Filthy Forward : A Hero Club Novel Read online

  She groans, throwing her head back and pinching her eyes closed.

  The beep test is one of my favorite conditioning tools which makes people think I’m crazy. A recording plays and counts down to the start of level one until one long beep sounds. You have to get to the other side of the lines before the next beep sounds. Each level gets faster until you’re sprinting and pushing yourself harder.

  I always found it to be a competition with myself to see how much I could improve. Everyone always hates the beep test, but it’s one of the most useful tools we have.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll run it with you.” I smirk at her and she rolls her eyes.

  I set my phone up on the bench and get on the line beside her. “You ready?” She doesn’t respond and when the first beep sounds, we walk to the other side to the line of the goal box.

  The point is to pace yourself and it can separate the good athletes from the great ones.

  She stops after level sixteen which is highly impressive, especially for this early in the season. The test only has twenty-three levels which are all but impossible to complete.

  “Nice work, Bria. You surprised me today.” We’re sitting on the bench, collecting our breaths and hydrating.

  We’ve been training for an hour and I can tell she’s exhausted. She should get home and rest before her regular practice later today.

  “Stretch and cool down before you head out. I don’t need you getting injured.” She nods but hasn’t said a word to me since we ran the test and it’s starting to piss me off. “Bria,” she turns and glares. “What’s your problem with me?”

  A scoff precedes an emotionless laugh. “Are you joking?” I feel like I’m missing something. “You storm in here, all but tell Coach you don’t think I’m good enough, so he decides to have you train me. Then as an added bonus, you torture me on our first practice and expect me to make nice? You might have the other girls wrapped around your finger because you’re some big shot with a pretty face, but that ain’t me.”

  The thing she doesn’t know is these extra training sessions weren’t Coach Paxton’s idea. They were mine. I saw her potential and I was the one who wanted to make her better. Paxton agreed, but Bria doesn’t need to find about how this all started. She hates me enough already.

  “Campbell,” my tone garners her attention in an instant. “You can hate me all you want, but I’m doing this for you and I will not tolerate you acting like a spoiled brat. Coach wants to know how these practices are going. Don’t push me into telling him the truth.”

  “You’re seriously blackmailing me to be nice to you?”

  “No, I’m demanding respect. I’m the best player in the world right now. That has to be good for something.”

  “You can’t be the top soccer player if you’re not playing soccer.” God, she’s hotheaded. I thought the guys on the team were bad, but they don’t hold a candle to her.

  “Go home and cool off. I’ll see you at practice later.” She storms away, snatching her bag off the bench as she passes me without a glance. “Oh, and Bria?” she pauses, “tomorrow be here at five a.m.”

  I’m in the office working on plays and a training schedule when Paxton comes in.

  John Paxton has been the women’s soccer coach at Palm Valley University for as long as I can remember. He’s good friends with my coach and has come to almost all of our home games.

  “Trevino, how was training this morning?”

  Do I tell the truth or do I give her a pass?

  I go vague. “Campbell has a fire in her. I understand what you see in her.”

  “I knew you would. She keeps those girls in line too.” Probably because they’re all scared of her. “Let me know if she gets to be too much. She can be intense.”

  I nod and he leaves.

  The rest of the day passes in a breeze. The afternoon practice is uneventful, though Bria gives me nasty looks at every turn. It’s refreshing compared to the rest of the team throwing themselves at me and asking for their own one-on-one sessions. And I don’t think most of them are talking about soccer.

  Getting home to my big, empty house is the worst part of the day. Being on the field and surrounded by people as passionate about the sport as I am keeps my mind off of the shit storm also known as my life right now.

  I should be across the country right now, working my way towards playoffs, not coaching a bunch of college coeds. My phone has a bunch of missed texts from my teammates, keeping me in the loop when the reality is, they feel sorry for me.

  I want the team to do well, of course, but if they win without me, will they even fight to bring me back?

