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Root: Band Nerd, #2
Root: Band Nerd, #2
Root: Band Nerd, #2
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Root: Band Nerd, #2

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Until I joined the Marching 300 at Sauvage State University, I was just too-tall, tuba-playing Lena Leblanc. But college changes everything. Suddenly I have friends, and they won't let me dodge the attraction I have for hulking, Viking-like football player Anders De Groot. He makes me feel; makes me believe that I'm more than a burden to others. That I'm more than just Lena. And for a girl whose mother checked out years ago, that's the scariest feeling of all. 

Before I met Lena, all I had was school and football; study and stadiums full of spectators cheering for "Root!" Now, I can't get her out of my head. She's everything I could possibly want in a woman and I need to prove to her how good we'll be together. I need to show her that, no matter what, she's perfection. My perfection. And I'll stand my ground to make sure nothing ever hurts her. Not even her family.

See what I mean? How can he even be real? So impossibly sweet and hot? But with my stepfather threatening us, I'll have to learn how to step up and fight for what I want. Otherwise I'll lose the greatest thing to ever happen to me.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDanica Avet
Release dateJun 22, 2018
ISBN9781386018834
Root: Band Nerd, #2

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    Book preview

    Root - Danica Avet

    Acknowledgements

    Ialways try to acknowledge the help I get through my book writing process. I have four author friends who somehow manage to keep me level. Whether it’s letting me randomly toss out story ideas, or just cut up, they’re the best group of ladies I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting and I can honestly say, I don’t know what I’d do without them.

    Lea Barrymire, A.M. Griffin, Anya Richards, and Amy Ruttan, y’all are my sisters from other misters and don’t y’all ever forget it!

    Dedication

    Music, as always, plays a big role in my stories, this one much more than my previous books because it allowed me to share my love of vinyl. My dad had an extensive collection of 45s. Songs he and my mom purchased when they were kids, through their marriage, and some through their divorce. When I would spend weekends at his house, I’d carefully sort through the records and make tapes. (That would be cassette tapes for you younguns!)

    Those were some of the happiest days of my life. I can still remember how Dad would sing along, test my music knowledge, tell me stories about the songs, the musicians, or where he first heard the song. It was our thing and I cherish those memories.

    When Dad passed away in 2015, his collection came to me. So yes, he’s gone, but he lives on through the music he loved. Is it sad to play his favorite records? Yes, and there are some songs I can’t play at all because it hurts too much. Yet playing that music, losing myself in the lyrics of a completely different time, also makes me feel closer to him than ever. The bonus is my mom also rediscovering the music she shared with him when they were married. It’s a beautiful thing.

    So this book goes out to my parents.

    Dad, there’s one song meant just for you. I still can’t listen to it without crying my eyes out, but I know you’d understand. I miss you. I love you. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me this connection with you.

    Mom, you’ve encouraged and supported me no matter what. You never complained when my music was too loud, or when I would sing along to every song that came on the radio. Your commentary on the music we listen to now helps me feel closer to Dad and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for giving me that. I love you with all of my heart.

    Chapter One

    Lena

    July

    Band camp was never like this before. Then again, I’d never been a member of the Marching 300 before either. In the month since practices started I’ve been burnt to a crisp, got blisters all over my feet despite the comfortable sneakers I bought just for marching, and my left shoulder feels as if there’s a permanent indention from my sousaphone.

    Yet as Walker, our drum major, brings our rendition of Bruno Mars’ Uptown Funk to a close, I feel it. The elusive it that tells you what you’re doing is friggin’ awesome. I don’t know if other band students get the same feeling, but when a concert, song, or performance is perfect, my body feels...well, electrified. The hair stands up on the back of my neck, my skin pebbles, and I get the sensation that if gravity didn’t hold me down, I’d fly. Weird, I know.

    Then again, I’m weird. I know this and I embrace it most of the time. But still, I know we did damn good today, that the last month of practices lasting well into the night sometimes, marching in the rain without our instruments just to make sure we know the sets, and the repetition of playing the same songs over and over again, have paid off. Are we ready to perform for halftime? No way in hell, but we’re that much closer.

    We all go motionless, the last set we ended in bringing me up against the sideline next to the only other girl tuba player I’ve ever met, Hennessey Gaudet. It’s completely silent on the field as we wait for Walker to either let us put our horns down and stand at parade rest, or have the drumline start the cadence so we can march off the field. The only sounds I hear are from the football stadium where the team is going through drills. Yet, out here, it’s as though we’re frozen in time.

