Score (Skin in the Game Book 1)

by Christine Bell

  I was living the dream.

  If only my fucking knee would cooperate and let me get on with it.

  “It’s all good,” I said with a tight smile. “Another few weeks and this’ll be a distant memory.”

  She started to talk again, probably to tell me that my timetable was completely insane now due to this recent roadblock, but I cut her off.

  I didn’t want to hear that. I couldn’t hear that.

  And I couldn’t hang around looking at the pity in her eyes for the next hour, either.

  The urge to punch something was back. I wouldn’t look at her, or else she’d know I’d lost it.

  “Mind if I skip out early? Not really feeling it today. I’m going to ice and elevate and see how it goes.”

  She opened her mouth to say something but closed it again. She was a student too and really didn’t have the authority to tell me otherwise. Finally, she nodded. “Sure. We can try again in a day or two.”

  I stood up and threw on my sweat jacket. “Sweet. Later, Bee,” I tossed over my shoulder.

  I walked to the door, but something made me stop. It was a shit thing to do, just bag on her PT assignment because of my own problems. She had to be here, same as me. She didn’t deserve me acting like a dick to her. I turned on my heel and went back like I was on auto-pilot.

  Her gaze was still fixated on the door, almost as if she’d been waiting for me to return. Still, I must’ve shocked her because she jumped and looked around like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Hey.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Uh-huh?”

  “D-Phi is having a party tonight. Ten o’clock. Come by?”

  I’d clearly shocked her again because she just stared at me with her mouth open.

  I’m not sure what had gotten into me, or why I thought that a girl like Bee would be into a frat party. Girls like her probably didn’t go to parties unless there were flashcards involved.

  And what the hell would I do with her, once I got her there? Lure her upstairs so the brothers could joke about how I was taking my PT to a deeper level?

  Terrible idea. Way to make therapy even more awkward than it already was.

  She gnawed on her lip. “I don’t think so,” she said finally. “But thanks.”

  Probably for the best.

  But some small, sadistic part of me was disappointed. Her face was bright red, and I kind of hated to walk away.

  If I couldn’t have football, at least if she came to the party, I’d have the consolation of making Bee Mitchell blush.

  And damn if that wasn’t getting to be my new favorite pastime.

  5

  Bee

  “Kill me now!” Flora fell down on her knees with a wail.

  “I’d much rather lie in bed and dream of bouncing a quarter off Shaun T’s abs,” she whimpered. “How’d I ever let you sucker me into this hell?”

  I finished doing the push-up set and sprang to my feet but Shaun and his insane entourage on the TV set were already busy doing mountain climbers. Yes, I wanted to die, too. My lower back still ached from my nose dive off the stairs a few days ago.

  But this was serious.

  Stress and late night study binges, combined with the crappy winter weather, and my love for Pop-Tarts had me well on the way to becoming the Pillsbury Dough-Girl. I was determined to put on my track pants in the spring without having to squeeze them over a spare tire.

  Flora, however, lay there in child’s pose, unmoving. Briefly, I wondered if maybe she was dead, but I poked her with my toe and she let out a muffled squeak.

  She didn’t have to worry about spare tires, though. She could wolf down McDonald’s every day and never gain an ounce. Me? I might as well just spackle that shit right to my ass.

  I nudged her again with my sneakered foot. “Planks. Planks!” I said, trying to sound enthused as I got down on my elbows and toes.

  She rolled over and stared at me. “I think I just dislocated my butt.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s fun.”

  “This is not fun. This is for masochists.” She turned and snarled at Shaun. Twenty minutes ago, she’d declared him to be sufficient eye-candy to get her through any workout. Now, she thought he was the devil.

  Most of the sorority must have agreed because they’d cleared out of the living room in the first five minutes. Flora had at least held on for fifteen.

  “Think of all the calories you’re burning,” I huffed out.

  She grabbed her water bottle and took a long swig. “All I’m thinking about is a milkshake. Sorry.”

  To tell the truth, I wasn’t thinking much about calories at all, either. I couldn’t get my therapy session with Cal earlier that day out of my mind.

  I’d gone in determined not to do anything embarrassing for once. I told myself that I had to get used to his kind because egotistical asshole athletes were everywhere in my chosen line of work. I hoped I could just pull off not looking like an oaf in front of him.

  The phrase of the hour: Consummate professional.

  Be it, or be square.

  Or, jobless some day, at least.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t look in his eyes. Or get so close that I could smell that spicy, leathery cologne he wore. And I definitely wouldn’t tell him anything about myself.

  But then he had to go and tell me about himself. And not sound very much like an egotistical asshole at all.

  WTF?

  At first, he’d been full of snark, hell-bent on getting some reaction out of me. And then? Then the façade kind of cracked a little and underneath, completely unexpected, was this vulnerable, real human being who was going through a seriously rough time.

  A vulnerable, real human being who also smelled amazing and had gorgeous, liquid blue-green eyes.

  FML.

  I’d been glad when he asked to beg out early.

  But then he had to invite me to a party. A freaking party, and at some fraternity house that I’d never been to in my life. Did I look like I frequented keggers? He probably thought he could loosen me up with a few beers.

