Catching Callie_A NEW ADULT & COLLEGE SUMMER SPORTS ROMANCE

by Claire Woods

  By

  CLAIRE WOODS

  Copyright© 2018 by Claire Woods

  cww00ds30@gmail.com

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Designrans

  Editing by: Astronima's On Pointe Reviews & Proofreading

  This one is for my Dad. You’re the strongest man I know. You’ve beaten the odds every time. Even when you looked weak and tired; you weren’t.

  I don’t know who I would be without you.

  I’m glad every day that you are still here.

  And to God—for keeping the pact we made that night when the doctors said he wouldn’t make it till morning.

  And to those fighting and those who loved ones are still fighting… cancer.

  The Press calls me campuses “DIRTY PLAYER.”

  The scandal I got trapped in just made the national news, ESPN, & Sports Illustrated.

  Forced to hide out in a small beach town until I can clear my name, the last thing I expected was to run into her.

  Literally.

  But she wants nothing to do with me.

  Even my killer smile and panty-melting grin didn’t work.

  She ran.

  Twice.

  But I have six weeks to find my mystery girl, get my reputation back, and prove to her I’m not a dirty player: I’m her prince, and the football field is the domain I rule, and her heart is the next thing I’m going to win.

  GAME ON.

  GABE

  “GABE! OVER HERE! Is it true? Does the University have a different set of academic standards for athletes?”

  “GABE! Did you cheat?”

  “Are you on academic probation?”

  Camera’s flash—blinding me as dozens of reporters box me in, shoving microphones in my face. I can’t even throw up the hood of my sweatshirt since I’m too busy swatting them away.

  What in the hell is going on?

  My hands hastily swipe my coded key card to enter the sports complex. I’m forced to push them firmly back, snapping the door shut. All they can do now is shout through the thick glass.

  That was a friggin’ bloodbath.

  Rounding the hall to the offices, I suddenly feel like a kid going to detention.

  “Coach? You wanted to see me?”

  He’s pissed. His face red all the way to his receding hairline.

  “Can you explain this?”

  He swivels his computer screen around.

  Shit.

  A picture of me in my football uniform is at the center of the page under a headline:

  DIRTY PLAYER!

  Star Running Back, GABE PARKER at the center of University cheating scandal. According to several sources close to him, “academics aren’t the only thing he cheats at.”

  “There must be a mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake,” Coach replies through thin lips, eyes glaring hard at me: his star player and best shot of making the playoffs this year. He slides some papers across his desk.

  A trickle of sweat falls down the back of my neck. How in the fuck did this happen? Staring at the exam in my hand with red ink penned all over it—the pit in my stomach grows.

  “This is bullshit. I didn’t cheat,” I roar, pounding my fist on his desk.

  He turns his monitor back around. “That was just the local paper… others are worse.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Coach sits back in his chair causing it to squeak, puts his hands behind his head and replies, “Not us. YOU. Here.” He picks up a brochure flinging it at me, “you’ve already been enrolled for the first summer session at the satellite campus in Sea Spray.”

  “Sea Spray? Never heard of it.”

  Coach leans forward coming off his chair, bracing his weight on his forearms, “don’t fuck this up, Parker. The team needs you. You have five weeks to re-take those exams in question, pass your summer classes and get your ass in gear for pre-season. There can’t even be a shred of doubt that you cheated last semester. I talked the dick off of a bull to keep you from getting expelled.”

  “Expelled? I didn’t do shit.”

  “I know that, son. But the NCAA’s been on our asses ever since that exposé was published in Sports Illustrated claiming our athletes maintain their grades through scamming the system—walking out on graduation days with GPA’s they didn’t earn.”

  Shaking my head, I bend forward, running a hand nervously down my thigh. “That is fucking bullshit.”

  “Maybe. But the fact is you passed the first exam perfectly and when they retested you with a different one you bombed.”

  “Fucking Jackie,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, Sir. Forget it.”

  A knock at the door interrupts what he was going to say. “Coach?”

  “What is it, Jimmy?”

  “The press is here. News trucks from all the big networks, too. Sports Illustrated, and ESPN just broke the story—it got picked up nationally. They want blood.”

  “Fuck.” We both mutter at the same time.

  Coach opens his desk, taking out a key.

  “What’s this?”

  “Salvation. Don’t screw it up.”

  “Coach?”

  “It’s a house key. To a house in Sea Spray on the beach that belonged to my Nan. You can hide out there, keep your head down and your dick in your pants, and let this shit blow over until the next big sports story breaks.”

  The metal key feels warm in my palm. My throat closes. Coach knows I can’t go home. I planned to stay in one of the dorms for free this summer in exchange for working a few shifts a week at the student health club.

  “You can go out through the tunnel. I’ll have Jimmy pick you up and drive you back to the dorms. Classes start again in two weeks. Keep your head down, Gabe. You have the potential to go pro. The future is in the palm of your hand, kid.”

