Romancing the Running Back (18 page)

“This . . .” Anya shook out her hands that wanted to shake, then paced the entrance of the hall where their prom was being held. “This is crazy. Nobody is showing up for an eighties prom. I’m insane.” She shot a wild glance at Cynthia and Kristen, who both stood together watching her slowly melt down. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I stop talking? Why can’t I stop shaking?”

“Nerves,” Cynthia said, looking sympathetic in a simple black dress.

“Adrenaline,” Kristen surmised, looking less sympathetic and more stern. Kristen wore what looked like an eighties bridesmaid’s dress, including the puffy sleeves. Somehow, despite the satin puff, she managed to look unstoppable. “Snap out of it. You’ve got a boatload of people coming to this thing, and a red carpet out there with press to handle. You’re going to be out there answering questions for anyone who asks, and we will be in here helping situate those who come in. Now, go.” When Anya’s feet didn’t move, Kristen physically shoved her out the door. “Go.”

She walked out onto the red carpet, and several lights flashed. Blinking, adjusting to the glare, she did her best to stand still while people took photographs of her standing in front of a background with Chance to Dance’s logo, along with Cynthia’s shop and a few other sponsors behind her. Kristen was truly a wizard.

Instinctively, she went to smooth the front of her dress, then remembered this fabric didn’t
smooth.
She’d found a dress in another thrift store and added a few embellishments of her own. The result was an eighties-inspired off-the-shoulder gown of pale pink, which ended just below the knees, and exploded with flowers and ruffles. The gown itself might not have been enough to have people blink, but the dyed-to-match pumps and her side-crimped ponytail did the trick.

Spotting a familiar face, she grinned at Aileen. “There cannot be this many local news sources interested in this.”

“Local?” Aileen blinked innocently. “Who said they were all local?”

Whoops . . . she hadn’t been prepared for anyone outside of the local area to care. “Why . . . how . . .”

“You get a bunch of Bobcats players dressed up in powder blue tuxes and their significant others decked out in eighties glam prom wear and expect people to not want to see that?” Aileen tsked. “It’s a good thing. You might get donations from farther places. Call it a good thing.”

“I . . . oh, someone’s here. They’re early.” She waved and hurried to the end of the carpet where the first town car drove up. Out of the back came Josiah, grinning. He’d rented a white tux, with a cumberbund and bow tie that matched her gown. It spoke volumes without a word that he’d wanted that connection. He took her hand and kissed it, more flashes going off as he did.

“How you holding up, baby?” he said quietly, so nobody could hear.

“Dying a little.” Her hand shook in his, and he kept hold of it, approaching the first set of reporters.

He was brilliant, answering questions easily, really pouring on the southern accent at times, letting it ease up more
when he was speaking seriously. He did his best to let her answer questions about the nonprofit, but didn’t shy away from making a few observations himself. That he was comfortable and knowledgeable enough about what she’d been working so hard for warmed her.

More Bobcats showed up, shocking her by, for the most part, dressing to the nines in eighties gear. Matthew Peterson’s powder-blue tux, top hat, and cane were a big hit, and he ate it up. The familiar faces helped ease the tension she carried. Others showed up, people Kristen suggested she invite, or Cynthia. Local socialites or influential families who had money and power to spare.

She’d been shocked to see Beppy Swift, joined by her elderly mother—ninety-three, she proudly told Anya, and toting a bedazzled oxygen tank that matched her glittery, spangled, electric-blue dress—and her daughter and daughter’s fiancé. Her son and his wife couldn’t make it, Beppy informed Anya, but she thought it was a lovely cause and would be donating later. Anya gave up any hope of remaining professional and detached and hugged the older woman, so grateful was she for the support.

They worked their way slowly down the red carpet, commenting here or there about the fun vibe of the fund-raiser or updates on their lives for the local media, then disappearing into the venue.

But Josiah stuck by her side, not moving. He answered the question repeatedly about their connection with a simple, “We’re together.” It was short, but effective. Once she was sure the guests had tapered off and the press started to subside, she squeezed his hand.

“Let’s go in. I’m claiming you for a dance to ‘Take My Breath Away.’”

“Cheesy,” he said, holding out his arm to escort her in.