  Not going to happen.

  Flora nudged me with her foot now, and I realized I was standing motionless in a puddle of my own sweat, snarling at Shaun T, too.

  “What?” she said.

  No way in hell was I telling Flora exactly what. Knowing her she’d probably start singing, “Bee and Cal, sitting in a tree…” and never let me live it down. Plus, if she knew about it, there was no question she’d want to make me go to that party, come hell or high water.

  “Nothing. Are you guys going out later?” I asked casually.

  She grinned. “When do we ever stay in on a Saturday?”

  I flipped off the television and tilted the blinds to peer out at the dark sky. “It’s like, blizzard conditions out there.” It was a bit of an exaggeration but it was definitely blustery, and fat flakes of snow had started to fall again.

  “Well, I have boots. Buddies is only a block away. We’ll just Stolpa.”

  Stolpa was Kappa’s way of saying that they were going to trudge through, no matter what the weather. The year before, we’d all watched a Lifetime TV movie about Jim and Jennifer Stolpa, who’d gotten stuck in a blizzard and nearly died until they were rescued. One thing Kappas were really good at was applying Lifetime television programming to their daily vocabulary.

  “Oh.”

  I figured that was the case, so I shouldn’t have been disappointed. She and a few of the other sisters, the ones who were of age or had fake ID, always managed to spend their Saturdays at Buddies, the corner bar. Flora, especially, loved it because they did pop culture trivia on weekends, and she could usually get older guys to buy them shots.

  Girls with ID didn’t go to frat parties. They didn’t settle for warm beer when they could have real men buy them real drinks. Frat parties were for underage girls and the frat brothers who were looking to score with them. Flora probably didn’t even know where D-P
hi was anymore.

  I needed to just drop it. Drop it and spend my evening with a cup of cocoa, a snuggly blanket, and the Foundations of Kinesiology paper I had due on Monday.

  The thought made me so miserable I had to swallow back a pitiful sigh.

  She quirked an eyebrow at me. “What, you want to come?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No, no, no, no.”

  I couldn’t stop saying it. It was like my mouth opened and was throwing up nos, and I had zero control over it.

  Which of course made Flora uber-suspicious. She studied me, eyes narrowed. “What? Tell me, loser.”

  I shrugged. “I was just wondering. I have a paper due, so no. I can’t go out.”

  It was true. I couldn’t go out. If I did go out, I’d be completely out of my comfort zone, which only meant I’d probably embarrass myself more than I already had in front of Cal.

  So why was my mind still swimming with the possibilities?

  She crossed her arms. “Does this have anything to do with your therapy session with Cal? Because you came home earlier than I expected and you’ve been acting tres weird ever since. ”

  “He was the one acting weird. Not me.” I threw myself down on the velvet sectional. She’d find out sooner or later. Flora had a way of breaking down my walls like a wrecking ball. “At first, he was cracking all these jokes, then he started spouting off about how football’s his only shot at a good life and crap like that. I felt…bad.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You? For a footballer?”

  “Well, a little. But then he said he had to leave early, and as he was going, he invited me to some party tonight at this frat house.”

  I don’t know why I was surprised by the way she squealed. “Wait. What frat house?”

  “D…um…”

  “D-Phi?” Her jaw dropped. “Oh hell. Change of plans!”

  She started dancing in a way that would probably tire Shaun T out, shaking her hips and looking like she had a large and snippy animal in her pants. She nearly jumped into my lap, she was so excited. She reached for the sleeve of my sweatshirt and tugged me off the sofa.

  “We’re going!” she shouted.

  I looked at her, confused. “But…you don’t go to frat houses anymore. Right? Didn’t you say you were above that?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, sure. But D-Phi throws some epic parties. Not to mention Sean Andrews is going to be there and he’s hawwwt. Plus, this could be the chance for my little baby to get some.”

  She pulled me into a hug, and I wanted to retch. Some what? I hoped she didn’t mean what I was thinking.

  “And from Callum Samskevitch, of all people,” Flo continued, rambling. “How can we miss this?”

  Ug. She did mean what I was thinking.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” I wriggled out of her arms. “First of all, I don’t need some. I don’t even need one little bit of whatever you’re talking about. And I sure as hell don’t need it from a football player.” I cringed as I realized that my declaration sounded like I had the option. “Even if he was offering,” I added. “Which he isn’t. It was just an invitation to a party, not to jump into his pants.”

  “Technicality!” she shrieked. She was trembling, she was so excited. She jumped on the couch and hugged a pillow. “Tell me how it went down. What did he say? In his exact words.”

  I wish I could say I had to think about it, but somehow, his words had gotten imprinted in my mind, and I doubted even a frontal lobotomy would erase them. “He said, ‘D-Phi is having a party tonight. Ten o’clock. Come by?’ to which I said—”

  “Yes!”

  “No!” I mimicked, using her excited tone. I stuck my tongue out at her, like a five-year-old. “I’m sure he asked a thousand girls to this party. It doesn’t, in any way, signify he wants to be there with me. And I can tell you right now that I don’t want to be there with him.”