  Getting up to leave, I hesitate, looking back. “I want you to know, that I didn’t cheat. My ex, Jackie showed up at the team’s house off-campus out of her mind. She accused me of hooking up with someone else and all sorts of shit. I-we broke up, and the exam re-take was the next morning. My head wasn’t right. I was tired as hell. I’m sorry, Coach. I just wanted you to know you didn’t go to bat for a cheater.”

  He nods his head. “I’ll check in with you. Oh, before I forget… the University picked up the tab for your summer classes, but I assume you still need a job?”

  My hand on the door, I turn around nodding my head.

  “When you get into town, stop by the satellite campus security office. I got you one.”

  “Me? Working security?”

  “What? Be grateful. It’ll buy you gas and food.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” My hand jerks the door open. I pull my hoodie up over my face. But it’s not like my six-foot-three frame with shoulders as broad as a bus can melt into the walls. My flip flops clap as I walk hurriedly through the maze of halls and offices underneath the campus sports complex.

  My cell buzzes in my left hand.

  Fucking Jackie again.

  She knows I stay here, at UVA during breaks and she managed to get an internship as a paralegal nearby to be close.

  Ignoring her call, I open the heavy door leading to the tunnel. The tunnel travels the whole length of the football field underground. It’ll du
mp me out on the other side at the parking lot.

  Hopefully, there are no reporters there. Maybe, spending the summer away from here will do me good. I’ll get away from Jackie, focus on my fitness routine, and come back at the top of my game, literally.

  “Fuck.” I stare at my phone in disbelief. There’s no cell service in the tunnel but my long legs cross it in under five minutes. My phone is lighting the eff up, fifty texts, dozens of missed calls. And a number I dread more than Jackie’s—my father’s.

  “Get in,” Jimmy roars, opening the passenger door to his old pick-up. I don’t need another invitation as news trucks and camera’s line the other side of the field.

  “I’ve got bad news.”

  “Oh, yeah? What could be worse?” I mutter, trying to stretch my hood even tighter over my face.

  “They’re camped out by both entrances to your dorm. Give me your key-card. Some of the boys on the team are meeting to clear out your shit. Get in your car and drive straight to Sea Spray.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter. In less than one hour, my life has become a damn circus. I don’t know how celebrities hack it.

  Jimmy drops me off at my old Ford Explorer. I have a full tank of gas and nothing but the clothes on my back. Feeling like a fugitive, I whip my sunglasses on peeling out while checking my rearview.

  My Bluetooth connects… muttering a string of curses so foul the devil would blush, I call him back.

  “DIRTY PLAYER?”

  “Cee Cee is going ballistic,” he roars.

  “Get your ass back home now!”

  “Gee, thanks for asking how I’m doing, Dad.”

  “Fuck, Gabe. You will drop off the team, and transfer to NYU for your senior year. I’ve already made the calls and a generous donation.”

  “No thanks. I can handle this myself.”

  “The hell you can! It’s a goddamn humiliation. My son? The Dirty Player? Cheating on and off the field? It’s an embarrassment to me as well. I’m a federal judge. Your behavior is reflecting poorly on me.”

  “Funny, I’ve had a girlfriend for the past two years.”

  “As if that ever stops anyone.”

  “You must be talking about yourself. But I’m nothing like you DAD. You think I give a shit that, that chick you married who is only ten years older than me is embarrassed? Get a clue, Dad. I’m not coming home. The last time I did, your precious Cee Cee tried to fuck me.”

  “That’s it. You’re dead to me. Don’t come calling for money.”

  “As if I ever did,” I reply disconnecting.

  “Fuck!” Pounding my fists against the steering wheel, my jaw clenches. No one ever believes in me. They see me as the star athlete, king of campus, and as a womanizer. But who I am—is just a guy wishing his life wasn’t so fucked up.

  Gabe

  THE DRIVE TOOK TWO HOURS. The pit in my stomach and acid burning the back of my throat didn’t ease up. But then I reached Sea Spray—a tiny nothing of a town outside Virginia Beach.

  I shut off my AC and opened the windows. It’s been years since I smelled the tangy salt of the ocean.

  Cranking up the music, I sing out loud with Tom Petty. I’m free falling myself, but somehow at this moment rolling into town, it feels like everything is going to be all right.

  “Yeah, I’m free—” I belt out not caring everyone stopped at the traffic light are gaping while some laugh… others honk.

  Feeling great, like I do at the end of a big game where I crush it—my foot hits the gas just as the light turns. My eyes close for a second, I’m killing the last verse.

  My car hits something.

  Honks followed by screams make me stomp on the breaks hard. My seat belt locks; slamming the car into park I jump out afraid of what I’m going to find.

  She’s trembling. Her bike’s caught under the front of my car; both her knees are scraped and bloody.

  “Holy Shit! I didn’t see you.”

  “I was in the crosswalk.”

  “The light was green.”

  “Oh yeah, well the cross signal was green for me when I started.”

  “Christ,” I mutter, walking forward. “Are you okay?”

