Текст книги "Sacked"
Автор книги: Jen Frederick
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
7 Ellie
The party at Hammer’s house is exactly how it was back in junior college—lots of beer, scantily clad women, and jocks standing around evaluating the talent. Even though classes haven’t officially started, there’s a sizable number of students hanging on the porch by the time Jack and I arrive. I don’t even want to think about how many there will be once the season gets in full swing. Saturday night after a game? This whole place will get overrun with people.
Inside, though, it’s quieter than I expect. Likely, the sultry late summer temperatures are driving people outdoors. The minute we walk inside, Jack gets pulled away by Ahmed.
“Hey, man, come and see this sick play that Hammer pulled off on Madden.”
“I need to get Ellie a drink,” Jack protests.
“The keg’s in the back, or if you want a mixed drink, hit the kitchen.” Tyrell points vaguely toward the back of the house. “Just tell the guys in the kitchen that you’re Campbell’s sister.”
And this is yet another reason I don’t want to date a football player. It’s bad enough being Jack Campbell’s sister, but to date someone where your entire identity gets subsumed by that? No thanks. Jack hesitates. I give him a push.
“I’ll be fine. Really,” I insist. “New tribe and all.”
The new tribe bit is bullshit because this is a football party. I should have stuck around the apartment and found out what Riley planned to do tonight, but Jack insisted, said that once Masters laid down an edict, he had to follow it for team unity and all that hogwash.
Yet, I bought into it, too, because here I am, at a party full of football players, gridiron groupies, girlfriends, and wannabes. I need to find a nice quiet corner where I can hide for two hours or so until I can convince Jack I should go home.
“She’ll be fine,” Ahmed repeats, and with another shove from me, Jack allows the running back to lead him off to see whatever amazing exploits are going on in a video game of fake NFL players.
In the kitchen, I find a lanky guy with an acne problem pouring drinks. I don’t recognize him, but given the shit position of playing bartender, he must be a freshman.
“Can I have a Coke?”
“Shit, honey, a Coke? I got all kinds of stuff back here. Don’t tell me you plan to pussy out tonight and not get hammered like the rest of us.” He pulls out a giant bottle of whiskey and waves it at me.
Pussy out? Nice. I resist the urge to tell him that this pussy isn’t impressed with his act. “No thanks. Just the Coke.”
He leans over the makeshift counter, a piece of lumber stretched across the space between one end of the opening into the kitchen and the other. “It’s not just a Coke, tiger.” Tiger? “It’s a statement piece that says I’m boring as fuck. You don’t want to start out on the wrong foot during the first big night of the year. We’ve got girlie drinks back here for people like you. Now what’s your poison?” He tips his head up looking massively satisfied with himself.
“So, you’re a wide out?” It’s time to put this guy in his place. He’s on the skinny side and a hair under six feet. He could be a defensive back, but there’s something about the way he leans forward that makes me think he’s waiting for the gun to go off or the quarterback to yell set hut.
His grin widens. “How'd you guess?”
It’s my party trick. Some girls can guess bra sizes. Some guys can do two story beer bongs. Me? I can guess what position you play.
“Your build.” I gesture. “They didn’t require you to get to a certain weight?”
His grin dies off. “Still working on it,” he answers stiffly.
She shoots. She scores. “Okay, I'll take my Coke. Thanks.”
“Get her a Coke, bro,” a deep voice from behind me orders.
“Oh sure, Knox.” The guy’s voice nearly cracks with awe that his team captain is standing there talking to him. He digs around in a tub of ice and shoves the red and white can into my hand.
As I leave the line, I tap the top of it, in case he gave it a good shake under the water.
“You crushed that kid. He’ll stand in front of his mirror tonight wondering how you didn’t see his big guns.”
“Maybe he should spend more time in the weight room and less time hassling girls about wanting a soda.”
“He’s young and suffering from the loss of status. In high school, no doubt, he was the big man on campus.” Masters knocks fists with someone, nods to another person, but doesn’t stop talking to me. “The transition is tough for some.”
A few people give me an appraising look that says what are you doing with Knox Masters. “Not for you, though.”
“I was fucking homesick the first semester. I missed my brother and my family. I had to remind myself why I was here, why I needed to go to practice every day.”
The bald honesty surprises me so much I stop walking.
“What?” he asks when he realizes I haven’t moved.
“I’m surprised you’d admit to that.”
“You think admitting to being homesick makes me weak?” He raises a surprised eyebrow. “Or are you surprised that I have feelings?”
