“He has to sleep eventually. Maybe a few pages of Dr. Freud will knock him out.”
“Works on me every time,” he jokes.
Another series of flutters dances against my ribs. “He’s kicking again.”
Junior touches me, his eyes wide with admiration as he traces the movement inside. “Whoa…” he says. “He’s going to make so many field goals with that kick.”
I shrug. “Or maybe he’ll play soccer.”
He fires a hard stare at me. “Don’t you even joke about that.” I laugh at him. “Take that back.”
I head for the bedroom. “I will not.”
Junior follows me in and closes the door behind us. “Ellie, I’m just saying, this kid has quite the legacy to live up to.”
“Let’s not put so much pressure on him,” I say. “He’s not even born yet.”
“Son of Junior Morgan, grandson of Cary Pierce. People will expect it. It’s in his blood.”
I lie back against the pillows and pull my feet onto the bed. “I say we let him do what he wants.”
“I agree, but…” He hesitates, smiling softly at the thought. “Admit it. It’d be kinda cool. Third generation pro football badass…”
“Maybe. But you know what would be even cooler?”
“What?”
“If he took after his mother.” I point my thumbs at me and grin. “Eh? Yeah? Broadway kid!”
“I’m not walking into that trap.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls the socks off my feet.
“It’s not a trap. It’s a fact. Artistic children rank higher in academics and social skills.”
“Hey, my social skills were fine.”
“Getting laid a lot doesn’t count as a social skill.”
“It should.” He slides his fingernail along the arch of my foot, sending a tickle shock up my ankle. I kick him and he laughs. “We had this same argument when Courtney was born…”
“Yeah, and I won that one, too.”
“You did not win,” he says, gently massaging between my toes.
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to settle again for agreeing that Connor can choose for himself.”
I pause. “Connor?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I sit back, letting the name sink in. “I like it.”
“Me, too.”
“Good choice.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s about time,” I joke. “I thought for sure they’d have to assign him a number in the hospital.”
“That’s what you get for letting me name him.” He chuckles.
“I’ll just do it myself next time.”
He raises a brow. “Next time?”
I cringe. “Did I just say next time?”
“You did. I thought we were done having kids.”
“We better be.” I stare at my giant stomach. “As soon as this guy comes out, I’m having my vagina fused closed.”
Junior tilts his head. “Well… we don’t have to go that far. I’m a little attached to your vagina. Sometimes, in more ways than one.”
I laugh. “Okay, I’ll call the doctor tomorrow morning and cancel the vaginal fusion procedure.”
“Excellent.”
He slides up the bed and lies beside me, raising his arm to guide me against his chest. His lips graze my head and I feel him smell my hair, as he always does.
“It’s good to be home,” he whispers.
I cling to him, resting my head on his thick shoulder as he lays a hand on my belly. Connor stirs inside, reacting to his loving touch and I smile.
“Any day now…” I look up at Junior and he kisses me.
“He’s going to be perfect,” he whispers.
“Promise?” I grin.
He draws an X over his chest.
“Cross my heart.”
* * *
In Too Deep
Chapter 1
John
September
“Hike!”
The center snaps the ball back to the quarterback, Junior Morgan. He spins around to hand it off to me and I smile as I grip that tight pigskin in my fingers.
Time to go deep.
I take off to the right, dodging the extended hands of the defensive linemen, each one of them missing me by a wide margin.
I’m John fucking Kirby.
Ain’t nobody faster than me.
I throw one foot in front of the other, speeding down the field quicker than anyone else until my toes meet the end zone.
Touchdown!
I spike the ball and throw up my hands, listening to the screams and shouts of the crowd as they echo in my head.
It’s easy to imagine them now. We heard them shake the earth last season when Cary Pierce (yeah, the Cary Pierce — four-time professional football champion, Cary Pierce) nearly coached us to a college football championship. Unfortunately, a little family matter took our star quarterback out of commission and we crumbled to bits under the pressure but there’s no way I’m going to let that happen again this year.
This year, I’m owning this field. I’m owning this season and at the end of it, I’m bringing home a damn championship.
I dance in the end zone, shimmying my hips and twerking while the rest of the team watches from sidelines.
“John…” someone shouts. “It’s just a scrimmage!”
They laugh at me, but I keep dancing despite the fact that the stadium is empty and it’s noon on a Sunday.
“Life ain’t no scrimmage, boys!” I shout, waving my helmet over my head like a cowboy. “Make every moment count!”
Coach Bob shakes his head, but I see that crooked smile on his old face. “Hit the showers, guys. And John…”
I pause. “Yes, sir?”
“You do you, son.”
“Thank you, Coach!”
I follow them down the ramp, dancing to myself like everyone is watching — because they will be watching.
Might as well show them what I got.
* * *
“It’s called the trifecta.”
I walk along the bench in the locker room wearing nothing but a towel and wet skin, speaking to the team while they dry off from their showers.
