Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 30

Win number four.

I don't know what's coming next. Our hardest games of the season are still ahead of us, and I don't know if we're good enough yet, but I know we're better than we've ever been.

I know I'm better than I've ever been.

And when my eyes land on Dallas waiting for me near the entrance to the locker room, wearing one of my workout shirts with my number and name written across the back . . .

Well, things just keep getting better.

She throws her arms over my shoulders, lifts up onto her tiptoes, and kisses me. And once again, all the other noise disappears.

There is only her body, her lips, the smell of her hair, and the tug of her fingers through my damp hair. Her lips move harder over mine, and I hate the pads that keep her from getting closer to me.

I don't hear the cleared throat behind me. Dallas waves Stella off when she thumps her shoulder, and I know that everything else has disappeared for her, too.

It takes a hand on my shoulder before I even pull back enough to breathe. Dallas's eyes are soft and so green, and they widen when they catch sight of the hand on my shoulder.

I look, and then wish I hadn't.

Coach Cole is at my back, his lips in a firm line, and my arms are still around his daughter's waist.

He clears his throat again and says to Dallas instead of me, "I need my quarterback, Dallas. I'll send him back to you when we're done."

She unwinds her arms from me to hug him instead, and when I take my first steps toward the locker room, Coach's eyes are closed, and he's hugging her back.

Epilogue.

Six months later Dallas I love the silence before the music starts.

There's potential in the quiet, an opening for something new and beautiful to enter the world. I close my eyes, relaxing my muscles, and think back to that moment at the beginning of the year when I'd been so sure that this place would only hold misery for me.

I remember the way it had felt when I saw Carson at Dad's practice. Even then, I think a part of me knew how perfect we would be together. That's why it hurt so badly.

It's easy to tap back into that feeling now as the music starts, and I begin the dance I ch.o.r.eographed that night as I sat in my car trying not to cry.

It's still angry and raw, but there's softness in it now, too. The happiness I've found has crept in, and rather than just being about pain and loss, it's a story about what can grow out of that.

I'll always be the girl who grew up without a mom. I'll never forget what it was like to grow up sharing my dad with football. I'll remember forever how I almost let my bitterness and my fear keep me from moving on.

Those things will always be in me, but they no longer feel like separate pieces or different versions of myself. Somewhere along the way those things were st.i.tched together, and I no longer need to hold myself together by holding other people at bay.

It wasn't the prettiest journey.

Sometimes I was stupid, and I let my anger get the better of me too often. But if there's anything I've learned from creating this dance, it's that sometimes mistakes bloom into the most colorful moments. They're unexpected and different, and that's where the character of the dance lives.

I relive the last year through my movements, and I know that every single moment was worth it.

It got me into the summer program in San Francisco, and on the ch.o.r.eography track, too.

And more important, it got me to a point where I'm at peace with the past and a little less scared of the future.

Dance fixed me. As it always does.

I'm the last performance of the end-of-the-year recital, and when the music ends, and I look out at the applauding crowd, I find Dad and Carson standing together, clapping.

Carson winks at me, and Dad's clapping so hard, you'd think I'd just brought home the Heisman. The season didn't end up exactly how they both wanted. There were too many other tough teams in the conference, but a solid 66 record was still a vast improvement over the years before. But Carson got his scholarship, and Dad's contract was renewed.

And as Dad told Carson at the end of the season, "We're just getting started."

I feel that way, too . . . like my life has just really begun.

I exit the stage, in a hurry to change out of my costume and go meet them. I don't bother messing with the hair that's twisted into a tight chignon at the back of my head. Nor do I bother removing the dark eye makeup; I'm too impatient.

I pull on a skirt, a tank top, and some flip-flops, and find Carson waiting for me in the hallway that connects the dressing rooms to the auditorium.

I throw myself into his arms, and he catches me, swinging me around once before letting my toes rest on the floor again.

"You are amazing," he breathes into my ear. "I love you. So much."

I'm still breathing heavy from the dance and my mad dash to get changed, but that doesn't stop me from pulling him down for a kiss.

He cups my neck, kissing me slowly until my breathing settles and it's my heart's turn to race out of control.

"Your dad will want to see you," Carson mumbles against my mouth.

"He can wait. I'm not quite done here."

He laughs. "We've got plenty of time tonight."

"Shut up and kiss me, quarterback."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's another five minutes before I'm willing to part with Carson and our isolated hallway to join the other dancers and the lingering crowd out in the auditorium.

The rumor about Carson's ill treatment of me hadn't lasted more than a week or two after we made our relationship public at homecoming. He was too sweet for anybody to believe it for long, and now we've traded out that nasty gossip for the unending attention of being the school's golden couple.

Maybe it's because most of the athletes don't stick with one girl long enough for people to know they're a couple. Or maybe it's because the quarterback and the coach's daughter just make a good story. Either way, I cherish every second of alone time we can get before we're back under the watchful eye of the gossip mongers . . . and my father.

