Kickin' It (Red Card) - Rachel Van Dyken Page 0,7

grabs, no phone number exchanges, Snapchats, Instagram photos. If you tag anyone in your live feed, I’ll shut down every social media account you have.” I inhaled then exhaled. “And no flirting. I don’t care if that’s just how you were made.” I made air quotes. “It’s unprofessional. Oh, Slade is married so you’re going nowhere with that one, and Jagger’s one bad choice away from being sent back to Russia.” I sighed. “Just . . . be good.”

“Good.” Willow snorted. “This is my future. We’ll be great! Right, Parker?”

Parker hadn’t said one word the entire time, but her skin was pale and her lips were pressed together like she was afraid she was going to say something she’d regret. After a gulp, she nodded to me and then gave Willow a petrified look. What? Could they communicate without speech now? Plus, she seemed so calm next to Willow, almost shy. Maybe she was going to be easier than my own sister to deal with.

I probably owed both of them an apology.

But I was all out of fucks.

So I shrugged in Parker’s direction and then stomped past both girls to get dressed with visions of whiskey dancing in my head.

Chapter Four

PARKER

I tugged down my tight black dress so it covered my ass and shot Willow a murderous glare; this was the last time I ever said yes to any of her clothing choices. She knew I didn’t wear dresses, just like she knew I wasn’t the best at meeting new people. I had foot-in-mouth syndrome. I constantly said what was on my mind, and my therapist often told me that I lacked the emotional empathy to care if anyone around me was affected by my words.

I just . . . I didn’t have time to babysit other people’s feelings.

And right now, my sole focus was to break out after college, get signed to a team as fast as humanly possible, make enough money to find a stable place to live, and do what I love for as long as my body allowed me. I didn’t just love the sport of soccer, I loved the way that it made me forget about everything bad in life. It was my focus, my reason for getting up in the morning. It was everything to me, and the fact that it could be taken away, or that I could end up working at Starbucks, terrified me. I wanted to go pro. Bad.

I gulped when Matt stopped walking and checked his watch. Willow was on his right, I was on his left. He looked at her, then whipped his head over to me. Was he waiting for me to say something? Why were we just standing outside the restaurant?

I cleared my throat.

He cleared his.

I tried not blinking.

He didn’t back down.

“That’s not a dress,” was what he went with. Every word clipped with disdain like he had a right to tell me what I was allowed to wear. Who died and made him my father? It wasn’t like he was that old. Willow said he was barely thirty!

“Pardon?” I snapped, then mentally berated myself for my harsh response. See? Foot-in-mouth was ready to strike again. I dug my fingernails into my palms and waited for his response.

“That”—he jerked his chin at me like I was a petulant child, and I ignored the butterflies that swarmed in my belly at his heated look—“is not a dress.” He leaned in. “Dresses have fabric. They cover things that need to stay covered. That’s a long tank top that should have been thrown out when you grew boobs in the eighth grade.” He shook his head and paled, then mumbled awkwardly, “Not that I’m looking at your boobs.”

I gritted my teeth as rage took over like it always did when I felt threatened or insulted. I pointed at the orange stripe resting on his chest. “Well, that’s not a tie.”

“Bullshit, this is a great tie!” Matt pulled on it a bit and stretched his neck. “It’s marmalade and goes with my white suit.”

“You look like a pumpkin-spice latte.” I grinned. “But the really shitty kind they give away for free at the mall.”

“Parker!” Willow hissed.

“What? He insulted my dress!” I argued, trying to hide the hurt I felt at his obvious dislike of me. Willow should have mentally prepared him for both of us as a package deal. I felt unwanted and annoying. Plus, I needed him, which just made the situation that much more dire. “And no rebuttal. Nice.”