“This challenge is for seniors only,” I say, pointing a finger. “Sorry, juniors, your challenge is next year.”
I’ve been preparing for this for three years. Three years of learning the moves. Three years of studying the art of seducing the lady folk. Dozens of girls have come (and come again) and gone. I’ve been slapped. I’ve been teased. I’ve been tested and cleared. All in preparation for this challenge.
The trifecta has been a staple at this school for decades. My father did it. Hell, even old man Coach Bob did it when he was an undergraduate.
“You have until the end of the season to sleep with these three…” I count on my fingers as I list them off. “A freshman, an alumnus, and a teacher.”
The room erupts with hoots and hollers. They all echo back at me through the steam-filled air and I breathe in that satisfying, sinful aroma of manly body spray.
I raise my hand. “Show of hands, boys. Who’s in?”
I wait, scanning the room from face-to-face, expecting a little bit of enthusiasm but all I get is fucking crickets.
“Oh, come on, guys!” I point at Junior’s handsome mug. “Morgan, you’re in, right?”
“Uh…” He slides his deodorant under his armpit. “No.”
My finger goes limp. “Why the fuck not?”
“I don’t think my fiancée and daughter would approve,” he smirks, running a comb through his short, dark hair. “I’ll sit this one out.”
I roll my eyes. I almost forgot how off-the-market Junior Morgan was. Last year, he was a fucking sex god. He even had a damn sex van, loving dubbed The Junior-mobile. Then, he went all domestic on us. Oh, well. More ladies for me.
“Fisher…” I point at Ty and his trimmed black hair peeks out from behind his open lock
er door. “Fisher…. Come on…”
“No,” he says. “I’ll pass.”
I deflate. “You know, you’ve become super boring since you started kissing men, dude.”
He winks at me. “Duly noted, Johnny.”
“Don’t call me Johnny. Only girls can call me that.” I hop down from the bench. “No one else is in? It’s just gonna be me?”
I take in the team’s faces. Each man looks away as I pass them by, either too jaded or too taken to face the trifecta. I don’t get it. I really don’t. College isn’t about finding your true love and settling down. College is supposed to be a numbers game and during your senior year, that number is three.
“I’ll accept the challenge.”
I spin around, following the voice and I grit my teeth the second I realize where it came from. Douglas Floyd. The cornerback.
If I were a superhero, my nemesis would be Douglas Floyd.
Even now, he’s got that sinister look about him, leaning against the far lockers with his arms crossed over his bare chest as if he’s just been waiting there all day to deliver that line at just the right moment.
I’ve lost track of how many times this guy has cockblocked me since freshman year. Just when I’m about to seal the deal with some lucky gal, Douglas Floyd swooped in with his blond hair and blue eyes like goddamn Prince Charming on his valiant steed. He’s been training for the trifecta for as long and as hard as I have and this year, he’s pulled out all the stops.
He definitely upped his protein intake over the summer because his biceps definitely weren’t as jacked last season and I spot several brand-new tattoos scattered along his torso. Little symbols that mean absolutely nothing but that makes them the perfect conversational bait for unsuspecting mates.
“Oh, hey…” she giggles, “what’s this one mean?”
And last, but not least, his damn hair. He’s sporting a man bun. A motherfucking man bun. Trendy son-of-a-bitch must have started growing it months ago.
I throw on a smile and walk over to him. “Douglas! My man!”
He shrugs his wide shoulders. “Doesn’t seem like it’ll be too difficult.”
“Don’t get too cocky,” I warn. “This challenge has overwhelmed the best of men.”
His eyes twinkle. “Not this one.”
I smirk to conceal the contempt.
What a douche.
We stare at each other for a long moment before I spin back around. “Anyone else?”
Half of the team has already taken off. The rest of them shake their heads at me, smiling wide with amusement.
“Okay, then.” I extend my hand to Douglas. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”
He glances at my hand, but he doesn’t take it. “We should make this more interesting…”
“Oh?” I raise a brow. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, if it’s just the two of us, how about we race?” he asks, his lips curling.
I pause, admiring his tenacity but also screaming inside. “I like that. You’re on.”
We shake hands and I look around at the rest of our team.
“You all witnessed this!” My voice echoes off the walls. “You will hold us accountable.”
They nod, laughing silently to themselves.
“May the best man win, Kirby,” Douglas says to me.
“May the best man win,” I repeat.
He pushes off the lockers and throws a shirt over his head, knocking a few strands of hair loose from his bun but he still looks like he’s about to swoop me off my damn feet for a nice happy ever after.
For a second, I feel a twist of doubt deep within my gut. Achieving the trifecta was always going to be a challenge, but now it’s a full-blown competition between gentlemen. That wouldn’t be a problem, usually, but now that Douglas Floyd is involved, I’m a bit nervous.
But I shouldn’t be. I’m John fucking Kirby; the fastest man on the team. I got this.
I return to my locker and gather my clothes, feeling a little more confident with each wink I give myself in the mirror.
