Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1)

by Stephanie Queen

  Never mind. I’m doomed to be the dutiful daughter. At least for tonight.

  Closing the door to my room behind me, I throw open the box like I’m ripping off a Band-Aid and I’m pleasantly surprised. The dress isn’t pale pink and ruffled. It’s black and slinky with pearl straps over the shoulders. Not only stylish, it’s sophisticated, not made for a twelve-year-old. Maybe Mom recognizes I’m not a shy kid anymore. Stripping to my panties, I slip on the dress and strappy sandals. Giving it a test twirl, I admire the drape and the flirty wave of the hem. The gorgeous material has a subtle sparkle woven into it. I’m not familiar with the designer, but that’s no big deal. Mom knows what she’s doing in the fashion department.

  I grab my black patent polka-dot Kate Spade clutch, throw in my phone and a very few necessities and I’m ready. Passing by the mirror, I hesitate. The only jewelry I’m wearing is my bracelet and that’s because I never take it off. I haven’t added any makeup or brushed my hair. The face that looks back at me is passable, my hair is shiny, and since I’m not out to impress anyone—namely eligible guys—I walk out the door of my dorm room for my Saturday night out. With my dad. My consolation is my hope that I’ll have a chance to wear this dress again, preferably on a date with that romantic poet of my imagination.

  There are only a handful of girls in the lounge with my dad where he sits with the posture of a man waiting to be sentenced. I don’t know the girls yet since I’ve mostly kept to my room this week. They eye him with speculation, telegraphing their assessment of him as a DILF dressed in his James Bond style tux with the white jacket and bowtie. There’s a remarkable lack of embarrassment in me as I take his arm when he stands, smiling.

  “You look all grown up,” he says as if he hasn’t seen me since I was ten.

  “Let’s get on with it, Dad.”

  He nods. “It’s not an execution. Just be gracious and smile.”

  We go out to the limo for the short drive to the Alumni party building—that’s not the real name of the building, but that’s what I heard someone else call it.

  “Why couldn’t Mom come with you?” I ask as we step inside the grand front entrance. I’m almost as tall as he is in my two-inch heeled sandals.

  “She had somewhere to go. With Greta.”

  That shuts me up. Whether it’s true or not, I know better than to ask any more questions. Whenever he doesn’t want to talk, or doesn’t want me to talk, he mentions Mom and Greta in the same sentence. I’m still not sure what the deal is between my parents and even though I have this desperate need to know, I’m just as desperately afraid to find out. And maybe it’s not my business after all.

  At least that’s the message my Dad sends me. Every chance he gets.

  Mom talks about it like it’s no big deal, off-handed and dismissive with false brightness.

  Frankly, Greta is probably the only person who would talk to me about it. If I were talking to her. But I haven’t talked to her in four years and I’m not about to start now. She’s my scapegoat and maybe I’m not being fair, but I can’t get past it.

  Greta is the other woman, the one who’s come between my mother and father, made a mockery of our family. She’s betrayed me and I can’t forgive her for it. That makes two people on my list of unforgiven bad guys in my life. Greta and Jack.

  We pass through the lobby where Dad hands over his invitation and we walk inside the scaled-down version of a grand manor ballroom, complete with black-and-white checked marble floors. The first person I notice is Isabelle Temple, mostly because I’m surprised she’s here. Then I notice all the guys, the ones who look like they play football even with their muscles hidden beneath tuxedo jackets.

  “What kind of Trustee party is this?” I ask my dad, who was sketchy on the details as usual.

  “It’s a reception for the supporters of SPU athletic teams. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “No.” Shit. That’s the only word to describe how I feel. I want to kick off my heels and shrink down and hide. Because I know Jack Hunter is going to be here. And I’m not ready to see him again. Not yet.

