He’s perfectly perfect on the surface. Big Man on Campus, football star, A student, a stud among studs idolized for his way with women in and out of bed. He’s notorious in Moreland even though he hasn’t been back there. I hear the nauseating stories, whispers about his wild popularity and his refusal to take any woman seriously, the way he chooses them like contestants in some kind of sick beauty pageant to win a chance to win him over.
Of course he needs to be brought down a peg. But no way in hell am I the woman to do it.
“You love him, too,” Dooley squeaks in the falsetto voice he usually reserves for the stage. It’s enough to snap me from my Jack-crazy mind. “I thought for sure you’d be the one hold-out on campus who wouldn’t fall at his feet—the way you pulled away from him back there. I thought you were immune.”
“I am. I was inoculated. In high school. I knew him back then and learned enough to know I don’t need any more. I want no part of him.” I have myself half convinced because I truly do hate what he did to me. But part of me is fascinated. And the evil part of me sees him as a challenge, something to conquer and overcome like a mountaintop or a bad habit. But fooling with him, even for the purposes of getting past the monster mythology I’ve created, of getting closure to prove to myself that he can’t get to me anymore because I’m not that shy pathetic girl now, is a bad, dangerous idea. “He has a bad boy reputation for a good reason,” I add.
Then I wince at Dooley’s knowing snicker.
“You don’t think he’s … attractive? Hell, I think he’s a certifiable mega-stud and you know I’m not even into the jock type. But there’s something about those deep blue-green eyes, the tilt of his brows. So sad . . . almost tragic.”
I snap my head to make sure Dooley isn’t teasing and he’s not. He sees the broken vulnerable boy inside Jack too. Of course he would. He’s a very sensitive man underneath the pretense of theatrical sophistication and cynical indifference.
“He is tragic. And that’s all I’ll say about him. Subject closed. Let’s get a mocha latte. I deserve some decadence right now.”
He swats my arm and then loops his through mine again, bringing me along with a jump in his step like we’re dancers in a musical. “As if you need to worry about calories—or money. Babe, you can drink mocha lattes with a double shot of caramel morning, noon, and night and you’d still be a shapely goddess among mortals.”
He pauses here as I push through the door.
We stand stock still inside the bustling room filled with shiny students.
“What?” I ask. Dooley is wearing that contemplative face I don’t like. It always spells trouble, but it’s why I love being around him. He keeps me honest when I have too much of a habit of running away from unpleasant truths. Like the truth about Jack Hunter.
“Jack the Adonis, the god-maker among campus gods, noticed you today. I bet you could become the recognized Aphrodite of SPU.”
I laugh, because really? “You can’t seriously pin that Aphrodite label on me. I’m Joni? Remember? The girl with the least dates and a total of one hookup in two years at Amherst. And I shouldn’t even count that lame encounter with one of them as a hookup.”
He shakes his head. “Sad, but true. And all behind you, baby. You’re here to make some changes and don’t you forget about that. You will be the Aphrodite of this campus if you so choose—or if I force you, kicking and screaming.”
I laugh because what else can I do? “Sure, we’ll give it a go. What do I have to lose?”
In the next moment, as I step inside the tall-ceilinged room that serves as a coffee shop, I come face to face with my nemesis—in full living color, on paper, in a stupid, larger-than-life-size poster. Jack Hunter decked out in his pads and uniform looking fierce and mighty. And far too doable.
Maybe I do have something to lose.
Or something to gain. I thought I had self-respect when I got grades good enough for SPU, though hardly outstanding. It’s no wonder I still have that one sliver of doubt and just seeing Jack Hunter’s face fuels it. Somehow, I need to dispel the monster from my past, get him out of my head. And out of my dreams.
Dooley squeals in my ear, saving me from further contemplation of the haunting poster, and drags me inside to one of the couches where three spectacular girls sit, turned out to gleaming perfection like racehorses on Derby day.
