Do Over (2 page)

“They should have run faster,” Trey said.

“DOLO. Deer only live once.” John laughed at his own joke.

“Which Super Bowl is this?” Lauren asked.

“I can’t read Roman numerals.” I shrugged. “I’m only here for the commercials and John’s muting them.”

Lauren giggled at my indifference to the biggest sporting event of the year. “Good thing you have a brother. How did Coach have a daughter not into sports?”

Dad coaches at my high school, Trallwyn High.
Go Dragons.
I held my right arm out shoulder level. “For Dad, it’s sports.” I dropped my hand an inch from the floor. “My brother and me.” I slapped deep into the plush fibers of the carpet. “Everything else.”

“Hey, Pez, check it.” John’s voice boomed across the room, cutting through the noise of the party and the game.

I twisted toward him. John’s big index finger was pointed toward the TV screen as he hit pause. I turned further, contorting into a yoga position gone wrong. The paper plate tipped and spilled the crisp burnt orange chips around my hand, while my world tipped upside down as I read the horrific words blazing across the Jumbotron.

Everyone in the room got quiet.

Chapter Two

Frozen on screen, wearing navy bootie shorts with red high-heeled boots, the NFL cheerleader held a sign under her red, spandex half-shirt. The sign read,
Marry Me, Coach
. She’d signed the proposal with a small star. Her golden blonde extensions almost covered the Texas flag on the sign’s border.

My stomach tightened and my face heated as I recognized the cheerleader.
Dad’s latest girlfriend, Aster, had just proposed to him on national television.

In a demonstration of true friendship, Lauren bounced up and tried to distract everyone. She grabbed the remote and hit play. “They’re scoring.”

John fought Lauren for the remote control, a two-second struggle that ended with her giggling and him in possession. “They’re not scoring.”

“But Pez’s dad sure did,” Trey said.

“Go Coach.” Ian said then sucked on his protein drink, as if Dad were watching and encouraging him to bulk up.

Fortunately, one of the on-screen barbarians made a move toward the end zone, drawing the partygoers’ attention back to the game before I had to form a reply, fake a smile, or throw up.

“Ooh.” The crowd on TV roared approval as the running back spiked the ball in front of the goalposts.

“Yes.” John rose, flapped his arms and scooted his body in a circle. “Victory dance.” While several partiers joined in the gyrating, I used the cover of celebration to escape.

***

“Okay, Mom,” I said into my cell phone. “It’s not up to me. Look, I’m here. I gotta go. Bye.” I pushed open the door to Dad’s office/sports strategy room. Helping out each week had never been a problem before, but since Dad’s new fiancée came over all the time, Mom was no longer okay with it. Choose between what Mom wants and what Dad wants. Good times.

I placed my purse under the paperwork-covered counter, hopped on top and leaned against my hands, glad I had worn a sweater and tights over my skirt. Dad had the thermostat set on sixty-five today. I brushed a finger over the plaid pattern in my purple skirt, edging a green line. A thin gold bracelet would add the right touch to this outfit. The metallic gleam would look great under these fluorescent lights. Dad’s team trophies sure did.

Trey slammed his way into the office. He huffed and paced in a kind of controlled fury. Sweat darkened his brown hair until the strands almost looked black, a good look with his red soccer uniform.

“Hold your ‘roid rage, hot shot,” I said and rolled my shoulders.

Trey’s frown switched to me for a second. He speared a glare my way. Then, he resumed pacing the white linoleum.

Dad came in next. “Well, what did you think would happen? You take out their cheerleader, dump her, and then think they’ll want to play nice?”

“They broke Ian’s nose.” Trey slammed the side of his fist against the wall and shared a few swear words.

“Not your throwing hand,” Dad said, sharp guidance in his voice.

I leaned back a little farther, out of the range of anger, but wasn’t concerned. This wasn’t the first sports tantrum I’d seen, not even the first one this week.

“They should’ve come after me if they had a problem with me.” Trey shook out his injured hand and continued pacing, muttering increasingly creative profanity.

Dad glanced my way. “Watch your mouth.”

“Good thing its soccer season, so you don’t really need that hand,” I said.