  Isabelle sees me before I can think of an excuse to leave or at least run to the ladies’ room. Her face brightens in recognition and I smile back. Dad excuses himself to go to the bar, but doesn’t offer me a drink. As far as he’s concerned I never drink or have sex. I’m contemplating whether or not this is the night to burst his bubble when Isabelle winds her way to where I’m half hiding as near to the lobby as I can get without being in the way of the incoming crowd.

  “Joni, I’m surprised to see you here,” she says although she’s wearing a sincere smile. I think. I move to a table to sit so I don’t stand out as the tallest woman in the room. Isabelle sits with me.

  “I know, right? I’m here with my dad.” I motion in the direction of the bar, where he’s talking with a group of men and women all dressed and impressed with themselves. Isabelle looks puzzled and I realize that explanation makes no sense. “He’s a trustee. Of St. Paul U.”

  “That’s crazy. I’m here with a date. This isn’t much of a party, but I don’t plan to stay long. We’ll be throwing a real party at our house after the game next week. To celebrate the end of the rush. Will you be joining? You can skip the rush—that’s just for freshmen anyway.”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t into sororities at Amherst.”

  “Think about it. Have you seen Jack?”

  “No.” Thank God. Maybe he won’t show. Maybe fancy alumni receptions aren’t his scene. She surveys the room for him.

  “I really fell for him, you know?” She turns to me. “Not just because he’s a super hunk star football player either. He’s special, right? Don’t you think?”

  I nod. I don’t know what to say. Maybe I should burst her bubble and tell her what I really think of him. So I do.

  “He’s an arrogant bully, if you ask me.” It feels good to tell her the truth. She’s stunned into silence so I keep going. “I think he’s gotten too far on his football fame and thinks he’s invincible. He needs to be knocked down a peg.”

  Her eyes go wide and she bursts out laughing. “You go, girl. Let it all out. You’re one of his casualties too, aren’t you?”

  “Not—” I would have set her straight, but Jack stops me as he strides through the entry and lands directly in front of us, hands in his non-tux pants pockets, sea-green eyes bright, teasing, and his smirk in place.

  “Joni is a very special kind of casualty.”

  I want to punch him. And suddenly, I don’t want Isabelle to know the story of poor pathetic Joni. Especially not Jack’s version of it. It’s the kind of story that should only be shared with close friends, people who will understand the context and how far I’ve come. I barely know Isabelle and a pathetic victim story is not the first impression I want her—or anyone—to have of me.

  Once again, I feel like prey to the whims of Jack Hunter as he stands there contemplating what he’s going to say, or not say, about our shared past.

  Chapter 5

  Jack

  “What do you mean by that?” Isabelle says. I flick her a glance. She’s ready to hang on every word I say. I hope that’s a sign that Joni hasn’t said anything compromising about me. I turn my eyes back to the vision that is Joni Dowd. Damn.

  “You look gorgeous,” I say because I have to call a spade a spade.

  Her face takes on a sexy pink blush.

  “What about—?” Isabelle has a need to hear about someone else being my casualty, but I have every intention of keeping the past between me and Joni in the past and this is the perfect opportunity to show that.

  “Nothing, Izzy. There’s nothing between Joni and me. We barely knew each other in high school.” That statement is surprisingly true and the ignorance of my high school self-disconcerts me.

  SPU’s president, Reverend Church, aptly named, heads in my direction but he has the unfortunate sourpuss Dean Lassiter in tow.

  “Is it too late for me to disappear?” I say t
o the ladies, indicating the incoming officials with a nod of my head. “I think I’m about to be recruited for show and tell.”

  Izzy giggles. Joni looks interested, ready to be amused. She would enjoy seeing me perform like a trained seal.

  “Here you are, Jack,” Church says, smiling like he means it. He probably does. “I’m sorry to have to take you away from your friends, but we have some supporters who would love to meet you.”

  I nod, but before I can introduce my “friends,” Lassiter opens his mouth.

  “You’re not wearing a tux, Hunter? Didn’t you read your invitation? It specifically stated—”

  “Ray, let’s not quibble.” Church says. “Jack looks perfectly presentable.”