Dooley introduces me to a girl he has acting class with. Isabelle Temple is a drama major and they’d met in the online chat room over the summer. She’s a blue-eyed, dark-haired stunner who brings to mind old pics of Elizabeth Taylor from her Black Beauty days. The girl doesn’t even look real, her skin is so perfect and smooth. If I touch her face I wonder if it’ll feel like glass.
“Guess who Izzy dated last semester?” Dooley says. “Yes, the one and only Jack Hunter. She was his girlfriend last year for the entire spring semester.” Dooley talks like he was there to witness it all and I marvel again at his ability to get involved in people’s lives down to their toothpaste brand details in a matter of days when it should take years. I nod at Isabelle, who looks pleased with Dooley’s introduction. My eyes are naturally drawn back to the epic poster.
“Don’t bother,” Isabelle says. “He’s unreachable. I would know. That one is forbidden fruit.”
“I believe you,” I say. Her girlfriends titter and nod knowingly. One of them whispers something under her breath about Jack maybe being worth a taste.
“I took a taste,” Isabelle says to me. “Filled myself up on him and then he spit me out like an old shoe or some piece of shit. Didn’t call me once over the summer. Nothing. Didn’t return texts and didn’t answer my calls. And we were epic together last spring.” She says the last like she’s not about to forget the epicness anytime soon.
“Tell us how you really feel, Izzy,” Dooley says, still smiling in spite of how clear it is that Isabella is heartbroken.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I want to add more, to pile on about what a superficial, spiteful person Jack is, but that would give away the fact that I know him and I do not want to have to explain my relationship with Jack. I can’t even bring myself to tell Dooley about how Jack tormented me, let alone some heartbroken woman I never met before.
Even so, I recognize the connection. We have something in common. Being hurt by Jack Hunter is a hell of a thing to share with someone and I feel the pull of commiseration, the need to befriend her. To have more than a friend, to have an ally.
“You ladies are all sorority sisters, right?” Dooley waves a hand to encompass the couch area where Izzy sits on the arm and the others sit on the cushions. I’m standing and Dooley moves around theatrically.
“Yes, the most popular one on campus, if the size of our rush every year doesn’t lie. We only have a few openings this year.” Izzy looks me up and down.
“What do you think of Joni as a candidate?” Dooley gets pushy. Nothing new there.
I elbow him because joining a sorority is the last thing on my list. I want to sit in my room and write my novel, and go to class and listen at the feet of Professor Soullier as she pontificates about how she writes her beautiful books. If I could, all my classes would be writing or lit classes. Unfortunately, I need to take math to ensure I get a well-rounded liberal arts education, according to SPU. Calculus in particular. I’ve put it off as long as I can, hoping to get out of it somehow in a sudden rule change that recognizes the foolishness of the requirement. But no.
“I’ll think about it,” Izzy says, real skepticism in her voice. Maybe our connection is one-sided, like an unfinished bridge.
“Should I tell her, or should you?” Dooley practically jumps up and down in bubbly excitement like a cheerleader with gossip about the football team captain. Duh. He actually does have gossip about the football captain, but I don’t want him to spread it.
“There’s nothing to tell.” I make my message clear that I’ll murder him in his sleep if he says a word about me knowing Jack. But I know my death stare is for nau
ght because he knows I’m a pussycat. Shit. I may need to sharpen my claws if I want to survive here. Either that or stick to my plan and stay in my room every night writing my novel.
Dooley waves me off. Of course. Izzy and her three friends lean in, sensing Dooley has something big and juicy to tell. Maybe they’ll be disappointed. Because there’s no juice involved after all.
“My girl here knows Jack Hunter. Like from back home. She grew up with the man.” He claps his hands together as all eyes widen and immediately slide over to laser in on me.
“Is that so?” Izzy says. “You know him from his home town? Where are you from again? Nothing would sour his mood like a question about home or his family. He’s very secretive about where he came from.” She licks her lips and sweeps her eyelashes in a flicker over those bright eyes. “It’s like he has something to hide.”