  A beer and ESPN are my easy fix. The highlights show the Yankees beat the Red Sox, a football player for the Eagles donated half of his salary to CHOP, and the LA Elite beat the Florida Lightning 3-2.

  The cameras pan to my coach who looks ready to give an interview.

  “Coach Murray, how is your team holding up without your forward Tatum Trevino?” the blonde sportscaster asks.

  “We’re doing great. We beat Florida and next we’ll beat Atlanta.”

  “Where is your star player? I didn’t see him on the bench. Is he even with you at all?”

  We’d told the press I was dealing with a hip flexor injury. Injured players are always still required to travel with the team and sit on the bench.

  “No, he’s at home, working on physical therapy. We didn’t want to push him too hard on the road and the best doctors are back in LA anyway.”

  The blonde smiles for the camera, but something tells me she doesn’t buy into the story she’s selling. “Interesting. There’s a rumor going around—” My blood runs cold. If the story gets out, my career is over.

  “Are you the type of reporter who listens to gossip? There’s no truth or integrity in rumors. Excuse me, I have to go celebrate with my team.”

  Thank God Coach was prepared. I knew it would get out eventually, but I didn’t think it would happen this soon. This was all Coach’s idea and I have to trust him to protect me.

  As long as the story doesn’t break, I have some time. As long as it stays buried, my life and career aren’t over.

  Chapter Three

  Bria

  Three knocks rap against my door and I don’t even remove the pillow from over my head before I yell, “What?”

  The door opens and Lindsay pops her head in. I take in her appearance, with her tight black jumper and perfectly tousled auburn hair. I already know she’s about to say something I won’t like. “Get up and get dressed. It’s Friday and we’re all going out.”

  I was right. “No.”

  “Excuse me? Think of it as team bonding.”

  I groan as she throws my own words back at me. I toss my pillow at her, but she’s already gone.

  I don’t think I can move. My legs are jelly and not in the post-sex-amazing-orgasm-can’t-move kind of way, but in the torturous post-work-out way Tatum has been conditioning me all week.

  I understand why the girls want to go out. It’s been a hard week of practice, it’s still early summer, and we don’t have weekend practices yet. In a few weeks, we’ll be consumed with soccer seven days a week and sometimes twice a day.

  Oh, my God. When the team starts with two-a-days will I still be training with Tatum? Will I be doing three-a-days? I don’t know if my body will survive. Maybe I should go out tonight while I’m still alive to enjoy it.

  My roommate comes into our room as I’m attempting to move into a sitting position.

  “Need some help?” Her brown hair is in waves down her back and her make up is runway-worthy.

  “I need an ice bath.” All week, drill Sergeant Trevino had me running suicides, up any hill he could find, and miles upon miles that would rival the cross-country team.

  “What’s the deal with all this training anyway? It seems weird, right? The fact he’s only training you?”

  The thought occurred to me as well, but I haven’t voiced it. I sit up against my
wall and face my best friend who is sitting in the same position on her bed.

  “Super weird, but you should all feel lucky. It’s torture.” Any other girl would kill to have his attention focused solely on them. They’ve all started showing up to practice with faces full of makeup and their hair done as if at the end of practice they won’t look like the Joker. I’m not changing who I am for a somewhat-attractive coach and even more, I couldn’t care any less about Tatum Trevino.

  She shrugs and gets up, rummaging through her closet for something to wear tonight.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” I ask.

  “This new club downtown called Frenzy.” Most of the freshmen already have fakes, but they all look at least twenty-five anyway.

  Morgan pulls a skimpy pink dress from her closet. It’s sure to show off her toned legs since I’m not sure it will even cover her ass. I push myself off my bed, a whimper leaving my lips involuntarily as I stand on my own sore legs.

  I make my way to my closet and pull a steel-blue dress from the back. It’s the first thing I grabbed and it’s good enough for me. The spaghetti straps cross into an ‘X’ over my back and the front dips into a ‘V’. It’s short enough to not make me feel like a Mennonite compared to my friends, but my vagina won’t accidentally flash anyone either.