    Walker lowers his hands, the signal allowing us to put our horns down, but we don’t go to parade rest. I did that the first time we practiced on the field and got my ass chewed out. Not by Walker or even the directors, Ms. Frost, aka Frosty, and Mr. Klaus. No, I got reamed by Little, the tuba section leader. I would’ve attempted to fit my large self in the bell of my sousaphone if I’d been the only freshman to do the same thing. As it is, we all learned a valuable lesson that day: You don’t move until Walker, or one of the directors, tells you to.

    Parade rest, everyone! Frosty calls out, appearing on the field next to Walker’s podium.

    I like Frosty. Unlike my high school band director who didn’t like to get his hands dirty, she’s always on the field with us. When it rained on us, it rained on her. She didn’t allow herself any special treatment just because of her position, acting almost like a big sister to the entire band. Unlike Dr. Klaus, who always dresses like he’s one step away from plaid pants and golf shirts, Frosty looks like the rest of us; shorts, sneakers, T-shirt, sunglasses, and baseball cap.

    My gaze follows her, although I don’t move a muscle as she strides around the back of the podium. She quickly climbs up next to Walker and looks us over with a critical eye. Well, I guess it’s critical. With her glasses on I can’t see her eyes, so it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking, but there’s a frown on her face.

    Bubbles! she suddenly shouts. Move a step to your left. Frosty shakes her head. No, Bubbles, your other left.

    There’s muffled laughter, but we still don’t move. Except for Bubbles. He’s a junior trombone player. No idea how he got the name Bubbles, especially since he’s a big, masculine kind of guy, but I don’t want to ask either. Sometimes it’s best just to keep your head down and not draw attention to yourself.

    Which is kind of difficult when you’re one of the tallest members of the entire band, but if I slouch just a little...

    Barbie! One step forward, Frosty calls out and I shuffle to the required space, my ears burning with embarrassment at my very unwelcome nickname. Bambi, two steps back!

    Then again, I could be named Bambi like Hennessey. How we ended up with names that sound like we’re either Playboy Bunnies or belong at some kind of yacht club, I don’t know. Little, short for Little John, our section leader, was the one who gave us the monikers on the first day of camp. I guess I got Barbie because of my blonde hair, although that’s the only similarity I have to the doll. Hennessey is short and curvy, soft looking, so I guess I can see why he would call her Bambi. Still, neither of us are fond of the nicknames.

    Frosty continues shifting members around until she has us exactly where she wants us. I memorize my distance from the sideline, not wanting to be called out the next time we practice. I don’t know how long it takes her to get everyone adjusted to their proper positions, but it feels like forever with the sun beating down on me. I know I have to be as red as a lobster right now. Unfortunately, instead of turning the golden brown most of the other students were getting with all the sun exposure, I’ll pale again after I go through the burn and peel stages.

    Finally Frosty nods, satisfied with our placements. Remember your marks. We’re going to break for thirty minutes, which should give you enough time to hydrate, cool off, and get to the annex so we can practice stand music. Dismissed!

    Just like that, the entire band is no longer in suspended animation. There’s movement and chatter as the students slowly walk off the field. I stumble to Hennessey, who looks just as beat as I feel. I didn’t know her well, only officially meeting her here at camp, but I’d seen her when our high school football teams squared off, or during Mardi Gras parades when our bands marched. Knowing there was at least one other tuba girl in LaSalle made me feel a little less alone, even though we’d never spoken until this summer.

    I think she’s trying to kill us, I mumble as we both step off the field.

    Hennessey huffs out a breath that flutters her bangs. And if she doesn’t manage it, Little will finish us off.

    And that’s when I remember we have a sectional practice after camp today. Apparently we’re not supposed to just sit and chill in the bleachers, playing when we’re told to. No, the tubas have a choreographed routine for certain songs and we need to learn them so we’re ready for the first game.

    No, I whimper. I already know it’s going to be bad. For me. I don’t have rhythm, Hennessey!

    She laughs, her red ponytail bouncing behind her as we trek toward the band annex at a snail’s pace. You’re in band, of course you have rhythm.

    For playing music, not for dancing or anything else, I insist as we check both ways before stepping onto Armstrong Lane. "Our band director tried to make us hold hands and sway on the field for a game and it was a disaster. He even told us we have no rhythm. When your band director says you have no rhythm, you have. No. Rhythm! I’m gonna screw this up."