“Nah. Perfect.”

*   *   *

Anya spent the first portion of the prom putting out small fires—metaphorical and physical, thanks to a new intern with the catering staff and a bit of a slipup with the gas burner—that she barely had time to see Josiah, or any of her friends.

While Anya was on her way to grab a quick drink to soothe her parched throat, Irene caught her arm. “Hey, cool party.”

She looked festive in a shiny satin number with neon-yellow heels and a big turquoise bow, set off to the side.

“You look awesome.” She gave the girl a quick hug, which seemed to surprise her. But she hugged back. “I didn’t get to see Mellie’s outfit. What’s she wearing?”

Irene looked out toward the dance floor and found her sister and her father, Coach Jordan, dancing to Madonna. “There you go. She ordered that teal monstrosity on the internet. Dad refused to wear anything eighties, but he rocks the traditional tux and nobody’s going to give him crap about it.”

“You’ve got that right.” Anya watched as the father spun his daughter in an awkward circle, both of them laughing. “They look happy.”

“It was hard at first, I guess, with Mom moving out and us being split between.” Sounding older than seventeen, Irene sighed. “But then it was obviously the best thing, because both of them are way more calm. Plus, Mom’s put on, like, ten pounds that she totally needed and she’s way more chill about stuff.” Her eyes widened. “I totally didn’t tell you about those ten pounds.”

“Lips are sealed,” Anya promised. “Go con Trey into dancing with you. Challenge your dad and sister to a dance-off.”

Irene studied her for a moment. “You’re really good at this stuff.”

Anya assumed “this stuff” was in reference to throwing a party. “Thanks. I’ll need your help when the bridal shower comes around, so be ready.”

“Born ready. Okay,” she said, straightening her one-shoulder strap a little. “Here we go.”

After two hours, Anya cut off the voting for Prom King and Queen. The Bobcats players had made a huge showing of support there. One of the Nerd Herd app gurus had created a program for her iPad where they could swipe a credit card, pick the number of votes they wanted, and apply it to a guest in attendance. They’d flooded the booth set up for voting, to the point she worried it would overload the system.

When she saw the winners twenty minutes later, however, she realized exactly what had happened.

Anya took the iPad and walked to the DJ setup. After the song ended, she took the mic and walked out onto the stage. It wasn’t where she’d prefer to be, but she had to do it.

“Hello? Hi.” She waited for people to quiet down a bit. “My name is Anastasia Fisher, and I wanted to thank you so very, very much for coming out tonight in support of Chance to Dance. We’re hoping to get things up and running for this coming prom season, with a trial run for winter formals. Your attendance and donations have made that possible.”

Hopefully.

She took a minute to thank Cynthia and Kristen, and a few other volunteers, including Cassie and Josiah specifically, who had helped her decorate and find ways to save money.

“But now, what you’ve been waiting for. Our Prom King and Queen!”

There was a loud roar of applause, hoots and hollers from the Bobcats.

“These two lucky royals will share a special spotlight dance, along with taking home a very beautiful sash and crown each.” She bit her lip to keep from grinning. “Let’s get to our Prom King first. His royal highness is . . .”

The DJ played a drumroll.

“None other than the Bobcats’ own Matthew Peterson!”

His dark face split into a wide grin as he high-fived his teammates and made it up to the stage to be crowned. He bent down, accepted the crown Anya placed precariously over his dreads, and then gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, sweets.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” she said. “You haven’t met your queen yet.”

He rubbed his hands, smiling and looking very pleased with himself. He straightened out the ruffled shirt and his
powder-blue sleeves, looking anxious.

“Tonight’s queen, by a large margin is . . . Ms. Viola Swift-Purdy!”

There was a loud burst of applause from the non-Bobcat side of the room, which accompanied the confused looks by several of Matt’s teammates. Matthew himself looked baffled. It was not a name he recognized.
Who?
he mouthed at Anya.

“Hold on, here she comes.” As Viola slowly made her way toward the stage—aided by Beppy—applause slowly broke out among the Bobcats’ tables. Then it grew louder and louder, until they were thundering with applause and stomping.