  “Bri, you ready?”

  I throw on some lip gloss and mascara and make my way downstairs, which admittedly takes me longer than it should. My feet and legs are already screaming at me for wearing heels, but after I take a few shots I won’t even feel them anymore.

  We all climb into a handful of Ubers and make our way to Frenzy. The rest of the team is already pretty buzzed thanks to their pre-gaming. I missed out on the early shots because it took me twenty minutes to wobble down the damn stairs.

  Tonight I plan to get drunk enough to forget the pain and the annoyingly hot pain in my ass known as Tatum Trevino.

  “Can we agree to no shop talk tonight? The thought of soccer hurts my legs,” I ask and they agree. Tonight will be all play and no work.

  We get to the club and pile out of the cars. Since Frenzy is new and not in the center of LA, the line is short and moves quick.

  Inside the club is wild and swanky. The long dance floor runs down the center with sections of booths and tables slightly lower than the rest. The lighting is all cool blues and purples to illuminate the space and give a sexy vibe. Large salt lamps hang from the ceiling for mood lighting and a gorgeous touch. The main bar sits opposite the DJ booth on either side of the dance floor.

  There’s a VIP lounge above the right side of the bar with glass walls, but curtains are pulled into the corner, for privacy should the occupants want it. This place is incredible.

  And for being new, the club is crowded. We grab two large booths sitting back to back in an attempt to not get separated. Most likely we’ll all end up on the dance floor anyway.

  A waitress comes over and takes our drink orders. We stick to shots for the quickest and most effective way to get hammered. After a few, we hit the dance floor where I find a cute guy to grind on.

  Like most people, my eyes can’t help but travel up to the VIP lounge. A girl is leaned into this guy, her cleavage pouring out of her top and her hand high on his thigh. The guy’s arm is draped on the back of the couch where I can see a colorful display of tattoos that look all too familiar.

  It seems I notice him at the same time Lindsay does.

  “Oh my God, is that Tatum?”

  “Where?” The rest of the girls break their necks looking for our new coach.

  “Up there,” I tell them and point to the secluded lounge.

  We watch as his head turns to face the pretty blonde. His boyish smirk appears and his eyes glance from hers down to her ample chest. He looks away, toward the glass window of the lounge, and recognition clouds his gaze.

  He sees us, the twenty of us staring up at him like a crowd of deer stuck in headlights. He gets up and I assume he’s about to come down and bust us, but I’m wrong. Instead, he stands and closes the curtains to the lounge.

  “I’m going to grab a drink.” No one hears me because they’re all too busy gossiping about our coach and saying how jealous they are of the slutty blonde at his side. Gross.

  I get two more shots from the bartender and down them before I can think any better of it. The cute guy I was dancing with finds me at the bar and offers to buy me a drink. I think his name is Nick or Nate or something along those lines.

  “Thank you,” I tell him as I take the overly priced Long Island Iced Tea. I’m already drunk and this drink is sure to take me to the verge of blacking out.

  “That guy’s a tool.” The words are whispered in my ear out of nowhere. I whip my head to the right and the motion makes me dizzy. What the hell does he want?

  “You’d know.” My date, if you can call him that, got distracted talking to one of his friends and doesn’t notice the new addition standing beside me.

  Tatum laughs at my insult and it’s not even fair how hot he is. “You shouldn’t be sleeping around; it’ll only make you lose focus.”

  “Are you talking from experience?” His smirk drops and his eyes turn black with hatred. “Why’s it okay if you sleep with the bimbo upstairs and I can’t sleep with Nick?”

  “It’s Neil,” the guy says, coming back up behind me and truthfully I’d thought he’d left.

  “Because you’re drunk and can be taken advantage of. You have too much to lose by sleeping around.”

