Pride & Joie Read online

  Pride and Joie

  A #MyNewLife Romantic Comedy

  Copyright © 2017 by M.E. Carter

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Somewhere between Austin and San Antonio, out in the boondocks and away from the fast-paced, twenty-four-hour vibe that defines a big city, there’s a town called Flinton.

  Life moves a little slower in Flinton. People say “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir” no matter how old they are or the person being addressed is. Almost everyone attends church on a weekly basis, wearing their Sunday best, no exceptions. And big, blond hair is the norm. You know, closer to Jesus and all that. In some ways, it’s a stereotypical Texas cow town.

  That is, until you cross over Main Street to the south side of the area and step foot onto the university campus. Then, it turns into the typical college town.

  Flinton State University is a huge school that boasts the college life new adults are always so excited to join. Roughly twenty-five thousand students attend classes somewhere within the boundaries of the five square miles that is the campus property. Although there’s no pressure to join the fraternities and sororities, a separation between those involved in Greek life and those who aren’t still exists. However, no one seems to mind, because there’s a place for everyone. Clubs and organizations are available for just about any interest you can think of—dancing, reading, Frisbee golf. There’s so much to choose from, it’s hard to believe anyone ever goes to class. A lot of education happens outside the classroom.

  Around here, cafeteria food is complained about daily. Messy buns and pajama bottoms are normal eight a.m. class attire. And you’re free to be who you want to be, away from the prying eyes of parents who may question those choices.

  As much diversity as there is around here, though, there’s one thing that draws the entire community together.

  Football.

  As is true of most teams in Division I college football, if you are a part of the program, you’re basically a god among men. Doesn’t matter if you’re a coach, a player, or a trainer. If you’re on that field for any amount of time, it’s clear you are a priority to the administration and other students.

  I knew this before signing up for classes, but I’ve spent the last hour trying very hard to concentrate on the syllabus my new professor gave us and jot down notes about study groups and project requirements. Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to my son, Isaac.

  He’s one of the football players here at FSU, and I, his forty-two-year-old mother, am now his peer. At least in the classroom. It’s not bad so far, except for the fact that I’ve been sitting next to some teenage skank who spent the first few minutes in this room telling her friend all about the party she went to over the weekend and some of the crazy things Isaac’s teammates did.

  At least, I’m choosing to believe it was his teammates. The thought of my only child doing keg stands in his boxer briefs has me wanting to run to his dorm room, grab him by the ear, and drag him home. But I won’t because we have an agreement. I do my best to respect his boundaries, and he does his best to act like the young man I raised him to be.

  When we first discussed my going back to school, he was hesitant about me taking classes on the same campus as him. The more we discussed it, the more we realized our paths would probably rarely cross, if at all. He’s a third-year business major on the football team. I’m a first-year education major who commutes five days a week. We might run into each other in the common areas every once in a while, but for the most part, there’s room for both of us to achieve our goals with minimal on-campus interaction.

  At least that’s what we thought would happen. But as luck would have it, sitting in the second row of my new classroom backfired on me. There was nowhere else for the party crowd who straggled in at the last minute to sit, and I’ve been forced to hear about the huge welcome-back shindig, which gave me way too much information about the people my son hangs out with. Just the thought that it could be him who had a random threesome makes me shudder. Some things a mother doesn’t need to know.

  “Are you cold?” the young blonde next to me whispers when a shiver runs through me, completely ignoring the professor’s lecture. I’m trying very hard not to judge her. Usually I’m of the mindset that people are people, and we’re all doing the best we can. It’s hard to maintain that perspective when your son’s integrity may be on the line. And yes, I’m aware that I sound like an overprotective mom, but I’ve been that girl. I know how they think, and they pretty much don’t until it’s too late. Not to mention, being the oldest one in my class has already been an eye-opening experience. And it’s the first hour of the first day.

  This may end up being a long four years.

  I respond with a simple shake of my head and a polite smile in the girl’s direction.

  “Always bring a sweatshirt with you,” she whispers again. “I learned last year there’s no consistency in the building temperatures. Sometimes it’s really hot and other times it’s freezing, so be prepared.”

  I mouth thank you at her and continue taking notes. And I do appreciate the information from her. I haven’t been in college for over twenty years. This modern version is all new to me and any advice is helpful. Even if it’s from a floozy.

  And yes, I’m aware some grandma vernacular rears its ugly head when I’m being judgmental.

  “Next time, we’re going to begin our discussion on Dante’s Inferno,” the professor bellows, most of my classmates already packing up their belongings. I understand that class is almost over, but am I the only one waiting for him to finish? Judging by my classmates’ actions it’s clear—yes, yes I am.