Beppy Swift’s ninety-three-year-old mother had become Matthew Peterson’s queen. He looked shocked at first, but then slowly his smile spread as he realized the implications. Rather than wait for her to try to navigate the stairs up to the stage, Matt hopped down to the floor and greeted her with a flourish of a bow. His crown sat askew on his head after that.

“Congratulations, Ms. Swift-Purdy,” Anya said, helping Beppy settle the tiara on her mother’s head. “Would you like to take your dance with your king?”

She gave Matt a once-over, critical glance. “He’s handsome enough, I suppose. But he’ll have to hold my tank. I’ll get too dizzy otherwise.”

He held out a hand as the DJ started playing “Forever Young.”

“Nice touch,” Josiah said as he wrapped an arm around her. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I,” she said, laughing when Viola pinched Matt’s powder-blue butt. His face was one of shock and awe. “Your teammates are awesome.”

“Most of them.” He pulled her back against his chest and rested his chin on her poufy hair. “How long will it take you to get all this hairspray out of here?”

She sighed. “Hours.” Then her cell phone rang in the small pocket she’d had Monica from Cynthia’s help her create. As the event coordinator, she needed to be reachable. “Excuse me for a second?”

“Sure.” He grinned and held up his own phone. “I could take some photos of the happy couple for blackmail . . .”

She shook her head in amusement and stepped away from the dance floor to answer. “Hello?”

There was nothing for a moment, then, “Are you at a bar?”

“I’m sorry, who is this?” she said over the music, looking for a quiet hallway to duck into.

“It’s Chad. Your husband!” he yelled back. “God, what the hell are you doing?”

“What I’m doing is none of your business. Sign the papers and move on, Chad.”

“But Anya,” he whined.

“No, there’s no buts. Sign them. Either sign them or a judge will make you do it. But you’re wasting both of us money.” Taking a deep breath, she kept walking down what she assumed was a hallway full of small conference rooms. “Chad,” she went on, searching for a reasonable tone of voice, “no judge will force me to stay married to you. I’ll go there if I have to. I don’t want anything of yours, I don’t need anything of yours. I’m leaving with what I came in with. Please.”

“This isn’t fair. You didn’t even give me a chance.”

His whiny tone reminded her exactly why she hadn’t wanted to give him another chance. “I’ve moved on. Your turn, Chad.”

“Who is he?” he asked, his voice changing from whiny to snappy in an instant. “You found someone else? You’re not even divorced. You’re cheating on me?”

That’s rich, considering his cheating was the reason she’d finally left an already-miserable marriage. “Either sign the papers or stop calling me and direct all further contact to my attorney.”

“How do I know I want to sign the papers unless we talk it out?”

Who wanted to stay married to someone who didn’t want to be married back? It was insanity. It was full dog-and-bone at its worst.
I didn’t want this old bone, until that other dog started sniffing at it. Suddenly, I wanted the bone again.
“Good-bye, Chad.”

She hung up and, taking another step toward moving on officially, quickly went into his contacts and set his specific ringer to silent. She’d hear voice mails, but wouldn’t know until after it was done. She felt lighter already.

As she wandered back into the prom hall, she found Josiah looking for her. “There you are.” He took her hand and kissed her wrist. “They’re about to play “Take My Breath Away,” at my request.”

He led her to the dance floor, and the first strands began. As they swayed, she closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his lapel. “Not so cheesy now, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

*   *   *

“I’m proud of you,” Josiah said in the dark of his bedroom. It was late, and he was exhausted, but thanks to having a Thursday night game the night before, he had a recovery day. He could sleep in and convince Anya to stay in bed with him all morning.

She hummed in response, and nuzzled against him tighter.

“You ran a damn good fund-raiser. Any idea how much you made?”

“Billions,” she sighed. “Trillions. I’ll never go hungry again, Rhett.”

He tugged on her hair, which had taken nearly an hour in the shower and almost an entire bottle of conditioner to return to a normal state.

She sighed again, but it was a more aggravated sound than before. “Enough to get us through the first year, for sure. I can start looking for a trailer and get that tricked out inside, and maybe find a really cheap truck since my little two door’s not pulling anything behind it. Buy some rolling racks, some travel screens . . .” Her voice faded as she drifted toward sleep.