I know a test question when I hear one. Alarm makes me shiver because I know why he’s secretive and what he has to hide. And in spite of the fact that he’s my sworn enemy, the one to be vanquished, conquered, and finally put in his place out of my life and mind forever, I can’t stand the thought of sharing salacious details about him with these women.
Why? I’m not sure. Jack and I share our past shame from home like an intimate secret. We’re inextricably connected and I can’t betray him without betraying myself. There’s no outward show of claws in these women, but I know the claws are there. I know Isabelle was hurt by him and possibly open to retribution or at least petty gossip. Would Jack care if people gossip about him? Yes. He would. I haven’t seen him in years, but I know Jack is proud, if shallow, and I know why. I know what he has to hide.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “He’s been all over social media and on TV often enough. His life is an open book, isn’t it?” It’s true. To a point. I should feel dirty keeping Jack’s secrets for him, but I don’t. It gives me confidence, a sense of control, even power.
Isabelle laughs. “That’s like the exact same thing Jack says, almost word for word. I guess you do know him, don’t you?” She gives me a look, almost like the one Dooley sometimes adopts, like he’s trying to see into my soul. The one that scares me. “No big secrets?” she says. “Are you sure?”
She sees right through me. I nod and exchange a glance with Dooley. He puts an arm around me and shrugs.
“What could he be hiding? You think maybe he posed naked for Barstool? I’m going to search the Internet for those photos.”
I laugh. Isabelle rolls her eyes and swats his arm.
“I’ve seen him naked. It is quite the show. But a lot of women—and men I’m sure—have seen that beast unleashed.” She looks me up and down as if she assessing whether I’m in that club. I put her out of her jealous misery.
“I haven’t had the privilege.” I can’t help darting my eyes to the giant poster again and letting my imagination take a peek behind the curtain. Naturally I blush. All three girls on the couch titter.
“Text me the info about the sorority’s rush,” Dooley says. “My girl will bring you up. She’s bound to be—”
Dropping my bag on his toes, I manage to keep my dear friend from uttering the notion of me being the campus Aphrodite to these women who would be far less enthralled about the idea than he is. I can’t believe he’s so emotionally blind to this fact. These women don’t want competition. Or at least that’s what I figure.
Isabelle says, “Sure. I think you could be right, Dooley.” Maybe I’m wrong. The woman’s smile glows with sincerity. Now I’m really confused. “Let’s exchange info, Joni.” She whips out her oversize phone and starts tapping the screen in spite of her impressively long designer nails.
Chapter 3
Jack
It feels good to be on the field, in the moment, throwing the ball, even if it is just drills.
Smack. Coach hits me on the helmet.
“What are you up to, Hunter?”
I don’t want to talk about being five minutes late, so I give him my stock answer.
“Working hard.”
He smacks me again, harder. “I saw you outside before practice. Up to no good. You leave the skirt chasing for off-season. We all have too much riding on this year even if you don’t care.”
Steam could be coming from my ears and fire from my mouth. I can feel my eyes turning red, but I hold in the burst of anger, clamping down hard on the football.
“No one wants the championship more than I do, Coach.” I manage to keep my voice convincing, absent of the threat I feel inside, the need to strike out at the man who rides me mercilessly, who never acknowledges anything but the mistakes, the need to do more, better.
“See me in my office after practice. Before you shower.”
He has all the harshness of a snake and none of the charm. I work damn hard and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. I’m not sure if he likes me. In my paranoid, undeserving, white-trash mind, I imagine he knows who I really am. An imposter. Albeit an imposter with a good arm and a quick mind. I keep throwing the touchdown passes and getting the A’s to make it stick, to become the impossible version of myself. But it feels like a road with no end.