    She turns to me, mouth open to say something, but whatever it was gets lost in the roar of an engine and the sudden squealing of tires. We spin around to see a monster car—okay, it’s a muscle car, but it looks like a monster as it heads straight for us—bearing down on us, the back end fishtailing as the driver slams on the brakes.

    It felt as though every insignificant moment of my life passed before my eyes as I stand frozen by terror. I saw my childhood, bright for a few years, pitch black the rest. I saw my equally bland junior high and high school years, which had been filled with studying, band practices, and staying out of my mom and stepdad’s way, no dates to dances, no dances at all, and I realized I was just going through the paces. I was just existing, with music being my only passion. Sure, there have been some happy times in my eighteen years, but they wouldn’t crack anyone else’s top one hundred best moments.

    And now I’m going to die without experiencing anything remotely exciting. Except, you know, being run over by a car that belongs in a movie as part of a high-speed chase.

    Go me.

    I close my eyes, gritting my teeth as the car’s tires squeal, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air, and I wait for impact. When it doesn’t come, I peek through my eyelashes to see the car had come to a stop only five feet away from us. Five feet. Five. Mere inches from death or, at the very least, a lot of pain.

    I can’t hear anything. Whether that’s due to my ears still ringing from the tires trying to grip the asphalt, or because of the blood rushing through my body, I don’t know. But it’s as though I’m wrapped in cotton, completely insulated from everything, viewing the scene from afar.

    That is until Hennessey explodes. Now, I know you shouldn’t stereotype people. I hate it myself. You know, people assuming blonde hair means I’m dumb. And I wouldn’t have pegged Hennessey as having a temper just because she has red hair, since she’s always been so mellow and funny, but apparently she has a very hot temper that’s more akin to a bomb going off than anything else. As in a whole bunch of f-bombs.

    Are you fucking kidding me? she screams, stepping forward to slap her tiny hand on the hood of the monster car. "You could’ve fucking killed us, you motherfucker!"

    I no longer have a problem hearing. Moving, on the other hand, isn’t going to happen. My legs have locked and every muscle is still tense from my attempt to brace for impact. But my eyes shift from Hennessey to the driver of the car, who is totally a guy. I can see his masculine hand on the steering wheel, tattoos on the knuckles. Bad boy. Gut instinct and every book I’ve ever read with heroes and villains with that same trait taught me one thing. Finger tattoos equal bad boys. And a bad boy against a short, hot-headed girl tuba player do not spell a happy ending.

    Get out you fucking dick! I’ll kick your motherfucking ass! Hennessey shrieks, hefting her sousaphone from her left shoulder to her right. Hold my tuba, she orders me, but I shake my head. I refuse to aid in her insanity. I’m gonna—

    Her tirade is cut off by the loud blaring of the horn. We both squint against the glare of the sun to see a blonde head slowly rise from below, until a girl with heavily lashed eyes is peeking at us over the dashboard.

    Oh my god, I whisper, as my face practically heats to the blistering phase of blushing.

    Because, while I’ve never done it, or come close to doing it, I’ve watched porn, and read and heard enough to know when a girl is giving a guy a blow job. Like this one had been doing, probably leading the driver to not pay attention to the road, hence nearly killing us. And I’m not the only one who realizes it. The difference is, I just blush and pray for the asphalt to open up to swallow me whole. Hennessey goes from a pipe bomb to a nuclear warhead.

    "You— You fucking pig! You nearly killed us because you were getting your fucking dick sucked?"

    Her voice hits eardrum-piercing levels and I wince, my body finally getting with the whole retreat and regroup program as I start edging toward her. Of course Hennessey hasn’t come to the same conclusion; that tattoo-knuckled bad boys who are getting a blow job while driving aren’t the best opponents. No, my new friend—and I’m going to have to really rethink this budding friendship if she turns out to be crazy—starts rounding the hood of the car, her tuba still slung over her right shoulder.

    She almost slips by me, but I manage to snag her arm. Thankful, for once, for my greater size and weight, I’m able to keep her from ripping open the car door and dragging the driver out to beat him senseless. I know this is her plan because she shouts it as she fights my hold. I shuffle us back to where we started, a few feet away from the car. Nice and easy. It felt a bit like when I had to drag my grandmother’s Chihuahua away from a fight with a Doberman pinscher. Pepe just wanted to keep going back, despite the difference in size, while the Doberman just stared at him as if it’d lost its ever-loving mind.

