth and arsenal of southern charm.

  “Laney?” Steve says my name flatly.

  “Huh?” I look up from my coffee cup.

  “Daydreaming about your ex?”

  “What?” I respond defensively. “Of course not.” Liar!

  “Did you know he was in that class?”

  “I had no idea. Although, now that I think about it, Kam is a communications major.”

  “Appropriate, seeing how he didn’t have a problem communicating with you.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s Kam. He’s never had a problem communicating with women.”

  “Just as long as he doesn’t try to communicate too closely, we won’t have any issues.”

  I actually laugh. Steve’s green-eyed monster doesn’t rear its ugly head often. But don’t let the glasses and bookworm exterior fool you. He definitely has a hothead side. It’s sort of what I like about him. He’s intelligent, good-looking, and just alpha enough without going overboard. He’s also from New York, which is part of the reason why we work so well. We understand each other. Speak the same language. Being with him feels like a little piece of home in the middle of Alabama.

  After Kam and I split, we didn’t speak for almost a year. But it’s sort of difficult to avoid the son of your father’s very serious girlfriend, especially when he’s sitting across the dining room table from you during the holidays. Breaking up with Kam was the hardest thing I ever had to do, but nearly four years later, I know it was the right decision. He’s in such high demand. Everyone wants a piece of him. He’s constantly traveling with the team, or doing interviews, or charity appearances, or being invited to elite parties . . . the list goes on and on. There’s no time, in my opinion, for a serious relationship or commitment of any kind. Kam needed his freedom, and I loved him enough to give it to him. I needed someone I could have a solid foundation with, and Steve gives me that.

  “Stop. You sound jealous and insecure.” I roll my eyes. Kam and I are older news than Jennifer and Brad.

  “I call it intuitive.” He corrects me, as he takes a sip of his latte. “You know his reputation.”

  “I know Kam’s reputation all too well. But I think I’m immune from his prowling. Been there, done that. If you know what I mean.”

  Steve grimaces. “Did you have to provide a visual?”

  “I think you were just looking for an excuse to picture me naked.”

  “Naked with me, maybe.”

  “I can make that happen, you know,” I purr, slumped casually in my chair.

  Steve smiles wickedly. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?”

  “To finish our coffee?” I respond coquettishly.

  Kam

  I PUSH THROUGH one more set of Fire Hydrants.

  Squeezing the dumbbell to my hamstring behind my knee, I raise it up as high as it can go. I pause for a few seconds in that position, and then lower my knee back down. Wondering why a quarterback is doing leg lifts? Because it takes more than a strong arm to throw with precision and accuracy. It’s an entire body synchronicity, from legs to torso to chest. Fire Hydrants strengthen my outer hips, which also aids in precision and accuracy for other physical activities, if you know what I mean.

  A guy’s gotta blow off steam, somehow.

  My phone rings on my last rep. I lower my knee to steady myself and answer on the third ring. “Yo.”

  “How’s my number one?” It’s Sam, my agent, and he sounds overly enthusiastic.

  “Keeping in shape.” I wipe the sweat off my face with a hand towel and take a swig of Gatorade.

  “That’s what I like to hear. That’s what NFL scouts like to hear.”

  “Is there a reason for this phone call? Or do you just miss me?” I mess with him. Sam has been my agent since my freshman year. He’s one of the best in the business and practically poached me from every other agent who showed the slightest bit of interest after I won the conference finals. He’s become as much of a friend as he is a pain in the ass. He has a big, flashy, LA personality, and the talk to go with it. They don’t call him Sam the Magic Man for nothing.

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “What kind of rumors?” I take another swig of Gatorade.

  “You’re going to be the first pick, first round, at the draft.”

  I nearly spit out the blue liquid. “What?”

  “Yup. Seattle wants you, bad. They know you’re going to get snatched up quick with New York, Denver, and North Carolina all in desperate need of a quarterback.”

  “But Seattle has the best starting quarterback in the league. Why would they go for me?”

  “Because they want to keep it that way. You’re a threat, Kam. You’re destined to be great, and everyone knows it. Their mentality is keep your friends close and your enemies closer, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” I answer slowly, contemplating what going to Seattle could mean for my career. Not much playing time my first year.