Enough with the tears, you goddamned disgrace! I hear my father yelling at Jack. There’s no place for emotion in this game. Are you a winner or are you a fucking pussy like your sister?
“I thought stoicism is required to wear the jersey,” I say. I try to make it a joke but Masters’ knowing eyes tells me he sees right through my thin veneer. I look away.
On the back porch, a long line of people wait to get a beer. No one is getting drunk at this party, because the buzz will have worn off between beers.
Maybe Knox senses I’m about to bolt because he grabs my hand. “Come on.”
As he steers me past the crowd, around the keg and toward a dark corner where an overgrown tree appears to eat about half the porch, I start to panic. For a million reasons I don’t want to explore, I can’t stand with Knox Masters in a secluded corner.
I tug on his wrist. “I think I want to dance.”
He levels me with a look that says, Really? You’re pulling that bullshit?
“Then we’ll dance.”
I sigh. There’s no getting away from him.
“Knox! I just got in today!” A bubbly blonde with Hollywood looks saunters over. Her assets are on full display under a tight bandage tank top that plunges low in the front. She’s wearing denim panties—shorts so short and cut so high they look like underwear. It’s a popular look around here. Most of the girls are wearing a lot of fringe and denim. We could be at Coachella, minus the desert and the bands.
“Hey, Kitty.”
She places a hand on his chest, right above his heart and her perfectly manicured nails flex against his navy blue T-shirt. The urge to rip her hand away takes me by surprise. I want to snarl at her, that chest belongs to me. I engage in a momentary fantasy of pushing her five feet back and making a slashing motion across my throat.
Fortunately for both of them, Masters steps back.
Kitty’s gaze drops to our joined hands. A confused look crosses her face as if she’s never seen him hold a girl’s hand before. I know, I want to say, it’s weird for me, too. “Is this your…cousin?” she stammers out.
“No, this is my—”
Before he can finish the sentence, Hammer shows up and drapes an arm around both of us. “This is Jack Campbell’s sister, KittyKat. He’s our new tight end transfer. Good hands. She’s a friend of the team.”
“Oh, that’s good.” Kitty’s smile comes back. She holds out her hand. “I’m a friend of the team too.” She winks.
That’s fine as long as she stays away from Masters. Ellie, no, this is your way out. I get my wits together and reach for her. “Actually Kitty, Masters told me he wanted to dance.”
“He did?” she says, wide-eyed.
“Masters?” He frowns. “Is that how you think of me?”
I don’t have to answer that strange question because Hammer interjects with a look of surprise that matches Kitty’s. “You want to dance, man? Since when?”
Masters places his arm around my shoulders. “Ellie is making a joke.”
“It’s not a very good joke,” Kitty says uncertainly.
Masters nods solemnly. “Which is why I’m going to take her to this corner over here and give her some instruction on joke telling. You go dance with Hammer and show him the moves you learned over the summer.”
Kitty and Hammer both nod enthusiastically and disappear inside.
“I wasn’t making any jokes.”
“Trust me. My dancing is a bad joke. You don’t want to see it.”
He lets me go once we make it past the keg line and I wander to the back corner of the porch—away from the music, the crowd, the Kittys of campus. But I can’t seem to shake Masters so I climb up on the top railing and settle in for a night of people watching, which is better than being inside the muggy house watching a bunch of drunk guys play Madden on a big screen.
The back of the house juts up against a small green space shared by about six or seven other houses—the infamous Playground where the football team lives. When Jack got the invitation to move into one of the houses, we’d known then that the Western coaching staff had high hopes for him.
Knox leaps, one handed, onto the railing.
“How high can you box jump?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Like my moves, do you?” He flashes a smug-as-fuck smile and flexes his biceps. My body tightens in an instinctive response. At least I blame it on biology. It’s natural for me to be turned on by a big, strong guy. Generations of women have succumbed to the big brawny male. It’s why a specimen like Masters exists. “I can do just shy of five feet. Not as good as JJ Watts, but I’ll get there. So, why are we hiding back here?”
“I’m at a party with over a hundred people. I hardly think that qualifies as hiding.” Masters hasn’t shaved and the scruff around his chin only serves to make him look a hundred times hotter. I remind myself that hairy chins can mean hairy butts and hairy backs, but sadly, that does nothing to quell my biological response to him. I take a sip of my Coke to hide my agitation and hopefully cool myself off.