    A cloud passes overhead, shading the windshield. That’s when we finally get a good look at the driver and I shiver, knowing I just saved my new friend’s life. The guy behind the wheel has danger written all over him. I can’t see his eyes, but I don’t need to. Not when the little smirk on his face tells me all I need to know about him. Like he isn’t sorry he nearly killed us. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the opposite elbow propped up on the edge of the door, and both arms are covered in colorful tattoos. His dark hair is mussed, but not like he actually fixed it. More like he just washed it and let it do what it wanted, which proved even his hair has attitude. Everything about his appearance screams, Fuck off and I’m okay with that. I’m perfectly okay slinking away with my tuba and pretending this never happened.

    The girl, I’m trying not to think of her as the Blow Job Girl, is screeching something inside the car, which draws his attention away from us. I nearly slump with relief.

    What’s your problem? We hear him clearly even over the rumble of the engine. Does speaking through your teeth like that mean you're really mad now?

    There comes a squealed, Terrible!

    I knew it. He’s totally a bad guy. With a name like Terrible...

    Look, you sucked my dick. His tone is dismissive enough that I wince with sympathy for Blow Job Girl. "Randy’s too hung over to drive so all I was doin’ was bringin’ your ass home. You got in my car, planted your face in my lap, and went to town. I accepted because I’m a guy who likes to have his dick sucked. He shrugs. If you’re embarrassed about it, that’s not my problem. Now you can either sit there and wait until I’m finished here, or you can walk your ass home."

    You really are a dick, Hennessey comments almost in wonder, drawing his attention back to us.

    I close my eyes and pray. Again.

    But I hear a laugh, harsh, yet genuine. I’ve been called worse, Red, he drawls. I open my eyes again to see him smirking at us. You and Blondie there wanna get out my way? I want to get Whiny home before she floods my car with her tears.

    Hennessey tenses, as though she’s about to go after him again, but I put my greater weight to work once again, dragging her out of the street. I’m peripherally aware a few band students are standing on the sidewalk gawking at us. Normally, I’d be dying of embarrassment. Right now though, I’m really worried about us literally dying because the bad ass in the car scares me.

    He revs the engine, his gaze still locked on Hennessey. I don’t like it. He’s bad news and she’s a good girl. But he isn’t asking my opinion as he revs the engine once more and peels off down the street.

    Drive the motherfucking speed limit! Hennessey screams after him.

    The car disappears from sight, but not memory. Oh no, I’m going to have nightmares about this for the rest of my life. If I ever have children and grandchildren, I’ll probably tell them all about how I almost died and use it as a lesson in why not to lollygag while crossing a street. And if I have too much to drink, I might even explain that road head is dangerous for bystanders.

    My new friend turns to me, her face still red with anger, but her eyes sparkled as though she’d enjoyed herself. So I’ve been thinking. Do you want to hang out with me, Jolene, and Becca tonight? We’re gonna pick up some food at Wilburn’s and go back to my parents’ house to watch movies.

    I don’t know what to say, except I’m starting to think she really is crazy. And this is when I have to hit pause.

    I’ve never had one of those moments when I realize the decision I make is going to either change my life or keep it exactly the same. But I’m having one now. Maybe it has to do with the whole almost dying and realizing your life was one big blank, but suddenly the thought of going back to my ratty studio apartment for the rest of the night doesn’t appeal. I have a rare night off from work and I was looking forward to picking up the book I’d had to stop reading to attend camp. I even had a thought about sifting through my dad’s records and maybe playing them. Never mind, I can’t... Not going to think about that. No, those plans would only serve to make me depressed and more withdrawn. I don’t want to be that person anymore, but the fear of opening myself to new people has me wondering if it’s a good idea.

    I know Hennessey about as well as anyone, considering I’ve never had many friends, but the other two, Rebecca Cherry and Jolene Pickering, are just fresh faces. All I know about either one is Becca’s a four-foot-eleven spitfire majorette who has so much energy she tires me out just from watching her routines, and Jolene is a transfer student from Georgia who plays the trumpet so well that if she weren’t a freshman, she’d be section leader. That’s it.

    Will any of them accept me as I am? Weirdness, height, and quiet ways and all? I hope so. Heart pounding with nerves, I nod shortly. That sounds like fun.

    Hennessey’s beaming smile is full of understanding and acceptance. I just pray the other two feel the same.

    Anders

    YOU SURE YOU DON’T want to come with us?