Dad grinned, clearly pleased that I know non-goalies, like Trey, don’t use their hands in soccer. He plopped down on his rolling chair and spun from Trey to his desk. The chair squeaked against his weight. Dad topped six feet and he had bulk. “Did you have to go after their cheer captain? I thought you were dating one of
our
cheerleaders.”

I picked up Dad’s lollipop jar and rooted, looking for a purple wrapped stick.

Trey cursed again.

I popped the sweet candy into my mouth, relishing the burst of grape flavor. That was the last of the purple ones. I’d have to stock more later. “That was last week.” The overhead fluorescent lighting gave me a clear view of Trey’s face. He didn’t appreciate my help. I twirled the lollipop’s stem, swiveling the sugary candy on my tongue, then bit down on the white stem and grinned at Trey around the treat.

Dad shook his head. “I can’t believe girls go out with you.”

“Well they do,” Trey said.

I pulled the stem from my mouth and tapped the hard candy against my lips, enjoying the sticky pull. “Um, I’m still here. I don’t need to hear about your potential baby mommas. What else can we talk about?”

Dad twisted his lips and kicked back in his chair. His focus narrowed on Trey. “What do your parents think about your dating choices? I didn’t meet them. Were they here?”

The hum of the overhead lights filled the room in the silence that awaited Trey’s response. After a lengthy pause, Trey crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re busy.”

Dad tightened his lips and moved them back and forth, but didn’t say anything else. To him, parents who failed to show up at their kid’s games ranked somewhere between mothers who gave birth in public bathrooms and serial killers.

“You should find a nice girl.” Dad shifted forward in his chair, thumped his arms onto the surface of his desk and looked at me. “Paisley.”

Trey froze like the screen on my unreliable cell phone.

My heart pounded for a second then I blew out a breath and wrinkled my nose. “There are limits to my after-school job, Dad. That’s a line I’m not crossing.”

Dad rolled his eyes and waved a hand in the air. The heavy gold of his college ring emphasized the bareness of his left hand. “Not you. You’re not allowed to date someone like Trey.”

His words reassured me that he hadn’t lost his paternal edge. I relaxed against the white-painted brick wall. My head rested under a picture of the soccer teams from years past. Dad hung his pictures too high, but in this case it worked for me.

Dad glanced at Trey. “No offense.” Trey waved the offensive comment off and flexed his fingers. Dad clarified his request. “I mean, help him find someone. Someone nice.”

I pursed my lips and eyed Trey from head to toe. He’d look so hot in a tuxedo, lean enough for Armani, but maybe he’d have to wear Hugo Boss with his broad shoulders. “Have you picked out your prom date?”

Trey stared at me without blinking, his hazel gaze deep pools of appalled commitment-phobic fears.

“Okay, so that’s a
no
then.” Jocks weren’t hard to interpret when you’d grown up around them.

Dad checked an app on his smart phone, clearly losing interest in our conversation.

“Think about prom,” I told Trey.

Trey cradled his injured hand in his good one and didn’t respond.

Dad snapped his phone back into its holster. He hopped up from his chair, causing the wheels to whoosh, and took a step toward Trey. “Let me wrap that hand.”

Trey backed up, holding his injury out of reach. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Dad said.

Trey’s skin appeared red and scraped from my perch, but whatever. I pointed to the well-stocked shelves against the back wall. “First aid kits are behind you. I organized the shelves yesterday. Use a stretchy bandage. They’re under the letter
B
.”

Trey didn’t move. We had another minor stare-off until Aster came in and joined us. The air in the room cooled ten degrees with her arrival because she kicked a wedge under the exterior door to prop it open. Then, with a wild grin, she threw her toned arms out. “They’re here.”

I had no clue what she was talking about but thought her cheetah-print acrylics nicely matched her faux fur vest.

A delivery guy moved into view. He wore a medium brown jumpsuit in the unflattering shade of tree bark. The jumpsuit was one of the worst looks ever designed, but the cut made practical sense in terms of motion. He kept one hand on the handlebar of the dolly and the other braced on the side of a large cardboard box. As he wheeled the large delivery into the room, his gaze never left Aster.