“It’s dark here. There isn’t another person within ten feet of you. I think that qualifies as hiding.” He leans closer, his muscled forearm resting too close to my ass for comfort. I try to slide over an inch but a tree branch stops me.
“This thing is a hazard.” I bat at the branch. It causes a few leaves to fall, but doesn’t give me any space to move away. Between his body and this unruly forest, I’m stuck.
“Hammer’s too busy to cut it down. Besides, I think people fuck back here. He probably keeps it to provide cover.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that from personal knowledge?”
“Personal? As in, have I made the mistake of checking out some noises back here, thinking that an animal was rooting around in garbage, only to find one of my teammates getting his pipes cleaned? Then yeah, from personal knowledge.”
“Still sticking with that virgin thing, are you?”
“I am.” He lifts a bottle of something to his lips and drinks. His big hand nearly engulfs the container filled with clear liquid. Probably vodka. I tear my eyes away from his bobbing Adam’s apple because even that is sexy. “You don't believe me, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” I tilt my head as if a new perspective can reveal the truth. “I don’t know why. I look at you and think it can’t be true.”
He smiles back at me. “I take that as a compliment, but it’s true. I mean, I'm glad that you think that I've got some moves. That bodes well for my future girlfriend.”
“Is it so important that I believe you?”
He spears me with those brilliant gem green eyes of his. “Yeah, I think it is.”
I refuse to explore that sentiment. It’s too scary. I ask him another question. “So, you've never made out with anyone or never had a girlfriend?”
“No, I have.” His arm has slid over that spare inch and now rests against my ass. I try not to let it affect me. I try to pretend that little contact between his bare forearm and my jean-clad butt isn’t spreading into every nerve of my body.
I clear my throat. “So, you’re an everything but virgin. Newsflash, you're not a virgin.”
He chuckles, low and deep. “I’ve never stuck my dick in a girl. I've never gotten a blowjob. I've never gone down on a girl. But I have got to first and second base.”
“I can't believe I'm asking you these things, but I can't help myself. It's partly your fault because you keep answering them. But how about dry humping?”
He takes another swallow from his bottle and then another. Then he drains the whole thing and sets it on the deck floor. “Yeah, I'll admit to that. Do I keep my virgin status?”
“I’ll think about it.” I’m glad it’s dark because I feel hot, and I bet I’m beet red. Why I’m asking these super personal questions of Knox Masters, I do not know. But I’m the one suffering because now all I can think about is what it’s like to kiss Knox, to straddle his lap and rub myself against him until we’re both crazy with lust. Dry humping? Did I really ask him that? I press my can against my forehead, but it’s lukewarm and provides absolutely no relief. I think I need a cold beer. Or some of that rum that the kid offered earlier.
“What are you drinking?” I ask in an effort to remember a tiny bit of manners and hop off my spot on the porch. A few people have drifted over, probably drawn in by Masters’ gravitational force.
“Water.”
That stops me short. “Water? No beer? No vodka? Season hasn’t even started.”
“There will be plenty of time to throw down after the season is over,” he says mildly, not even remotely offended. “The average time in the NFL is five years. I'll play ten if I'm lucky. Fifteen if the gods smile down at me. That gives me forty plus years to drink myself into a stupor.”
The discipline this guy has amazes me. “You're big into delayed gratification.”
“Waiting can be worth it.”
“How would you know?”
He laughs. He throws his head back, and the deep rumble starts in his body and ends in mine. Fuck me. He’s gorgeous, talented and has a goddamned sense of humor.
Life is so unfair.
8 Knox
With little effort, I swallow the rest of my laughter. I want to pinch Eliot’s cute, frustrated cheeks right now, but I have a feeling that’d go over as well as Hammer’s attempt to throw the ball—which means not at all. His arm is shit. If we run a trick play, he’ll never be the one to throw the ball down field toward Ace.
She shifts uncomfortably, but I don’t make any effort to make that go away. It’s a good uncomfortable. She’s hyperaware of my existence, which is only fair because I can’t stop thinking about her either.
It hasn’t been a cakewalk abstaining from plowing every willing girl who’s thrown herself at me. It’s only gotten worse since I got put on the cover of SI with a bunch of other overhyped college players and the caption Who’s Next? I didn’t even want to be on the cover. It’s complete bulletin board material. No doubt that stupid picture is up in locker rooms all over the conference full of dart holes.
