I might not ever get over it, but I’d get on with it. That’s what real winners did. And plus, I had a great girl that deserved a guy who was successful at something and I was determined to find that something, come hell or high water.
“Callum Samskevitch?”
Before we hit the parking lot, someone behind me called my name.
I turned to see a man striding over to me in a black stadium jacket. He was smiling with his hand extended for a shake. My eyes fell to the emblem on his chest, with the three colored diamond shapes fitted in a circle. I knew that logo pretty well and the blood rushed to my ears.
“I’m Hal McCarthy, and I’m with the Pittsburgh Steelers. I just want to say that was some showing you put forth tonight. Really impressive game, kid.”
I shook his hand and shot a look at Bee, whose mouth was hanging open.
“Thanks. Good to meet you.”
“We’ve been following your progress through your injury. Looks like the knee’s better, yeah?”
I nodded like a fucking bobblehead, completely mute.
“A shame your season had to come to an end right now. Looks like you were just getting started out there this year.”
My mind was pretty much blank except for one overriding thought.
I’m talking to a fucking scout for the fucking Pittsburgh Steelers.
I nodded as he went on and on about a bunch of plays I’d made when I was a junior and how they’d been watching me as an underclassman. Then he handed me a card with his name and the Pittsburgh logo on it and smiled.
“Give this card to your agent and have him get in touch with us, all right?”
I just stared at him until Bee nudged me.
“Uh. Yeah. I mean. Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He clapped me on the back and nodded at Bee, then jogged off.
For the next minute, I couldn’t stop staring at the business card in my hand.
Give this card to your agent.
Agent. I needed an agent. When the year started, I’d had a few contact me, wanting to represent me, but I hadn’t seen the point when I was hobbling around like a peg-legged pirate, and evidently, neither had any of them, which is why I hadn’t heard from them in months.
Ho boy, Cal Samskevitch fucking needed an agent, stat.
Then I looked at Bee for some affirmation that I hadn’t just dreamed up that whole exchange because I’d wanted it so bad. But she just threw up her hands, shook her head slowly from side to side, and grumbled, “Well, crap.”
I stared at her. We’d pretty much gotten past the whole “all football players are assholes” thing, so that wasn’t the reaction I’d been expecting.
“Wait. What?”
She shrugged. “Well, I mean, the Steelers aren’t birds. What’s your mom going to do, decorate her house with those diamond thingies?”
I laughed, still in a daze. “They’d grow on her.”
“Well then, congratulations, Cal. You’re going to knock them dead.”
Then she grinned and wrapped her arms around my neck. I pulled her flush against me and buried my face in her hair as she kissed me. This wasn’t the end, after all. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to step through that new door, especially now that I knew where I was going.
And who I was going with.
The End
Want more steamy romance from Christine Bell? Check out Fix You, out now! And stay tuned for Hustle, Book Two in the Skin of the Game series, available in June!
Excerpt for Fix You…
Boxer Sebastian "Bash" McDaniels is working nights at the local college bar until he can land the fight of his dreams that will get him the hell out of Boston and away from his family's tragic past. He's weeks from his goal when Olivia Beckett comes tumbling into his life in a flash of silky dark hair and haunted eyes. When he saves her from a potentially brutal beating, they begin to grow close, but Olivia's ex isn't ready to let her go so easily...
Olivia Beckett's once-charmed life is falling apart. Her family is about to lose everything, and she has almost no chance of going back to college next semester. She can't even seek solace from her high school sweetheart. His violent behavior is escalating and it scares the hell out of her. She has nowhere to turn…until she meets Bash. Will this bad boy be her knight in shining armor, or is she jumping from the frying pan into the fire?
"What's your poison?"
I stared up at the row of liquor bottles glittering like jewels on the oak shelf, and squinted to get them back into focus when my vision went a little wonky. Decisions, decisions. The guy behind the bar awaiting my drink order seemed a little harried, but not too harried to give my modest cleavage a long look.