  “Ladies, this is Reverend Church and Dean Lassiter.” I give them a chance to smile and add, “This is Joni Dowd and Isabelle Tempi.”

  “Ah, you must be Charles Dowd’s daughter,” Lassiter says. He loves to suck up to people with money. Scratch means far more to him than touchdowns, that’s for damn sure. He doesn’t seem to make the connection between the winning football season and donor interest. But Reverend Church sure as hell does.

  “Excuse us, ladies,” Church says and he leads me away with Lassiter tagging behind us. Church is only an inch shorter than me, which feels comfortable, but Lassiter stands a foot shorter. That’s another point against me I suppose. I feel bad for the basketball players. We end up joining Coach Radz—Mario Radzewicz to be exact, with a crowd of three supporters, all men in tuxes, one of them being Dowd senior. Rev Church introduces me to the supporters.

  “And you know our newest trustee, Charles Dowd.”

  “Actually, we’ve never met,” I enjoy saying.

  “Maybe not, but I’ve been to your games at Moreland High so I feel like I know you.”

  This is a reminder that he does know who I am. As if I need one. I only nod in response and allow the others to turn the talk to football. Charles Dowd isn’t about to tell secrets about me since I know his. Coach does most of the talking. Drinks are passed around and I refrain. But I do fill up on appetizers when they come my way. I don’t even know what half the shit is that I’m eating, but it fills my belly, which needs constant attention.

  “Growing boy here.” Church slaps my back after I relieve the last server’s tray of three shrimp. The men smile and nod. Lassiter elbows me. I’m tempted to elbow him right back.

  “Worked up an appetite at today’s practice,” I say.

  Coach glares, but that’s his normal face so I don’t take it personally. He nods. That’s more support than I expect from him. When the next tray of drinks comes around, I excuse myself and Church slaps my back again.

  “Enjoy yourself, son.” I think he actually means it.

  Looking around, I see my other teammates engaged with older men and women, doing their duty, and a handful of them on the dance floor even though the music is old and weird, including an orchestral version of I Want to Hold Your Hand. Fuck. My eyes go searching for Joni as I gravitate to where I last left her and Izzy. I can’t believe they know each other. I acted cool about it, but a friendship between those two, as unlikely as that would be, would not bode well for keeping my secrets.

  Even seated, Joni looks regal. She looks good enough to eat, if I’m honest. The black dress against her pale skin makes her look like a delicacy. And those touchable breasts, free and round under the slinky fabric, make my mouth water. Or it would if I wasn’t mindful of the fact that we hate each other. Biting the bullet, I saunter over to her, undeterred by a couple of my teammates and other people I don’t know who attempt to get my attention.

  Isabelle has her back to me and luck is on my side when she rises and heads in the direction of the ladies’ room. Perfect timing. Unless Joni’s already spilled my secrets to Izzy. Arriving at her table, I pull out the chair next to her, sit down and lean in.

  “We need to talk.” I shake my head, realizing I sound like a fucking drama queen.

  “Don’t put yourself out on my account. There are plenty of other women here you can talk to.” She busies herself fiddling with her glass, sloshing the ice cubes around in the water.

  “None of them are from Moreland. How about if we dance?” I stand and take her hand. She looks at me and then around the place filled mostly with overdressed old men and women, all strangers. Grandpa would have felt more at home here than I do. She sighs and stands, letting me escort her onto the crowded floor where most of the student athletes are spending their time. A D.J. has taken over for the orchestra and the Bee Gees are rocking Tragedy. The music is loud enough we can have a private conversation, not so loud she can’t hear me if I whisper in her ear.

  I swing her onto the floor and flat up against me in a tight hold, not caring that the music it’s all wrong for the music. But I quickly realize the problem with that when my dick sits up and takes notice. Loosening my grip, we separate enough for me to relax and still talk quietly for her ears only.

  “So?” she says. “Out with it. What Moreland secrets do you want to talk about? Yours or mine?”

  “All of them. None of them.”