  “Make sure you have the first five chapters read before Wednesday, because we will be discussing,” he continues. “You don’t want to be lost or you may never catch up.” The rustling of papers and laptops slamming shut gets louder. When I did my two semesters back in the day, we brought books and notebooks. Now “school supplies” mean a computer. I thought that was reserved for the well-to-do students or anyone at an Ivy League school. It’s been quite the culture shock to see. Not to
mention feeling completely unprepared. Take a guess who brought paper and color-coordinating pens for organizing my notes. That would be me.

  “All right, all right,” Professor Something-Or-Other waves his hand in dismissal. “You’re free to go. But stay safe, especially all you newbies. Remember, you’re fresh meat.”

  A few chuckles come from around the room. Probably upperclassmen who have heard this all before. Or know he’s right.

  “Is this your first time in college?” the girl next to me asks. For wearing jammie pants, no makeup, and partying until the sun comes up, she appears remarkably refreshed. It’s so unfair that I had to be up at five-thirty to have time to cover the dark circles under my eyes before driving here, and she probably rolled out of bed ten minutes before class started, not a circle to be seen. Damn these children and their young, flawless skin. I should have enjoyed it more when I had it.

  “I took a few classes many years ago,” I respond, shoving my antiquated note-taking methods in my new satchel. It’s dark leather and big enough to hold all my supplies, plus everything I may need in the event of an emergency. I love it. “Unfortunately, most of my credits didn’t transfer.”

  She makes a face. “That sucks. My mom had the same problem when she went back to school a couple years ago. Like, how unfair is it that she had to retake them all? I swear, all the administration at this school does is nickel-and-dime us.”

  I actually got more credits than I expected, considering my classes are so old. But I don’t say that. She’s young and idealistic. I’m sure it would fall on deaf ears anyway. College kids are notorious for hating anyone who works for their college. “I’m just glad I got credit for my freshman English class. It’s too bad I have to retake algebra, though.”

  She grimaces again. “Ew. I hate math classes. Just one more to go and I’ll be finished with numbers for good, I hope. Anyway, I’m Mia. If you need anything or whatever, I’ll be here three days a week. And I know how hard it is to go back to school at your age, so I’m happy to help.”

  I feel my eyebrows shoot up in surprise at her dig, but quickly bring them back down. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t trying to be rude, and since I’ve spent the morning judging her party-girl ways, my guilt tells me I need to give her some grace. She is, what, nineteen? Twenty? I don’t think most of us have a good lock on our filters until we’re in our thirties. And even then, it’s iffy.

  “Thanks, Mia.” I smile back at her and situate my bag over my shoulder. “I’m Joie. And same goes to you, even though I’m not sure what kind of help I can give you since I’m new.”

  She shrugs. “I’m sure something will come up. Maybe a recipe or something.” With a small wave, she turns and beelines her way out the door with the rest of the crowd.

  I take a few seconds to pull my printed schedule and map out of my bag. I could use the university app and my GPS to help guide me to my next location, but I’m too overwhelmed to try to make it all work. Old school is my comfort zone when I’m nervous. I love technology as much as the next guy, but give a girl a minute to catch up to the millennials.

  No, that’s not right. These kids are too young to be millennials.

  Oh boy. I’m beginning to feel ancient.

  As the last one out of the room, I don’t have to fight the crowd as much to get through the doors. Most students are coming inside for their next class, not going outside, giving me a moment to pause and observe the scene around me, taking in my feelings about this new situation. Frankly, I’m giddy.

  Twenty-two years ago, I was in my second semester of college when I found myself pregnant. One too many parties and one too many bad decisions meant inevitably forgetting birth control and my oops baby decided it was time to come into the world. Hence, the reason I can peg a party girl from a mile away.

  Don’t misunderstand; Isaac was the best thing to ever happen to me. For the first time, there was someone else who was more important than I was. Well, in my eyes anyway. And there was nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice to give him the life he deserved.

  Which means my plans to get a degree, even though I was undecided on my major at that point, were put on hold as I became a wife and a mother. The wife part only lasted a couple of years, but the mother part stuck. It wasn’t easy. My entry-level job as the receptionist at a local construction company didn’t pay much, but the lovely elderly woman who acted as the office manager trained me well, so advancement was imminent when she retired.