  “I’ll keep you posted on the details. This stays hush hush.”

  “Understood.”

  “Good. Later, All-Star.” Click.

  The draft is in two months. Two short months and everything I ever worked for, fought for, will finally come to fruition.

  The BIG DREAM may finally come true.

  I walk up to class to find Laney and Steve talking by the door. I take it upon myself to interrupt their conversation by squirming between them to get into the room. Why? Because I can.

  “Lemon.” I wink at Laney and completely ignore Steve.

  “Kam,” she echoes my name only slightly bothered. Steve, on the other hand, seethes under his breath.

  “I’ll see you later,” I hear Laney tell him as she follows me into class.

  It’s been several weeks and I still can’t figure out what the hell she sees in him.

  He seems like a big fat jerk-off to me.

  I want to know if she and Steve are really serious, but that just seems too personal to ask. It would make it seem as if I’m more interested than I have any business to be. Laney and I are friends and Lord knows it took us years to get to this point. Our breakup was bad—it was ugly, it was emotional, and very messy. But after it was all over, I learned one thing; being just friends is way better than not having her in my life at all.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Just friends is better than nothing. Just friends is better than nothing . . .

  “Did you draft the questions, Lemon?” I ask to distract myself.

  “Right here.” She pulls out a piece of paper from her notebook and waves it in the air. We decided to do a mock interview. Her as the reporter and me, well, the sports star. How perfect. This project has A written all over it. I take the sheet from her and gloss over the questions. They are all pretty straightforward, nothing I haven’t answered before. Then my eyes suddenly land on the second-to-last question and stay glued there.

  Do you have any regrets?

  My throat actually closes. I’m not one to believe in regrets. You lose, you mess up, you move forward. It’s how you survive under the immense pressure. No living in the past. But as much as I walk around like Superman, I’m human just like everyone else, and I have weaknesses, too. I will always regret losing Laney. I will always regret not fighting harder to keep her. I will always regret that, in the end, football really was more important.

  “These look good.” I hand her back the paper rigidly.

  “Good.” She smiles at me. “I was going to try and get some studio time later this afternoon so we can record it. What do you think?”

  I nod silently. “Sounds like a plan. I’m free.”

  “Perfect.” She looks at me funny. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” I plaster on a fake smile. I get to spend more time with you . . .
as just . . . friends. . . .

  Laney and I sit in the tiny studio setting up the microphones and recording equipment.

  “How did a non-communications major book studio time last minute in the middle of the semester? You usually need to reserve it weeks in advance.”

  Laney smiles cunningly. “I bribed Josh. It is amazing what a signed football from Kamdyn Ellis can do.” She opens her bag and pulls out a brand-new football.

  “You didn’t?”

  “I totally did.” She tosses me the ball. “He’s a huge fan. We had a class together last semester and all he did was gush about you.” She theatrically rolls her eyes. “I could have thrown up, but knowing how much he loves you worked in our favor. We didn’t have to wait weeks to record this interview. It’s one more thing I can cross off my to-do list.”

  “You are devious, Lemon.”

  “I know. He wants you to sign it to my one true love.”

  I snort. “Like hell.”

  Laney nearly falls over laughing. “To my biggest fan?”

  I curl my lip. “Too cliché.”

  “Fine then, just think of something before we leave.”

  “Will do. Are we ready?” I straighten in my chair.

  “We are.” Laney takes a seat next to me and adjusts the small microphone on the table in the recording room. As part of our final project, we needed to show we could not only conduct a broadcast or interview, but edit it, as well.

  Laney starts the interview by introducing herself and me. Then she fires away.

  What is your favorite thing about football? What does your workout schedule look like? How did it feel to lead your team to the conference championships and win your freshman year?

  As I said, all questions I have answered a million times, and probably will answer a million more. But as she ticks off each one, my anxiety rises a little more because I know what’s coming. I know which question is going to test my composure.

  “Mr. Ellis, do you have any regrets?” Laney looks dead into my eyes.

  I inhale a few deep breaths before I answer. “Personally or professionally?”