  “Good.” She looks away from me, expert at keeping her eyes averted, the way she used to do back in high school whenever she saw me. Shit.

  “How about if we make a pact to keep our pasts in the past. Start with a clean slate.”

  “You have a lot to make up for before I clean your slate. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “Look, you’re right. I should have started with an apology. I’m sorry for being an ass to you, but you needed the push.” It’s an asshole thing to say. I don’t know why she brings out the worst in me.

  “I needed—don’t even.” She pushes me away. We’re in the middle of the dance floor, close to scene-making drama, but it’s crowded enough so people don’t notice unless they’re staring. Which some people are, but to hell with them. I hang onto her before she storms off in a twist.

  “Hold on. Can we have a truce? You go your way and I’ll go mine and we’ll coexist.”

  “Suits me fine.”

  Taking her arm, I lead her back toward her table and she says, “What was wrong with Isabella?”

  I stop and look at her over my shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you break her heart?” We’re standing at the edge of the dancing, and I don’t know why she’d make such a statement.

  “Did I? I doubt it. Isabella doesn’t care about me. She’s into money and prestige and privilege. She wasn’t into me.”

  “Is that what you really believe?” She fists her hands against her hips.

  “It’s the truth. You should know all about money and privilege.”

  “That’s unfair and untrue.”

  Giving her my full attention, I take a step closer to her. The warning light in my head flashes like the red bubble on a cop car, but it doesn’t stop me. Something about Joni—maybe the unfinished business between us—gets under my skin, making me want to finish with her. Making me want to do a hell of a lot more.

  Her honest hazel eyes flash with anger and she straightens her spine. I answer her with a snarl as I move to within a breath of her. She doesn’t back down, heat flares from her, the black material of her dress heaves and strains with the energy of her breathing in and out, her braless breasts expanding, rising up and down. The slap of erotic heat punches me like a white glove or maybe more like a cattle prod. That’s the only explanation I have for clamping my hands on her arms and pulling her away from the wall back onto the dance floor.

  “How much did you tell Isabelle about me?” Holding her tight, I may need a cold shower first before my dry mouth and disconnected brain can carry on a conversation and get my answer. But short of that, I clench my jaw and do my best to discourage my dick from its current enthusiasm over Joni fucking Dowd, reminding the traitorous appendage that she’s the enemy, the fucking last person on the entire planet I can trust. No need to give her more ammunition against me. />
  “I didn’t tell her anything. We already had our talk and look where it’s gotten us. Let me go.” I loosen my grip, not holding her, but my hands are still touching her. Because I’m a sick S.O.B, a glutton for punishment.

  “We need a truce and a mutual pact of silence.”

  She’s the one person on campus who knows things that can cause the plug to be pulled on my future with a few misplaced whispers, a careless comment or a hapless complaint to her dear fucking daddy, the new fucking trustee.

  If the press finds anything they don’t like, gets any whiff at all of controversy, they might look into my finances, at where I’m getting my money and I’ll be cooked. They won’t hesitate to cast their Heisman vote for one of my competitors. It’s too tight a race.

  And the whiff of controversy will work its way from the press to the Heisman vote and finally to the NFL draft where I’ll slide down the ranks like mud in a storm. If any controversy about me breaks, I’ll be lucky to get a rookie minimum contract as a backup QB in a backwater market. Like Cleveland or Buffalo. There’s no chance for a random team member to make bank with promotions in small markets like those.

  “We already agreed to that. I have nothing more to say to you. We go our separate ways and pretend we never heard of each other.”

  “Impossible now that Isabelle knows you know me. She won’t let you go.”

  “No, it’s you she won’t let go of. Remember? She’s obsessed with your… I don’t know what. Your status? Hah. Big Man on Campus. It means nothing.”

  “You’re mocking me?” I’m surprised enough to stop mid-dance and stand there, now clutching her arms as if she’s plastered with superglue and I can’t let go. I almost smile. Maybe she’s up to giving me what I deserve.