  She’s mute, looking down.

  “I’ll buy you a new bike. Hell, I’ll drive you to the hospital if you want. Please—can we leave the cops out of this?”

  She crosses her arms eyes shooting daggers, “you almost killed me.”

  “Yeah, I know,” my hand rubs the back of my neck, “but I didn’t.”

  She stares at me stunned. “Only because I jumped off my bike when it was clear you were having an American Idol moment.”

  My lips twitch. “I’ve had a real shit day. Can I at least buy you a drink?”

  The rest of the onlookers start to leave when it’s clear she’s okay.

  “No thanks,” she mutters grabbing the mangled handlebars attempting to jerk her bike free.

  “Let me.”

  “No.” She hip-checks me but ends up falling on her ass instead.

  “Sweetheart, I insist,” my eyes roll.

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

  “I did.”

  “I changed my mind. I’m calling this in.”

  Her hands reach inside her fanny pack for her phone. Before her fingers slippery from sweat and nerves get it, I grab it, clutching it to my chest like a prized toy on Christmas morning.

  She blows a wisp of hair from her eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  She shakes her head. “I was willing to let this go if you paid for a new bike since it’s clear you can’t make a living with that nineties boy band voice of yours—I’d hate for you to have to pay the fine for hitting a pedestrian.”

  “Pretty please?” I give her my best panty-melting grin that shows my dimples.

  She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, the motion squishing her breasts together; her cleavage now pops over her sports tank top.

  It can’t be helped.

  It’s bred in my male DNA to drop my gaze.

  “Figures.” She taps her foot pissed I’m acting like a pig.

  “Right. Let me back up my SUV to free your bike, and we can exchange information.”

  “Sure,” she grumbles with a quick wave of her hand.

  “Don’t be so grumpy, fanny pack. You’d be cute otherwise.”

  “Fanny pack?”’

  “Yup. I haven’t seen one of those since my Mom’s picture album labeled 1983.”

  “Jerk.”

  Grinning for the first time in days, I turn on my heel putting my car in reverse. I don’t use the backup camera, worried I could still hit something else. Slowly backing up a few feet, one arm draped behind the headrest of my empty passenger seat, I safely brake then put the car back in park.

  “See. I’m actually a safe driver,” I call out opening the door.

  But she’s gone.

  Vanished.

  The blinking yellow hazard lights reflect off the twisted metal laying in a heap.

  “Well, shit. I did almost kill her,” I mutter to the fireflies coming out to play in the twilight. Which would’ve been a complete shame, since she seemed to be in a select club of women who don’t seem to have a clue—who I am.

  ***

  “And that’s the story of how my shitty day ended,” I tell my buddy, Trey.

  “Jesus, Gabe.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, how is Coach’s Gran’s house? You got pink toilet rugs and crochet doilies everywhere?”

  My eyes flit over the cozy cottage with whitewashed walls, wicker furniture, and a fair selection of hand knit doilies on end tables with old-fashioned lamps on them. The kind where there’s a wick dipped in oil with a lighter placed nearby.

  “Yup.”

  “Sounds like paradise.”

  “Actually, it is.” My feet cross the wide plank floors to the sliding French doors opened wide letting the wind whip through bringing fresh ocean air inside.


  The moon hangs low, its light guiding the waves straight to my back door like a beacon. The combination of the full moon and high tide bringing the crashing waves feet from breaking in front of my bare feet.

  “I might not come back.”

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  “Yeah. But man, this place is just what I need right now.”

  “Especially since, old pictures of us are blowing up Instagram, MeWow, and Tinder.”

  “Shit. The ones from freshman year or last?”

  “Both.”

  “Damn, this is worse than I thought.”

  “Well, it was your idea to pledge to Kappa Delta in addition to being on the football team. You said, and I remember at the time, ‘in case going pro doesn’t work out we can fall back on the brotherhood.’”

  “Christ, I was half in the bag.”

  “Well, you need to put a bag over your head until this crap dies down.”

  “Yeah. That’s probably not a bad idea.”

  Hanging up, I place my phone on Gran’s teak table, whip off my hoodie and strip down to my boxer briefs. Jogging towards the breaking waves, I look left then right. Like I’m crossing traffic.

  With a grin, I peel my boxers down, toss them onto the sand and dive straight in.

  Surfacing, I float on my back, dick saluting the moon and make a wish on the brightest star on the opposite end of the horizon.

  The first thing that pops into my head isn’t wishing the shit storm in my life to go away.

  It’s to find her—my fanny pack girl and get her name.

  Callie

  I DON’T KNOW WHY I DID IT. Just turned and walked away into the night leaving him to deal with the pile of junk in the road.

  He just pissed me the hell off, driving in like the boys of summer do in their fancy SUV’s acting like they own our town.

  They leave the same way they ride in—like bats out of hell.

  I learned that lesson the hard way, the summer I turned eighteen when Elliot Langston III came here to spend the summer with his grandmother Elizabeth Canton Langston.