Aster pointed at the sidewall. “Put them over there.” Her index finger wiggled as she pointed, causing her to pause and examine the polish. The guy banged into the wooden conference table while making the turn, clearly interested in her nail polish too.

In less than five minutes, the man snipped the ties, opened the boxes, and stripped the protective plastic off two beige massage tables. While Aster clapped, the smell of wrapped plastic and new memory foam filled the room. With the set up complete, the man scooped the debris and wheeled the dolly out backwards. His gaze never left Aster.

After he cleared the door, John, dressed in his soccer uniform, hurried in. “What’s going on?” Red wasn’t his color, not with his pale hair.

“They’re here,” Aster repeated, tossing her extensions. Her voice rose in excitement.

“What’s here?” John asked.

“The massage tables we ordered,” Aster said. “I’m not only an NFL cheerleader, you know. I’m a licensed massage therapist. Pre and post-game massages have proven to prevent injury and increase flexibility.”

I winced and pressed my lips together. I didn’t want to be around when Mom heard this news. Dad’s fiancée wasn’t just an NFL cheerleader. She was a masseuse too. To keep from commenting, I stuck the lollipop back in my mouth and twirled the stick, enjoying the sugary rush. Couples counselors should pass out candy to keep people from saying things they shouldn’t. It would save a few marriages.

Aster waved her arms toward the tables. “We only have two tables, so far, and only me and Paisley to work them. But I have plans for expansion.”

Chapter Three

What?
Back that up.
Only me and Paisley to work them?
My hand stilled, and my eyebrows rose.

“A fifteen-minute massage of your star players will make a big difference,” Aster said.

John’s eyes brightened, and his cheeks flushed. He crossed his fingers and raised them to the heavens as if to say,
Thank you, God
. Trey had a different reaction. His lips twisted and he looked anywhere other than at the tables.

It took me a second to come up with my own response. “Uh, I’m not working any table.” I swiveled my head to my father for backup. “Dad?”

Dad sent me a fixed stare. “Star wants the team to improve, and she wants to spend some time with you.”

Star was Aster’s nickname. I preferred to think of her as Aster.

“I’m game.” John hopped up on the table. The memory foam sank, but to the table’s credit, the structure held under his six-foot-plus, big-boned frame. “I missed two goals last week. Like I was moving through molasses, I’m too tight and my kick...”

Dad said, “That’s the spirit.”

I curled my lip.
No freaking way. Not even if they promote Pluto back to planet status and rename it Paisley.

“No other local schools have these. Not Tomball, not Magnolia.” Dad checked his cell phone sports news app. He continued talking with a bent head. “We’ll start with our best players: John and Trey. If the regimen helps, we’ll extend the program.”

“You’re sure you want Paisley to work with these guys?” Aster asked.

“Please, she wouldn’t look twice at a jock. She wants an artsy guy.” Dad looked up.

I gave a nod of agreement. Give me an intense thinker over a mindless pushup machine. “Artists have deep souls.”

Trey snorted.

Clipping his phone back into its holster, Dad shoved through the shiny blue door that led into the locker room. “I’ll give the guys a talk. I need them to use their anger over Ian’s nose in a productive way.”

Without even a pretense at modesty, John whipped off his shirt and lay with his hairy chest flat out on the table.

Ew.

Aster moved to his ankles and squirted ointment on them. She proceeded to rub her way up his furry legs.

The fragrance smelled kind of like medicine. The whole scene was like watching a sitcom where the actors were headed down such a horrific path. I cringed and looked away.

“Ow.” John groaned. “Dude, these tables were worth every penny.” He grunted when Aster dug her elbow into one spot.

I eyed the waist-high tables. “What’d they cost?”

“Two thousand each,” Star said. “The football boosters had enough to cover it.”

John poked his big blond head out of the face hole. “These tables took all our football car wash cash. The team took all weekend to wash that many cars. And the weather was cold.”

Expensive tables.

“Four thousand—not a bad fund raiser.” I tossed the stem of my lollipop into the metal trash bin. Two points.

“Be sure and get the major muscle groupings,” Aster instructed while karate chopping John’s thighs. His moans came out in a reverberating fashion.

I wrinkled my nose. “Of course, it’s not as much as my prom decorating committee raised.”