There is so much willing pussy thrown around that it’s hard to dodge. At a big Division I school, all you have to say is you’ve got a spot on the roster and girls are ready to spread for you. Even the wet-behind-the-ears freshman bartender won’t have any problem finding a chick to go home with tonight, even though he struck out hard with Ellie. It’s easy to drink water instead of pounding drinks. It’s easy to say no to those offers of HGH or money from agents. There are real repercussions to those actions.
But saying no to a hot, dark-haired beauty who wants nothing more than to put her lips around my dick? Or no to the cute redhead who promises me the carpet matches the curtains? Or no to the banging blonde whose barely-there tank top doesn’t quite disguise her erect nipples that she apparently has developed from rubbing her ass all over my lap? That takes super human effort. As each month wore on, it felt harder to remember why I’d decided I’d wait.
I’m not religious. Oh, I believe in a higher being. If pressed, I’d say that heaven and hell existed in some form. But my decision to wait didn’t stem from some mandate in a thousand-year-old written text or from some guy on top of the mountain. It’s a hell of a lot more prosaic and boring. But I’ve managed to say no because I’ve waited this long, and it didn’t make sense to waste it on a quick and easy fuck in some bar bathroom or frat house bedroom.
But fucking my fist gets real old.
It’d be easier if I was a hermit like Ace, who doesn’t like parties and would rather be tied up and whipped publicly than have to sit and make small talk with a bunch of assholes he barely knows, which is why he’s hiding in the video game room playing Madden. But I enjoy the crowds. It hypes me up to see all these people here at Hammer’s house, excited to be with us.
And I’m not at all immune to the easy charm of Ellie Campbell, her obvious love of the sport regardless of her stated bullshit claim that she hated it, and her tight body.
“You ready for Missouri?” she asks.
I avert my face to hide a grin of triumph. Not only is her butt still planted on the railing, but she’s asking questions like she can’t quit me. I like how the universe lines up perfectly sometimes.
“You bet, but they’re a decent opponent.”
She snorts. “You don’t have to pretend for me. They’re terrible and you should win by at least three scores.”
Our first game is in less than ten days and we should win it. In fact, our first tough match up doesn’t come until week five but you can’t enter a game thinking it’s won before you even step foot on the field.
“The team you overlook is the team that beats you.”
She shakes her Coke can and we both hear how empty it is, but I’m not ready to go inside and get her a new drink. Out here in the dark corner I’ve staked out, it’s almost as if we’re alone. I can work with this.
“How fresh is that Ducks loss?” she asks.
“Like yesterday. That loss won’t go away until we win the national championship.” We laid a turd in that game against the Ducks last year, but this year when we play them, it’ll be a different story. “It won’t happen this year. I spent the summer watching tape of the spread offense and conditioning like a motherfucker. No one is outrunning me on the field this year. If anyone is gasping for breath during the fourth quarter, it won’t be me.
Ellie tilts her head and her hair falls like a curtain, a privacy shield. I wonder what she’d do if I dug my hand into that hair to hold her steady while I plundered those plump lips with my mouth. Given that one kiss would not be enough, I probably should wonder if she likes public displays of fucking, because once I had my tongue in her mouth, it wouldn’t take long before I’d want to have my dick inside her pussy. Said dick now makes my cargo shorts a size too tight.
“How come you and your brother don’t play for the same team?” she asks. Her light colored tank top catches the lights, making her look a little fairy like. A sexy fairy. She’s wearing a jean skirt, and the tank top is decorated with fish scales—sequins I think. She glitters when she turns. It doesn’t show a lot of skin but the hints are there. Like Telly noted, she has a nice ass, but she also has a sizable rack. Her tits might even spill out of my giant hands. I curl my hands into fists to keep from testing that.
“We play the same position and didn’t want to compete against each other for playing time like we did in high school.”
“That was some SI spread.” She smiles, remembering something she liked—hopefully me. “Your brother looks a little weak, though. You tease him about that?”
I start breathing lightly because here it is—where the rubber meets the road. Not many people can tell us apart and she’s suggesting that she can. “He doesn’t get up early enough to lift; doesn’t get the reps in,” I joke. That’s a partial lie. Ty does get up later, but he’s a beast. We had competitions all summer, and probably would have ended up tearing something in our efforts to outdo each other if our dad hadn’t monitored our progress.
“I’m that way too. I like to get up early, but Jack’s a night person. He’d rather practice in the afternoon, stay up, watch film, and then sleep until noon. I like getting everything out of the way so I can spend the evening having fun.”