Though when we enter the auditorium, he's not waiting for me like I expected. I scan the room, waiting for him to come striding out of the crowds, but I don't see him. I'm just about to tell Carson that maybe I shouldn't have made him wait quite so long, when I catch sight of his familiar hulking back.

It's not until Carson and I walk up the aisle next to him that I realize who has him deep in conversation.

Annaiss. My dance professor. The one who first mentioned the San Francisco program to me.

She's dressed in a pretty purple dress, and her dark hair is silky and shiny. She's smiling, and when dad says something, she laughs and puts a hand on his forearm.

I raise an eyebrow at Carson and he smirks. "Way to go, Coach."

I flick his shoulder. "Ew. He is my dad. Not Ryan or Silas or Torres. And she's my teacher."

He rolls his eyes, and when I go to flick him again, he catches my hand and laces our fingers together. "Come on, Daredevil. Let's go say h.e.l.lo." I let him drag me forward and he adds, "Be nice."

Annaiss spots me first, and she inches back just a hair. "Dallas, I think that might be the best I've ever seen you do that routine. You're going to grow leaps and bounds in San Francisco."

Carson squeezes my hand, and I smile. "Thanks, Annaiss. I'm looking forward to it."

I leave in less than a month, right after final exams, and I'm at that point where I'm both wishing for time to speed up so I can leave already, and hoping it will slow down so I can spend a little more time with Carson before I have to leave him for six weeks.

I stand in front of Dad, and we're both still feeling out how this new supportive version of him works. He's never going to be the supernice and encouraging kind of father. He shows his support through yelling and making people do sprints and push-ups. I'm a little afraid that one day he's going to learn enough about dance to actually put me through my paces, and then I'll definitely be in trouble.

He wraps one arm around my shoulder, and pulls me in for our usual awkward side-hug.

"You were the best one up there, kiddo."

"It's not really a compet.i.tion, but thanks, Dad."

He gives me a look and I know he's probably thinking, Everything is a compet.i.tion.

"You two have big plans tonight?"

I barely restrain my blush, because yeah . . . we've definitely got big plans.

"We do," I say. "Carson's cooking for me."

He laughs. "I'm trying to anyway."

Dad claps Carson on the shoulder. "Good luck. It can't be any worse than the food she grew up on."

"That's for sure," I mumble.

"Hey, now," Dad says, and Annaiss laughs, low and throaty, and oh my G.o.d, I have to get out of here or I'm going to be sick. I finally understand how Stella feels when she gets all awkward around Carson and me.

"We're going to go," I say. "But thanks for coming, Dad. It means a lot."

He places his usual kiss on my head, which would hurt if I hadn't inherited his hard head.

I say goodbye, and leave him to do whatever it is that he's going to do, which I refuse to contemplate for my own sanity.

Even so, I spend the ride to Carson's complaining.

"She has to be like eight or nine years younger than him. That's weird, right? I mean . . . weird."

Carson won't even reply. He just laughs harder the more worked up I get.

"I mean, that's the equivalent of me dating some pimply preteen."

I think Carson might actually be in danger of a collapsed lung from laughter.

"Or that would be like me dating someone in his late twenties. Like Coach Oz."

Carson pushes his truck into park a second too soon, and the whole thing jerks, sending me into my seat belt.

"Let's not joke about you dating one of my coaches, hmm?"

Stella always goes on and on about how hot Coach Oz is, and it drives Carson crazy. He slides out of the truck and rounds the front to come open my door.

I unbuckle my seat belt and say, "It's the same thing, though! Imagine how p.i.s.sed Dad would be."

"Yeah, I'm having no issue imagining that kind of anger."

"I mean, Coach Oz-"

I don't even manage to finish my sentence before Carson hauls me out of the truck and over his shoulder. He stalks over to the stairs to his apartment, and starts up them with me still in his arms.

"Man, you really don't like it when I mention Coach-"

Something firm whacks at my backside, and I gasp.

"Carson McClain, did you just spank me?"

He just does it again in response before pushing his front door open and carrying me inside.

"Jeez! It's not like I'm actually interested in-"

He pulls me back over his shoulder, depositing my feet on the floor, and presses me back against his closed door. He hovers above me, his eyes dark and his chest brushing mine with every breath.

With his arms braced on either side of me, he asks, "Are you done teasing me?"

I smile coyly. "That depends . . ."

"On?"

I duck out from the cage he's formed around me and take a few steps toward the hallway leading to his bedroom.

"On whether you can wait a little while longer for dinner."

I don't actually wait for him to answer before I turn around, peeling off my tank top on the way to his bedroom.

I hear him groan and a thunk that's most likely his head hitting the door. His quick footsteps follow, and I've just pushed open his bedroom door when he overtakes me.

He pulls me up, cradling me in his arms as he steps through the doorway. I squeal in response, and I don't manage to hook my arms around his neck before he deposits me on the edge of his bed. His room is pristine and smells like vanilla from a candle on his bedside table. His bed is perfectly made, and a bundle of tulips rests against the pillows.