Taming the Varsity Player

CHAPTER 10: ALTERNATIVE TRACKS

​The morning sun had barely cleared the horizon when Mike Weller’s sports car roared to life, the pristine white gravel of the estate crunching beneath the high-performance tires.

​Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick enough to suffocate. Eloise sat in the passenger seat, her 5'9" frame looking small, pulled tight against the passenger door as she stared fixedly out the window. She had dressed for comfort today—an oversized, faded charcoal-grey crewneck that swallowed her torso and a pair of simple leggings, her vibrant ginger hair hastily twisted up into a claw clip with a few rebellious copper strands framing her pale face. She looked tired, her hazel eyes shadowed by a lack of sleep, carrying a heavy, helpless sort of quietness that had settled over her since the previous day.

​In the back seat, the heavy, savory aroma of the smoky jollof rice she had cooked the night before was still the main topic of conversation.

​"I'm telling you, Mike, I woke up at midnight, went down to the kitchen, and thought I died and went to heaven," Jake Bill said, leaning forward between the front seats, his green eyes bright with pure adoration. He wore his varsity jacket unbuttoned over a gray hoodie, looking effortlessly athletic and messy. "Gilbert, you are a literal saint. Chad and I demolished half the container before Mike even came downstairs."

​Chad Miller nodded gruffly from the corner, his dark brows lifting slightly as he adjusted his thick black compression shoulder sleeve. "Best rice I’ve had in months, Gilbert. Seriously."

​Eloise managed a tiny, faint nod against the glass, but she didn't speak. She kept completely quiet, offering absolutely no defense. In this town, in this car, she felt entirely invisible, a social ghost who didn't possess the status or the right to talk back to the popular crowd. Her voice felt trapped in her throat.

​"She’s not cooking for us again."

​The cold, gravelly decree cut through the back-seat chatter like a blade.

​Mike Weller kept his piercing blue eyes fixed dead ahead on the winding road, his large hands gripping the leather steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. His golden blonde hair was perfectly styled, and his sharp, arrogant jaw was set in a rigid, unyielding line. He looked completely untouchable, a cruel king reigning over his small sports-car empire.

​"Don't waste your time or the ingredients, Gilbert," Mike muttered, his voice dropping into a harsh, dismissive monotone that echoed brutally in the quiet car. "We have a house staff for a reason. We don't need the guest hand playing maid in the main kitchen. Keep out of it."

​Jake’s mouth fell open in shock. "Bro, what is your problem—"

​But Eloise remained silent. If he wanted to play the villain and treat her like an unwelcome intruder, she would let him. She would just disappear into the background like she always did.

​The car approached Oakridge High, but instead of steering into the exclusive senior parking lot where the elite students were already gathering, Mike suddenly slammed on the brakes, pulling the car over roughly right at the main public drop-off gate—hundreds of yards away from the entrance.

​"Get out," Mike said flatly, not even turning his head to look at her.

​Eloise didn't hesitate. She grabbed her thrifted backpack, popped the door open, and stepped out onto the concrete without a single backward glance. As the sleek car sped away into the lot, leaving her standing alone by the crowded gate, she could hear the immediate, biting whispers of the surrounding students. She kept her head down, her heart aching with a deep, helpless frustration as she hurried into the building to vanish.

​What followed was a grueling, agonizingly slow school day. Eloise dragged herself from one period to the next, a complete ghost in the crowded hallways. She sat through AP Calculus, survived a boring History lecture, and endured a painful lunch period where she hid herself in the library just to avoid the cafeteria drama entirely. Every hour felt like a week. She kept her eyes on her notebook, tuning out the wealthy chatter around her, feeling entirely drained by the time her afternoon classes finally rolled around.

​But finally, at 3:15 PM, the loud, ringing bell signaled the official end of the school day.

​A collective sigh of relief left Eloise's lips as she packed her binders and joined the sea of students flooding out of the heavy double doors. She walked out toward the student parking lot, intending to head toward the public bus stop to go to work. But a loud, distinct purr of a motorcycle engine made her look up.

​Ethan Grey was idling near the edge of the lot. He had a remarkably handsome, soft-featured face that made him look like he belonged in a classic coming-of-age movie, with a sharp, elegant nose, a faint dimple on his left cheek when he smiled, and a warm, clear complexion. His soft, tousled dark curls spilled out from beneath a sleek black helmet, and his warm, hazel-brown eyes crinkled with an immediate, welcoming smile when he saw her. He wore a rugged vintage denim jacket over a faded black tee, with tight dark jeans and sturdy leather boots. He kicked down the kickstand and held out a spare helmet.

