Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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Fuck this shit.
Coach has officially lost it. The old man has been walking around the court eyeing us, grumbling shit like, "get your ass higher, Cooper," and "straighten out your back, West," for the past twenty minutes, because for some reason, he thought it would be beneficial to try implementing yoga into our practices.
Something about "better flexibility" and "reduced injury potential" or some shit.
But now that we're all bent over in what he called downward dog — which is really just us bent over with our asses in the air — I'm starting to think he's just fucking with us.
"Where did you get this idea from? Is there something you want to tell us about your summer break, Coach?" Penn asks from the row behind me. I tilt my head down and look between my legs to see him struggling to keep himself up.
"Gracie told me about it. She sent me a few articles about the positive impact of yoga on athletes, and since we've already got one player out on injury, I figured we could use all the help we could get."
There's a rustle of movement, and I don't need to look over to know that everyone is sending mock death glares at Luke.
"Who's Gracie?" Mason West — the new sophomore transfer on the team, and one of my new roommates — asks from beside Penn. His face is starting to turn a concerning shade of red as his sweaty hands slip on the court.
"Coach's granddaughter. She was in my group at Freshman orientation. Tristan Beck's little sister was, too," Nick Thompson, one of the new freshman recruits, calls from the third row.
Luke's hands slip on the floor beside me at the mention of Olivia, but I bite back a grin and decide not to call him on it. Not in front of Coach, at least.
"Granddaughter, huh?" The smirk is unmistakable in West's voice, and I already know this isn't going to end well for him. Gracie's hot — we found her Instagram last season while we were shit-faced at O'Malley's after practice one night. But even drunk as fuck, we knew Grace Kennley was as off-limits as it gets.
That doesn't stop West from hammering the last nail in his coffin when he says, "Why don't you have Gracie come demonstrate for us, Coach?"
For being new to the team, West doesn't hold back. He's bold, on and off the court, which is exactly why I like him. I agreed to let him move in with us the day I met him at our first summer workout, and he was lugging his suitcases into the house that night because the idiot drove all the way here from UCLA with nowhere to live.
It worked out in the end though, because he didn't have to sleep in his car, and we didn't have to resort to letting Penn take the last open room in the house.
"Shut up — all of you," Coach snaps, walking to the front to make sure none of us are slacking. My sweaty palms are starting to slip on the court, and I'm praying this entire thing will be over soon.