Classes start tomorrow morning.
Time to start hunting.
Chapter 2
Rose
I push open his office door and stick my head inside. “Dr. Zach?”
When I see he’s talking on the phone behind his desk, I nod apologetically and start to duck out, but he waves me back in.
I move quietly and sit down in the chair by his desk, trying not to make too much noise as he wraps up his conversation. He rolls his eyes at me and smiles, so he’s obviously very eager to dump the call. I scan the room, checking for any changes but Dr. Payton Zach has always been a simple guy. He’s got his books and his file cabinet and his mini-fridge full of diet soda and snack cakes. There’s only one decoration on the wall, other than his numerous degrees and certifications, and that’s a poster I got him when I graduated of the Periodic Table of Chocolate.
“Yeah…” he says, blinking impatiently. “Look, I gotta run. My TA just arrived but email me the rest, all right?”
When he hangs up, he drops the phone onto its cradle. It wobbles loudly before settling into the groove. “Thank you, Rose,” he says, sitting back. “That was hour number two of that phone call.”
“Everything okay?”
He waves a hand and runs his fingers through his black and gray-speckled hair. “Just the department head and his crap. Don’t worry about it.” He pauses and smiles at me, his eyes soft and amused. “And here you are.”
“Here I am.” I shrug.
“It seems like only yesterday you walked in here; a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed freshman.”
I cringe. “Don’t remind me.”
“And now you’re my teaching assistant. Are you nervous?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. “Don’t be. It’s General Chemistry. Nothing you can’t handle in your sleep. You nailed the training course. Now, it’s just application.”
“You make it sound so science-y.”
“Everything is science.” He pulls his desk drawer open and lifts out a folder. “Now, I shouldn’t have to go over this with you and it’s, frankly, a waste of both of our time, but it’s a requirement.” He hands the folder to me and I scan the top page.
“Ethical guidelines.” I nod.
“It’s your basic common sense,” he says. “Treat all students fairly. No discrimination of any kind. No harassment of any kind. No inappropriate touching. I know you’re still a student yourself but you’re also an authority figure now, so try and keep all those photos of you doing keg stands off your social media profiles, all right?”
“Oh, you know me, Dr. Zach.” I laugh sarcastically. “Me and my keg stands. Every weekend.”
“Right.” He nods. “Like I said, a waste of time, but…”
“Required.”
“Exactly.” He hands me another folder. “Here’s our syllabus and lesson plans for the first few weeks.”
“Ooo…” I peek inside. “The good stuff.”
“I’ll do the talking for the first class tomorrow,” he says, “but on Wednesday, the floor is yours.”
“Wednesday?” My chest lurches. “This Wednesday?”
He grins. “You’ll do fine, Rose. It’s chapter one. You probably know it better than I do.”
I swallow the rock in my throat. “Oh, yeah. Sure. No problem.”
“Still nervous?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. “Too bad. Get it out of your system by Wednesday. Or just do as I do and imagine the entire class in their underwear.”
I force a nod. “I think I can do that.”
“Good girl.” He stands up. “Let me show you where your office is.”
“I have an office?” I gasp.
“Well…” He shrugs. “It’s more closet-like than this one and you’ll share it with other TAs…”
I leap out of my chair. “Who cares? I have an office!”
He laughs and I follow him down th
e hall with wide eyes.
* * *
“So, you’re actually a teacher now?” My sister chuckles. “Those poor children.”
“They’re undergraduates, Daisy,” I say into the phone. “Not children.”
“Still,” she says. “My twin is responsible for the intellectual maturity of living human beings. Surely, some kind of mistake has been made.”
“Ha-ha.” I glance across my living room at the television, half-paying attention to the football game in progress while I go over the syllabus and lesson plans for the first few classes. “You’re watching the game, right?”
“Uh…” She pauses and I hear her snatching the remote off a table. “Yes?”
My sister lives across the country so I don’t get to see her in person as often as I’d like to. We always get on the phone and watch the games together, though; football, baseball, whatever is on, really. It’s our little tradition.
“You’ve only missed ten minutes.” I chuckle.
“Is that all?” She groans.
I roll my eyes and glance down the class list, scanning the names one-by-one until I reach the K’s and a name jumps out at me. “Holy crap…” I mumble.
“What?”
I smile wide. “One of my students is John Kirby.”
“Who?”
“John Kirby!”
There’s a short silence. “Cool?”
“He’s on the university football team.”
“Is that the quarterback?” she asks. “He’s hot as fuck.”
“No, that’s Junior Morgan. John Kirby is the halfback.”
“Ohhh, right. What’s a halfback again?”
I sigh and point at the television even though she can’t see me. “Okay, look at the offensive line right now.”
“… All right.”
“You see the three guys behind the quarterback?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The one the quarterback just handed the ball to,” I say, “and is now bolting down the field to score a touchdown…”
“I see him.”
The Bad Baller Collection Page 23