    I don’t pause as I continue with my squats, the barbell weighing in at six hundred pounds, my quads, hamstrings, and glutes burning as the muscles push me up and down in a slow, steady pace. I suck in a breath as I squat then let it out as I stand, going to my tiptoes on the final push.

    No, I huff, as a couple of the trainers take the barbell from me. I roll my shoulders. Got to study tonight. It’s more like read a couple of required books for the upcoming semester, but to Savage that’s studying.

    Beau Savage Sauvage makes a face as he continues his own workout. Off-season training is a big fucking deal with our football program. Keeping ourselves in peak condition, strength and speed-wise, is what will lead us back to a bowl game. If we somehow retain the same magic as we had last year.

    Moving to the rows of barbells, I grab two dumbbells to begin my rear delt raises. Bending to a forty-five degree angle, I start punching up my reps, the trainers pressing on my shoulder to keep my form straight.

    You’re always studying, even when classes haven’t friggin’ started, Savage grunts as he works the leg press. You need to get out more.

    And he always says that too, but I don’t reply.

    He and I bonded last year. Both freshmen, new to the Spartan Football Program, not really knowing our asses from a hole in the ground, but we’re completely different. Not just the obvious ways like size, positions we play, or personalities. But in upbringings. See, I knew, even before I came to training camp last summer, that he was the great-great-great grandson of the university’s founder because it was all over the news. Not only is he a legacy, but he’s also rich, privileged, and the golden boy of the university with a real shot at the pros.

    Me? I’m just the kid from nowhere who managed to catch Coach Nielson’s attention during a random game I played against a much tougher, more popular school. With my grades and hunger to get the fuck out of Wisconsin, I already knew I’d go to college on an academic scholarship, but Sauvage State wasn’t even on my radar until Coach Nielson mentioned a hefty athletic scholarship. I jumped at the offer and managed to rake in enough to cover tuition, housing, food, and books with just a little bit left over. Hence the not going out much. Plus, you know, studying is how I relax.

    Know I only go out once a month, I groan.

    I’m not a complete fucking hermit, although my routine makes me sound a little like a senior citizen. But one night a month is enough for me to blow off some steam, chill with my friends, and stare at girls I have no intention of approaching. And it’s rare for any of them to come to me with Tight and Savage around.

    Okay, how long until your next night out? he asks, as he swings his legs to sit on the bench facing me.

    My shoulders are burning like a motherfucker, but I finish the final rep, sweat dripping down my face to hit the floor of the gym. Two weeks.

    Fuck, man! How do you not go crazy?

    So speaks the guy who doesn’t need to apply himself in anything except football, but I don’t say it. I’m not a dick. I start power lifts next. Just used to it. My breath leaves me in a huff.

    Well you should at least stop by my place if you get bored. I’m sure the party’ll be going until the sun comes up and lovely ladies wantin’ that whole Viking shit you have going on, he teases with a grin.

    I don’t answer, concentrating on my workout. I can’t disagree with him about the Viking thing because with a name like Anders De Groot from Wisconsin, plus my size, I’ve heard it a few times over the years. I don’t get how Ma came up with it, whether I was named after a relative back in Norway, but I do know she’s a first-generation American-Norwegian. So yeah, I guess I could claim Viking ancestry if I wanted. And yeah, the girls would probably love it.

    However, contrary to what my fellow teammates think—and because I don’t say an awful lot—I don’t fuck as much as they think. In fact, I don’t have sex at all. Never have. They’d probably shit a brick if they knew I was a twenty-year-old virgin, but it’s none of their business. I have my reasons. I jack off, watch porn, I’ve even made out with a few girls since I lost weight and started playing football, but I’ve never gone the distance and that’s my secret to keep.

    At least stop by for an hour tonight, Beau insists, returning to his original train of thought. This one-track mind of his is why he’s a great quarterback, but sometimes a shitty friend, because he won’t let things alone.

    I’ll try, I mutter as I start my stretches.

    And I will try. Just not very hard.

    Lena

    THAT WHOLE, my life is going to change thing? Yeah, I probably should’ve taken the other option. These girls are certifiable. Wandering around Wilburn’s with the three of them is like trying to herd cats. Becca’s all about sugary foods—which she so doesn’t need because she’s already hyper. Jolene wants to make something called Brunswick stew, while Hennessey is all about the popcorn. Me? I just want to get out of the store without anyone coming to blows.

    Why don’t we get a little of everything? I ask in what I think is a reasonable tone when Becca and Hennessey, who’ve been friends since fifth grade, start

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