I crossed my arms over my chest and cleared my throat before shouting over the din of voices, "I'll take a Long Island iced tea." It was my third one, and probably I should’ve switched to light beer, but screw it. I was having a rough day and the sooner I could forget about it, the better.
The bartender nodded but kept his eyes glued to my boobs. Not good. Maybe Andy had been right and my shirt was too low-cut. Before anxiety took hold, someone tugged a handful of my curls from behind, derailing my thoughts.
"What's up, bitch?"
I peered over my shoulder to see Echo Reynolds standing there looking classy and gorgeous as ever. Her neckline was at least an inch lower than mine, but somehow on her long, lean frame, it looked classic and a little sexy without looking cheap.
"Nothing. Getting a Long Island. Want one?"
It was “Two Dollar You Call It” night at Shorty's bar and that meant half of Crestville College was there to get their drink on. With everything on the menu marked down to a bargain two bucks, it was a weekly tradition that brought out an eclectic mix of people. Something about cheap alcohol seemed to cross all social boundaries. The have and have-nots alike came to take advantage of the cheap liquor, and the few realllly rich haves who were too good to come for the cheap liquor still came to take advantage of the girls taking advantage of the cheap liquor. It was pandemonium pretty much every week, and with tonight being the night before spring break, it was even crazier than usual.
Spring break.
My stomach pitched as I thought about how I should handle that whole mess now.
"Get me a rum and diet," Echo said to the bartender as he passed. She ran a hand through her pin-straight fall of black hair as she waited, eyeing the crowd and making no attempt to disguise the curl of her lip. "God, it's like these people didn't know they were going out in public or something. That girl is wearing Uggs with shorts. It's fucking March, for God's sake. Not that it would be okay in June either, but Jesus Christ, that’s going too far."
The bartender came back with both our drinks and I gave him a five and told him to keep the change. As one of the lucky ones who, up until yesterday, didn't have to face the thought of spending my college years living off ramen noodles and Cup-a-Soup, I couldn’t help but tip the guy in spite of his wandering eye. There would be plenty of kids in line behind me who wouldn't, and even with my financial circumstances on the verge of a major, catastrophic change, years of habit wouldn’t allow me to stiff him in good conscience.
"Where's Andy and the guys?" Echo called back to me as she shouldered a path through the crowd toward the less packed back room.
"They're playing pool, I think." I took a sip of the tart, oversweet drink as we crossed the floor and slowed when the room dipped. Jeez, had it been this hot when we first walked in? Fashion disaster or not, I was starting to envy the chick in the shorts. I slowed to run the back of my hand over my damp forehead. Buzzed and disoriented, I must have closed my eyes for a second, because one minute I was walking along just fine and the next I found myself pinwheeling wildly as someone whirled around and bumped me, sending me flying backward.
"Shit!" I squeezed my eyes closed, bracing for the impact of soft ass hitting hard floor, when a strong pair of arms closed around my waist and steadied me.
"Are you okay?" a low, gritty male voice asked.
I blinked twice and tried to catch my breath. Was I? I took stock, noting that my arm was soaked and sticky, and my Long Island iced tea was now a very short island iced tea, but all things considered, I'd fared pretty well. Nothing was broken, sprained, or twisted and I was still on my feet, albeit with help. Not too shabby. I looked up at the guy blessed with the fast reflexes, and the “thank you” on the tip of my tongue froze in place.
He was…what? Gorgeous wasn't right. His nose wasn't quite straight, like it had been broken some time in the past. Nothing like the patrician perfection of Andy's nose. His eyes glittered, so bright that calling them blue seemed wrong somehow. His hair was more of a suggestion than a reality…little more than a brush of black stubble. His jaw was like stone, tense, square, and severe like the rest of him.
But his lips? Those lips changed everything. Full and firm at the same time, sensual and delicious-looking.