“And what constitutes fun for Ellie Campbell?”
“Ellie?” she says with a raised eyebrow.
“Ellie,” I reply firmly. Eliot is a weird ass girl’s name, although I keep that sentiment to myself. “You look like an Ellie, not an Eliot.”
“What does an Eliot look like?”
“Five ten, wears skinny jeans. Maybe has a goatee.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“You avoiding the question?” It’s no casual question. Ellie will be part of my life for a long time. I need to know what she enjoys doing.
She shrugs and flips her hair back, allowing light to come into our small circle. Little spots of golden color hit her forehead and the top of her nose. “I like…football. Watching it, of course. I like orderly things. Opening a new pack of perfectly sharpened pencils. Starting a new notebook. Writing the first goal down in my day planner.”
Ellie slaps herself on the forehead. “God, could I have sounded geekier? Let me try again. I like pounding beers every night and smoking a joint before bed.”
“I like Geeky Ellie,” I tell her and rub the spot on the top of her head that she slapped. The touch surprises her. She stills.
“What are you doing?” she whispers. The words come out almost inaudible, but I’d know what she said if she stood across the room.
“Feeling you.” I can’t help myself from dropping my hand to her cheek. It feels as soft as it looks. I wonder how soft other parts of her feel.
“I don’t think you should do that,” she protests, but doesn’t move.
“Why?”
Her eyes are like chocolate. I want to eat her up.
“Because it gives a girl ideas.” She dips her head and her lips nearly brush the palm of my hand.
Reluctantly, I withdraw. I get the sense I need to slow down for her—that at this point she won’t recognize my actions as sincere or genuine. I drop my hand to the rough wood of the porch railing and immediately miss the feel of her skin.
Beside me she makes a small sigh. I choose to interpret it as disappointment.
After a few moments, she breaks the silence and asks, “Why’d you wear your brother’s uniform for the magazine shoot? Didn’t any of them catch on?”
My heart stops. Literally. It halts for a full second before it hitches back up again. I exhale heavily and put an inch of space between us. She’s too potent and I’m feeling weak.
“None of them.”
“Really?” The space between her eyes crinkles. I leap down from the railing and back away. But there’s not enough space I can put between the two of us. I’m about five seconds from throwing her on the ground.
“Really,” I insist. “I wore his MU jersey the entire time and he wore mine. How could you tell?”
“You guys are similar, but it’s pretty easy.” Her tone is dismissive, as if anyone could tell us apart.
“We’re identical.”
“If you say so.” It’s evident she doesn’t see it that way.
“I don’t say it. That’s what reality is.” I pull out my phone and flick to the family album. “Here, you see.” I show her a picture from this past summer. We’re at the lake and we have our arms across each other’s shoulders. My brother is wearing the blue trunks and I have the red trunks. We’re both wearing matching aviators our mom bought for our birthday. “Look, no one else can tell us apart. Even my dad has issues. Only my mom is able to do so consistently.”
“It’s not my fault everyone around you has really shitty eyesight.” She points to my image. “You’re wearing the red shorts.”
Holeee Fuck.
“Exactly how can you tell us apart? Seriously now. No jokes. No games. Swear it on a stack of holy bibles.”
“I’m an atheist.”
“Fine. On a stack of Darwin treatises.” I roll my eyes.
“Your jaw is more square and defined.” She pinches the photo, zooms, and traces her finger across my jaw. I feel the touch as if her finger actually touched my chin. It sends a shudder down my spine. “And his eyes are weirdly close set. Like horror-show weird. Nothing against your brother. And you’re taller and more muscular.”
She thinks I’m more muscular. I can’t wait to tell Ty these details. Right before we both left for school, in between summer training camp and the start of fall ball, we weighed and measured each other. The diameter of our biceps measured the same. I swipe to another photo. This time we’re both wearing suits for my cousin’s wedding. Even for my mom had a hard time telling us apart that day. “How about this one?”
“You’re the one on the left.”
I was the one the left. I tuck my phone away, place my hands on my thighs, and lean over to catch my breath. I wonder if this is how the Hulk feels before he goes green. My heart races, my palms sweat, and I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.
“Is something wrong?” She places a hand on my back and I force myself not to flinch away.
“No. Everything is exactly how it should be.” I exhale one more time and straighten to look at my girl’s face, which shows equal parts confusion and worry. I grab her hand. We need a buffer and right now the buffer will be people. Lots and lots of people.
