Free Whiplash: A Sports Romance by Tabatha Kiss

does. I hate myself for it.
    I sigh and gesture with the script. “We should really memorize this scene.”
    “Okay, fine, just one question: Do I need to kick his ass?” Grant offers, drawing a quick laugh from me. “Because I can and I will.”
    “No ass-kicking needed, but thank you. I can handle it.”
    “Good. But seriously, can I please come to your house tonight?” he begs. “Ty will be there.”
    I chuckle at his obvious crush. “Fine. Just stay out of the way and don’t break anything.”
    He gives a celebratory fist-pump. “Yes!”
    “And dress up,” I tell him. “It’s a black tie kind of thing.”
    He frowns. “What are you going to wear?”
    “I thought about going shopping after class…” His eyes grow wide and I grin. “You are more than welcome to join me.”
    One last happy fist-pump later and we’re back into the scene, struggling to memorize it with our time now cut in half.
     
    ***
     
    Junior is going to flip.
    I’m not sure why the thought entered my head. I’m not even sure why I bought the dress in the first place. It’s a little out of my style preference — and way out of my price range — but my immediate thought went straight to what Junior Morgan’s reaction will be when he sees me in it. It’s sleek and black with a lone red stripe down the side that travels over my curve with perfect form.
    And then it hits me. Sweet revenge. That’s what this is.
    Junior told me he wasn’t interested in me anymore; that I was more trouble than I’m worth. Getting passed aside shouldn’t be such a shock to me anymore but for some reason, coming from him, it stung. It cut deep — even deeper than feeling like my father’s accessory.
    “This is my girl, Eliza!” he announces. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done it for this girl right here!”
    There’s a series of aww’s from the news crews and their voices echo through the foyer as cameras flash in our direction, instantly blinding me. I’d probably fall over if it weren’t for his arm wrapped around my shoulders.
    The reporters fire off a series of questions at me but my father doesn’t give me a chance to reply to any of them. He answers for me with his loud voice, singing my praises but getting the details wrong.
    I’m not a singer. I’m an actress.
    I’m not a sophomore. I’m a junior.
    But none of that really matters in the end, I guess. I just stand here and smile, tightening my hug around his waist as if he’s a giant, protective teddy bear because that’s what he wants me to do.
    Finally, he drops his arm and waves for the camera crews to follow him. “Come on back and meet the team. There are some fantastic, young athletes here that I’m dying to introduce the world to.”
    I grip the railing, staying put and smiling as I wave them goodbye like a fucking princess.
    They all follow him through the house and I wonder how I photographed in the dress. Hopefully, they couldn’t notice that I’m not wearing underwear. The darn thing was too tight to wear them comfortably.
    “You look great. Relax.”
    Grant marches down from his hiding place upstairs. He leans against the stairs in his rented tuxedo, grinning at me. “He’s definitely going to cream his boxers.”
    “Who?”
    “Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snips. “I think we both know who you bought that dress for.”
    I roll my eyes but I don’t bother trying to deny it. “I just want to have the last word, that’s all…”
    “Honey, I think he’s going to be last wording to this dress three times a day for the next month…” Grant makes a subtle jerking motion with his fist and I laugh. “Consider your mission accomplished.”
    “Okay, then.”
    He hooks his arm at me. “Shall we? I just have to get my eyes on these fantastic, young athletes.”
    I latch onto Grant’s arm and we walk through the house together into the backyard. My father has arranged several members of the football team, Junior included, in the center garden. Cameras