I was already closing one eye and leaning in to get a closer look when my woozy brain shot up a warning flare. Jesus, what was wrong with me? I'd had three drinks, and I was a notorious lightweight, but surely a lifetime of manners training should have dominated the primal and very rude urge to get all up in a guy’s grill to gape at his mouth like that. Not to mention, I had a boyfriend. Until I worked up the guts to rectify that situation, at least.
Buzzcut’s eyes went dark as he asked again in a voice that seemed even more gritty this time around. "Are you all right?"
The world that had seemed to go quiet and fall away from the moment I'd stumbled came rushing back in. Shouts and drunken laughter crashed over me and I realized that I was still in the circle of this stranger’s arms.
Panic swallowed me whole and I struggled to pull away. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thanks." I searched the room frantically, hands shaking as I straightened my shirt, which had ridden up to expose a strip of bare abdomen. My gaze finally landed on Andy, who stood in the back room a dozen yards away looking in my direction, and my gut lurched.
"I can get you some paper towels for that if you come with me," Buzzcut was saying as he slowly released me and gestured toward the bar. I shook my head, taking another step back before bumping into the wall of people behind me. Another hot flash washed over me, and beads of sweat broke out over my lip.
"No thanks, I'm good. I-I've got to go."
He tipped his head to the side and eyed me curiously, but then nodded. "No problem."
I didn't realize until then that he was wearing a Shorty's T-shirt with his name emblazoned on it in white letters.
Sebastian.
I let the syllables roll around in my brain, making sure not to whisper them out loud no matter how badly I wanted to. Because I had a serious problem on my hands.
"Can I talk to you?" Andy's low, clipped tone bit into my ear and I flinched.
Sebastian eyed Andy and then me assessingly before turning to make his way back toward the bar without another word. That was good. The last thing I needed was for my boyfriend to beat the crap out of some poor guy just for being nice. But my relief faded as quickly as it came when Andy wrapped his hand around my forearm tight enough to make me wince.
Annnd that was going to bruise, no question.
“The curse of pale English skin,” Echo had said the last time I’d sported fingerprints on my wrist.
Shame overrode my alcohol-induced haze and threatened to choke me. "Where are we going?"
Andy glared at me, gray eyes like two chunks of coal, so dark they were almost black. He didn't bother to answer as he yanked me toward the restrooms.
Echo—who was either completely oblivious to the situation or pretending to be because it was easier for her that way—called after us, "I'll sign us up at the beer pong table."
I didn’t have the chance to answer as Andy pushed forward, elbowing his way past two girls in line at the door marked "Shawties." One of them complained and he snarled, "Shut it, cow,” before rapping on the door incessantly while the other girl behind us tried to comfort her friend after Andy's snide insult. He ignored them and kept right on knocking until the person in the restroom came out with a scowl on her face.
"Chill out, asshole."
He didn't respond to her either, and dragged me into the bathroom. I sent the shorter girl who had tears in her eyes a sympathetic smile and mouthed an apology, shame wrapping more tightly around me when she looked like she felt even sorrier for me than she did for herself. Before I could think on that too hard, the door slammed closed between us and Andy leaned down until his face was level with mine.
"What. The. Fuck," Andy ground out through gritted teeth. I could smell the beer and bourbon, sour on his breath, and it made my stomach churn. He pressed me hard against the wall and punched the paneling behind my head loud enough to make my ears ring.
"Calm down,” I whispered desperately, close to pleading. “Look, it was nothing, I—" The words died on my lips as I realized I wasn't sure which thing he’d seen that had infuriated him. Was it the bartender with the wandering eye or Buzzcut Sebastian with the lips from heaven that had gotten Andy so mad? Maybe both. Maybe neither? Could have been some other imagined slight that had blown up in his mind to be a betrayal. Generic excuses rattled around in my head like a pinball, but I was afraid to voice any of them for fear of making things worse.
The thing about Andy was that, before, most of the time? He was great. Funny, witty, smart. Handsome and polite, and my parents loved him. They couldn't wait for us to graduate from college and get married. And I thought I couldn't wait for that too. But lately, especially when he drank, his temper got the better of him and over the past few months I'd gone from being irritated by his possessiveness to being downright scared.