  Which felt like a lie. Staying home was the right thing, the responsible thing, the thing I needed to do if I was going to go to grad school. So why did it feel like a lie?

  Oh, right. He had those eyes. And that smell. I hadn’t seen him in six hours and I could still smell that spicy, leathery goodness.

  I could just go. Go and make an appearance, sniff his cologne, then leave. It was good to step outside one’s comfort zone every once in a while, be social, experience new things.

  It didn’t mean I wanted to get with him.

  “Come on, let’s get ready.”

  “I don’t know, Flo.”

  Flora’s eyes lit with excitement. My resolve was about as substantial as cotton candy in that moment and she could sense it, like a weak-seeking missile. And when she tugged on my sleeve again, I went with her.

  We spent the next two hours getting ready.

  Correction: Flora did.

  She took a thirty-minute shower that used all the hot water in the house, applied a full face of make-up, complete with false eyelashes, blew dry and straightened her hair, moisturized every inch of skin, then tried on every outfit in the closet before settling on an obscenely tight sweater dress. And yes, boots, but not snow boots—knee-high jobbies with platform heels.

  I took a sixty-second, ice-cold (thanks, Flora) shower, threw on jeans and a cable-knit sweater, and swiped on some peach lip-gloss.

  The end.

  I watched her as she twirled her hair into a sexy topknot.

  “I feel woefully frumpy,” I admitted before I could stop myself.

  “Your fault. You could show off your assets. What about this?” She reached into the closet and pulled out another one of her tiny dresses.

  “That wouldn’t fit on my arm.”

  She tugged on the fabric. “It’s stretchy, see?”

  I shook my head. “What’s the point?” I groaned, pretty sure that I could wear a bright red clown nose and Cal wouldn’t notice me. Not that I wanted to be noticed by him anyway. But for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he bared his soul to me in the locker room earlier that day.

  Maybe there was more to this particular football player than I’d thought?

  The notion turned me into a ball of nerves. By the time it was a quarter after ten, fashionably late, according to Flora, all I could do was look longingly at my snuggly bed and wonder what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

  “You look like you’re going to hurl,” she said to me as she spritzed on perfume.

  Bingo.

  “I’m fine,” I muttered, lips tight.

  Time to face the music. I opened the closet and started to crawl through the pile of shoes on the bottom, searching for my duck boots.

  “Stop dragging your feet!” Flora called to me.

  I threw on my boots and coat and rushed down to meet her, praying under my breath that this wasn’t going to be the biggest mistake of my life.

  6

  Cal

  Same old shit, different day.

  I’d been going to D-Phi parties ever since I was a freshman, and in four years, nothing had changed.

  Same cheap beer.

  Same shit music.

  Same cluttered house that smelled like something died in it.

  Same lonely guys, pretending they were cool. Same lonely girls, wearing as little as possible—no easy feat considering the foot of snow on the ground—and trying to land themselves a boyfriend. The big difference from my freshman year was that now they gave me more looks.

  Usually, I didn’t complain about that.

  But now, it seemed so fucking pointless, like a goddamn carousel for everyone involved. We all rode it around and then wound up right back in the same place we were when we started.

  Johnson elbowed me. “Your turn, asshole.”

  I didn’t even think of a good answer. This game had lost its charm few years ago. “I’ve never been to the Super Bowl.”

  And I might never be, now. Not that I was going to spend the night feeling sorry for myself. Fuck that. This was Operation Drink Myself Into Oblivio
n.

  No one else drank, either, which should have made me feel better. Solidarity. But it didn’t. I downed my beer and reached for another one.

  Next was the quarterback, Andrews, the only guy who got more attention from the ladies than I did, despite being a major douchebag in every sense of the word. He glanced at the two unsuspecting blonde freshmen next to him and grinned, both dimples on display.

  “I’ve never had a threesome.”

  I snorted, barely managing to hold back a muttered “bullshit”. A couple of the guys drank, but the girls giggled and stared into their beers.

  Next, nameless freshman blonde #1, who was already slurring her words despite the fact that the party wasn’t even an hour old, said, “I’ve nebber stayed up ta watcha sunise.”

  A bunch of us drank there, after mentally translating Drunk Girl to English.

  And so it went. The guys always tried to make it sexual, the girls always tried to show us some part of their soul, like anyone was paying attention to that. Eventually, we’d all partner off, Andrews would likely score his threesome, and a Sunday morning hangover would be had by all.

  Lather, rinse, repeat.

  “Can we do something more fun?” I asked, shifting on an old flowered couch that was likely covered in every disgusting combination of bodily fluid and alcohol imaginable.

  The freshman girl next to me, who I think would’ve agreed with me if I told her the sky was green, nodded.

  “Yeah, I Never is sooo boring,” she said, taking a drag from her cigarette. She was hot, yes, but a serial frat-bunny. I’d seen her at every party since September and I’d yet to hear anything but complaints come out of her mouth. Tonight, I was with her, though.

  Cal Samskevitch, major downer.

  “Beer Pong?” Andrews suggested.

  Some in the group nodded, others pumped their fists, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I just shrugged.

  Johnson nudged me again.