Finally, a couple of the linemen heave their lunches on the sidelines and the coach blows his whistle. My stomach is too raw and empty to toss my guts, but it churns all the same. I jog to the bench and grab a waxed cup of whatever the hell the shitty drink is in the vat, along with a crowd of other guys vying for position. I don’t push ahead of anyone or cut in line, not even when some of the guys step aside. No way am I going to be accused of being a prima donna. I may be an arrogant, insufferable dick sometimes, but I have my lines in the sand, especially where my teammates are concerned. I don’t take privileges. We all work too hard, put up with too much fucking shit. It’s a lucky thing I love this game, especially on game day. Or I’d be in the morgue by now.
After giving him a minute’s head start, I head for Coach’s office for our conference. I don’t know what it’s about, but I do know it’s nothing good. I knock on his open door and walk in without bothering to sit down. He doesn’t invite me to sit and starts right in.
“You have enough money?”
I nod. Everything in me goes cold, seizing up like he’s hit me with a shower of liquid nitrogen.
“What about your mother?”
“What about her?”
He slams a fist on his desk. “Don’t give me lip, boy. Answer the question!”
“She has what she needs. You gonna ask all the other guys if their mothers have enough money?”
He shakes his head.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Hunter. Don’t go near any of the alumni, don’t take a two-dollar box of popcorn from one of them. Don’t talk to any agents. Keep your nose clean. The NCAA is nosing around, looking to crack down on our program because we’re winning too much. Other teams are complaining.”
I nod. He must know about the problem with my summer job.
He nods and flicks a hand at me. “Go take a shower.”
Without another word, I leave.
As I head down the hall to the locker room, my cleats click on the industrial tile floor. When I get there it’s half empty. I make quick work of my uniform and shower, not worried about getting too clean because I’m changing into whatever dirty worn out clothes are in the bottom of my team duffel.
When I get out of the shower, George, Tristan, and a couple of other guys are hanging around. I start dressing, only half listening until George calls me out.
“Hey, Jack. Who was she?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I don’t really want to know. George Sylvester can be an asshole and this is one of those times.
“The girl you ditched us for. She must be important and special to make you go out of your way and risk being late.”
“Not the girl you picked up off the ground?” Tristan says.
“No.” I continue pulling on my gym shorts, pretending my friends have disappeared. Mind over matter, right?
“Who is she?” George persists. I ignore him, but that makes the stubborn bastard more interested. Of course. He moves in, causing curious eyes from the offensive linemen to follow. “Well? She’s hot that’s for sure. Looked like you know her. Who is the bitch?”
The flinch is automatic, deep and stark. And a big mistake. A break from my cool indifference which is what I should be feeling. Not protective of Joni Dowd, of all people. I level my eyes at him, controlling the stab of outrage.
“No one you know.” I keep my voice steady and disinterested, half convincing myself I should ditch football and go for Broadway. Adjusting my shirt, I say, “She’s new to campus. A transfer.”
“Breaking from tradition? Going with a normal girl. What happened to the trophy queen fit for the king of campus?”
He’s mocking me like always. I shrug.
“She’s not normal. She’s as privileged as they come. She used to get rides to high school in her chauffeur-driven Mercedes.”
George’s eyes go wide. “A girl from back home? Someone from your secret and mysterious past?”
I raise my middle finger as I scratch my chin. “No fucking mystery. My entire high school football history has been chronicled to fucking hell and back by the media. Or so it seems to me. I couldn’t take a piss without a reporter in my face asking me if I use my throwing hand to aim.”
Laughs. Of course. But the idea of my past being a secret is dropped, even if it’s true. The only thing anyone knows about my past is football. I’ve never mentioned my family or any ex-girlfriends or even former teammates. I was never on social media. I’ve put as much distance between me and where I came from as humanly possible. I don’t even go home over the summer. My only contact with home is the weekly checks I send to Mom and her too frequent phone calls to the house. I need to make enough money with my side-gig for Mom and then meet my own poverty-level living expenses to last two more semesters. And I need to be careful that no one finds out about it. Two. More. Fucking. Semesters.
Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1) Page 4