​"Hey," Ethan called out, his voice smooth and grounding. "I remember you saying you had a rough day yesterday. Want to get out of here? School's officially over, and I really want to show you a place downtown."

​Eloise looked at the helmet, then back at the school doors. For the first time all day, a spark of genuine hope lit up her hazel eyes. "Yeah. Please."

​She slid the helmet over her ginger waves and climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, her hands settling nervously around Ethan’s waist as he revved the engine.

​As they began to pull out of the lot, Ethan’s bike passed right by the varsity locker room exit. Standing by the brick wall, holding a duffel bag over his broad shoulder, was Mike Weller.

​Mike froze. His blue eyes narrowed, tracking the motorcycle as it glided past. His large frame went entirely rigid, his jaw ticking violently as his gaze locked onto the way Eloise was holding onto Ethan’s waist, her oversized charcoal crewneck fluttering in the wind. A heavy, unreadable tension settled over him, his fists clenching at his sides as an unfamiliar, frustrating knot tightened in his chest. He didn't understand the sudden, bitter irritation twisting in his gut, but he couldn't take his eyes off them until they completely vanished past the school gates.

​Twenty minutes later, Ethan parked the bike in front of a weathered brick building downtown with a neon sign that read: Spin City Records & Audio.

​"We're here," Ethan smiled, leading her inside.

​The moment Eloise stepped through the heavy oak door, her jaw completely dropped. The air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of old paper, polished wood, and vintage vinyl. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with massive crates of records, colorful cassette tapes from the 1980s and 90s, and classic posters of legendary alternative bands. In the back corner, a beautiful, dimly lit studio room was visible through a thick glass pane, housing an old i900s-era mixing console, a vintage reel-to-reel tape machine, and a gorgeous upright acoustic piano.

​"Oh my gosh..." Eloise whispered, her eyes wide as she walked down the aisles, her fingers gently trailing over the glossy covers of old vinyl records. A soft, classic 90s alternative track was playing quietly over the store’s vintage speakers. "Ethan, this place is... it’s heaven."

​Ethan watched her with a deep, fond fascination, his silver rings catching the warm store lighting as he crossed his arms, his soft dimple flashing. "I knew you'd love it. It’s got real soul, just like your music."

​They spent the next hour completely bonding, walking through the rows of cassettes, debating their favorite tracks, and sitting on a worn-in leather couch in the studio corner talking about melodies. Eloise hadn't felt this happy, this light, in a literal year. The helplessness that had weighed her down all morning completely evaporated.

​"You know," Ethan started softly, leaning against the wooden counter and looking down at her with those warm hazel-brown eyes. "My uncle actually owns this place. He’s been looking for someone to run the register and manage the vintage catalog after school. I know you work at the stables, but... if you want it, the job is yours. You’d have total, free access to the studio and all the recording gear whenever we’re closed."

​Eloise’s breath hitched in her throat. Access to a real studio? Leaving the grueling, dusty horse stalls behind to work surrounded by the music she loved?

​Out of pure, unadulterated excitement, her filter completely vanished. "Are you serious?!" she gasped.

​Without thinking, she lunged forward, throwing her arms tightly around Ethan’s neck in a massive, ecstatic hug. Ethan stiffened in surprise for a fraction of a second before his arms wrapped warmly around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground, the scent of his cedarwood cologne enveloping her.

​Suddenly realizing what she had just done, Eloise’s face flushed a deep, violent crimson. She quickly scrambled backward, stepping away as her hands flew to her burning cheeks, her loose copper strands flying wildly.

​"Oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry," Eloise stammered, her voice high and completely flustered, looking down at her sneakers in absolute, awkward mortification. "I just... I got completely carried away. I didn't mean to just jump on you like that."

​Ethan let out a low, incredibly sweet chuckle, his own cheeks slightly pink as he rubbed the back of his neck, an endearing, awkward tension settling between them. "Hey, don't worry about it, Gilbert. I didn't mind it at all."

​Eloise bit her lip, her heart drumming a frantic, fluttering beat against her ribs. She was officially done with the stables. She was going to be working right here, in her own musical sanctuary. And as she looked up at Ethan’s soft, tousled curls and warm smile, she couldn't help but feel that for the first time, things were finally going her way.