  We still lived paycheck to paycheck, but my job provided the ability to pay all our bills and buy a small house in a decent neighborhood. Plus, because I worked with your typical good-ol’-boys, when Isaac started playing football, they pooled their money to make sure he had whatever equipment he needed. And most of the guys showed up for a least a couple games each season. Considering his dad was never around, I know my son appreciated their support as much as I did.

  Leaving the company after that many years was hard, but just like always, the guys were thrilled I was finally in a place where I could live out my dream. I’ve only been away from my job for a week, and I’ve already been texted six times, called twice, and had one person beg me to come back. His offer included a year’s supply of strawberry margaritas. My favorite. I guess the new office manager is a bit of a stick-in-the-mud.

  As good as that offer felt, I’m right where I need to be. My desire to be a teacher began the moment I stepped into Isaac’s first grade classroom as the volunteer homeroom parent. It was just a matter of waiting until he graduated and went off on his own to be able to follow through with my dream. And his new scholarship is a god-send. It enabled me to only get a small student loan and live off my savings for a few years.

  Yep, it took twenty years longer than most, but I’m really lucky to be here, and I know it.

  Stepping off the last step, I stare at the map, making sure I’m heading toward the science building for my nine o’clock biology class. I can’t help but smile. I’m here. I’m finally here. Following my dreams with nothing in my way.

  “Oof!”

  Except the big body I just ran into. It was definitely standing in my way.

  “Oh shit. Are you all right?” His deep voice and slight drawl make it take a second longer than it should to pull me out of the fluster I feel at seeing my giant satchel lying flat on the sidewalk, half of my belongings scattered on the ground.

  “I’m okay,” I reassure him, bending over to put all my belongings back in my bag. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He bends down to help, and it suddenly hits me that he seems familiar. But of course he does. He’s one of Isaac’s coaches. Coach Jack Pride. I’ve never seen him up close before, just from a distance at home games. And even then, because this is Isaac’s first year as a scholarship athlete, they were the best tickets my tight budget could afford, which wasn’t close.

  I’m surprised to notice how attractive he is. He’s built like an athlete—big and broad shoulders, with muscular biceps peeking out of his short-sleeved white polo. He’s not as trim and fit as his players, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t put in the same number of hours in the gym they do. But he definitely takes care of his “dad bod.” His salt-and-pepper hair is cut short, though it’s still long enough that the slight breeze runs through it. Coach Pride can’t be much older than I am, but the words “silver fox” keep running through my mind.

  “I’m embarrassed to admit, I was messing with my phone when I ran into you.” He gives me a lopsided grin, and I bite my lip. He’s cute. Really cute.

  We get all my stuff back in my bag and stand up, accidentally touching when he hands it over to me. Feeling the warmth of his fingers is nice, as much as I’m hesitant to admit it.

  You know it’s been a long time since you’ve been touched by a man when the graze of fingertips makes you feel slightly woozy.

  “Do you know where you’re going? I’d be more than happy to help you find your way to your . . . um . . .”


  “Next class.” I smile at his feeble attempt to not make assumptions. I’m sure I stick out like a sore thumb next to all these kids.

  Did I just call them kids? I’m gonna need to tone that down if I plan to make any friends around here.

  “Ah. I thought you had that student vibe to you.” He smiles with very straight, very white teeth, offset by the tan he maintains from hours of practices in the sun.

  “Is it that obvious it’s my first day?” I flirt back, shocking even myself.

  “Only by the overstuffed bag,” he jokes.

  We stare at each other for a few second before I start screaming internally. Focus, Joie. You’re here to get a degree, not troll for men.

  “Well, um . . . thanks for helping me pick up my stuff. I’m gonna head over to the science building now.” I gesture toward the direction I think I’m supposed to go. “It’s that way, right?”

  He seems to snap out of his own internal dialogue. “Oh! Yeah. It’s just past the student center. The orange brick building on your left. The only orange building this school has. Can’t miss it.”

  I give him a thank you and a small wave, turning to walk away. Taking a deep breath, I try to shake off the moment. As attractive as he is and as lonely as I can sometimes be, I have goals and a reason for being here. Finding a man is not one of them.

  But now that I’ve seen Coach Jack Pride up close and personal, football games are going to be much more fun.

  It is hot as fuck out here.

  But when is it not? August in most parts of Texas reminds me of the different levels of hell in Dante’s Inferno, which I only remember because all of our players are required to take Lit I. Some areas are hot and humid, and it feels like you’re cooking in slow boiling soup. Some places are hot and dry, and it seems as if your skin is burning off whenever you’re in the sun. In Flinton, we have a breeze. Yes, we’re in a relatively flat area, but we’re surrounded by rolling hills so the wind loves blowing through.