Two weeks ago, things had taken a dark turn when he'd finally crossed the line and put his hands on me. It was just the one time, and it hadn’t been a punch—more of a hard grab and a shake—but it was enough.
Now this.
I wasn't scared anymore. I was terrified, and the look on his face and the spittle coming from his mouth as he shouted at me wasn’t helping.
"You can say whatever you want to, Olivia, but we both know the truth. If you didn't want the attention, you wouldn't dress that way. So what am I supposed to do when guys stare at you like they want to fuck you, and think they can paw all over you?" The pulse in his neck pounded furiously and I bit my lip hard to keep from bursting into tears. "Do you know how that makes me look? Like some kind of bitch-ass punk, that's how."
He nailed the wall behind my head again with his fist. At least now I knew the root of the problem. If I could diffuse the situation and get out of there, we could talk it through tomorrow when he was thinking clearer. It was long past time that I stopped hiding my head in the sand and dealt with this head-on, but I wasn’t going to do it when he was wasted.
I grabbed his arm and tried to keep my voice calm in spite of the fact that my stomach was roiling and the alcohol in my system was about to make a reappearance down the front of my shirt. "Andy, I'm not dressed any different than most of the girls here. And the guy who grabbed me caught me to keep me from falling. He works here. He was just doing his job."
His mouth twisted into the ugly smirk I’d seen only once before, two weeks ago, and I knew shit was about to get really mean. Would he seriously hurt me this time? The fight or flight instinct hit hard and, heart slamming against my ribs, I ducked underneath his arms to make a grab for the door handle. I'd just gotten it open a crack when he kicked it shut again.
"Don't you walk away from me when I'm talking to you.” He pulled me away from the door and shoved me against the wall again, this time crowding me until I had to crane my neck back to see his face. His hand closed over my throat, and his voice dropped low. "If you ever embarrass me like that again in front of my boys, I will make you regret it. Do you understand me?"
In shock, body shaking like a leaf in the March winds, I nodded, ready to say anything to make him let me go. His grip wasn't tight, but it was enough t
hat it chilled me to the bone. Brutal violence was right there, under the surface, waiting to erupt, and I was one false move away from giving him an excuse to unleash it.
"I asked you a question. Do you understand me?"
I wet my lips and croaked out half a "yes," but before I got any further, the door flew open, squealing on its hinges and slamming against the wall so hard, the whole room vibrated.
"I'm going to give you three seconds to let her go."
I couldn’t see past Andy’s rugby-wide shoulders, but I recognized the voice and the sound of it sent bile rising in my throat.
Sebastian. My knight in shining armor for the second time that night.
Jesus, Andy was going to kill him.
“One.” Sebastian’s voice was serious as a heart attack.
"Who the fuck are y—"
"Two."
But three never came. One second, Andy's hand was around my throat, the next he was flat on his back, sprawled across the filthy tile floor, lip split and gushing blood.
Sebastian took my chin in a surprisingly gentle, steady grip and examined my face. "Are you okay?"
I tried to talk, but the words were stuck. My teeth chattered uncontrollably and my whole body felt numb. It took me a few seconds to pull myself together and finally manage a firm nod. He released me reluctantly, his perceptive gaze taking in far too much.
"Do you have a friend here who can take you home?"
Odd how in that moment I noticed the strangest, most minute details, like everything had been amplified by a thousand. The way his skin smelled of clean sweat and sports-scented deodorant. The clenched tightness of his stubbled jaw that belied the concern in his crystal blue eyes. The way he never even looked down at bleeding Andy to see if he would get back up and fight. It was like nothing else mattered, except for me.
"Hey, you with me? How many fingers am I holding up?"
His low, husky tone had grown more urgent and he held three fingers in front of my face. I took a steadying breath and tried not to think about what had happened, or what the ramifications would be. Instead, I focused on the strong, capable hand in my line of sight, knowing he needed a response. "Three."
Score (Skin in the Game Book 1) Page 20