  “Okay, Dad, but I’m a big girl and if I want to fuck this guy I’m going to.” Neil places a hand on my hip and I glance down at it. I had no intention of sleeping with this guy, but now I want to just to spite Tatum.

  “Come on, I’m taking you home.” My new coach grabs my arm, dragging me away from the bar.

  “I’m with the team. You can’t just take me home.”

  “You’re right. I have a date.” He drags me to the team who are sitting around our booths.

  “Ladies, I’m going to pretend like I don’t see any of you drinking underage and I’ll even keep this incident from Paxton if you all leave. Now.” The girls groan and gather their things.

  “Have fun with your bimbo,” I call over my shoulder and the girls gasp. I shouldn’t be talking back to our coach like this, but he provoked me and I’m not one to go down without a fight.

  Chapter Four

  Bria

  “Turn your fucking phone off or so help me God, Bri.” Morgan groans from under her pillow, her words barely audible despite the threat behind them.

  Who the hell is calling me this early? It feels like I got five minutes of sleep. I slap my loud device until it shuts up, but it only seems to get angrier. It rings again, almost instantly, and somehow I think the decibels rose too. I pick up the phone and a number I don’t recognize is calling.

  My heart sinks into my gut wondering if something is wrong. Why else would a random number call me at six in the morning on a Saturday?

  “Hello?” My voice shakes and even though my head is throbbing and my stomach is rolling, it gets pushed to the side as fear settles in my gut.

  “Where the hell are you?” My heart returns to my chest when I hear a loud, angry timbre causing me to pull my phone away from my ear. This can’t be happening.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Bria,” my roommate scolds before throwing a shoe at me and hitting the wall beside my head. Much to my dismay, I crawl out of bed and into the bathroom to take the call, allowing Morgan to go back to sleep. Lucky bitch.

  “It’s six in the morning. I’ve been waiting for you for an hour. Get down to the field now or you’re off the team.” The call ends and I drop my phone before puking into the toilet. I don’t think this is what they meant when they coined the term boot and rally.

  “Come on, Campbell, I know you can run faster than that. Another lap and you better make it faster than the last.” I pause to grab a drink before getting back
on the line on the track. “Did I say you could get a drink?”

  “I didn’t realize you wanted your star player to die of dehydration,” I snap, beyond sick of Tatum’s shit.

  “On second thought,” he lines up beside me. “You’re going to race me and if you win, you get to go home.” We’ve already been here for an hour and he’s had me running non-stop. It’s taken all of my willpower and more to not barf on his shoes.

  “And if you win?”

  “When I win, we’ll keep running until you do beat me.”

  Do you think jail is as bad as it seems? Does California have the death penalty? If I murder him, since he’s basically a celebrity, maybe they’ll ship me right to death row and I won’t have to suffer. I’m already being tortured here; prison can’t be much worse, right?

  The sadist blows his whistle and takes off. I dig the toes of my shoes into the track and give it my all. I pray I can somehow push myself to beat his five minute mile time after I’ve been drained all morning.

  We’re side by side and it’s tempting to stick my foot out and trip him. He looks over to me, a devilish glimmer in his eye and offers me a smirk. His perfect white teeth piss me off and I snap my head away, focusing solely on the track.

  My body is exhausted. My muscles are fatigued and my new running shoes have given me fresh blisters on my heels and toes. The sweat on my legs burns the open wound on my Achilles. I’m sure if I look back I’ll see a bloodstain on my white sock, but I ignore the pain. I need to beat him.

  We cross the halfway point when he starts to pull ahead, but I pump my arms faster, pushing my legs harder. In half a mile, this will be over. I might be dead, but at least it’ll be over.

  I push myself harder than I ever have before around the final turn of the track. My quads and calves burn and once I cross the finish line I collapse on the ground in a heap. Tatum stands over me, a large smile across his face as he claps.

  “Good work, Campbell. You impressed me.” He offers me a hand to help me up which I ignore, I push into a seated position and stay rooted in my spot on the turf.