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

by Stephanie Queen

  “Bottom line, princess—”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Joni. Bottom line is I don’t want to give the NCAA or the media—who votes for the Heisman—anything controversial to think about. I don’t want them to know about my mother, don’t want to give them a reason to go digging and I don’t want them to look into my finances.”

  “Why would they care about your mother? She’s okay, isn’t she? She’s not …”

  “You can’t even say it.” A derisive snicker escapes me and I push my hand through my hair. “No, she’s not using right now. She probably still drinks because it’s easy to get and I can’t be there to stop her. She goes on a bender now and then since my grandfather passed. I can’t babysit her like he used to. But she’s too worn out to do much except clean a few houses here and there when she wants extra cigarette and tequila money.”

  “How does she live? I mean who pays—”

  “I do. I pay for the house, for her food, her cable TV, her heat, her fucking phone.” Although I’m thinking I ought to cancel that if she doesn’t stop calling me. We agreed to once a week. I should make her pay for her own pay-as-you-go disposable so she thinks long and hard before calling.”

  “Where do you get the money? You’re selling drugs?” She backs away until she’s flat against the door again. The horror blossoming on her face makes me sick.

  “What if I am?” The sadistic need to punish her isn’t completely gone from me. “What are you going to do about it?”

  She stares at me, her face fascinating as her emotions play out, until she finally comes to her shockingly confident conclusion.

  “You’re not selling drugs. You’re not as bad as you try to be.”

  I laugh. “I work. That’s how I get money. Did I misjudge your sensibilities, little princess? I swear you look disappointed.”

  “I am. You had me so convinced that you were too horrible for words, now I’m mildly disappointed that you’re so pedestrian.” She suppresses a smile, but I see it, one of those tiny Mona Lisa smiles that suit her perfectly.

  I laugh again. For real. She’s funny. I like her.

  “Don’t get too comfortable with the pedestrian me. As soon as I win the Heisman, all bets are off.”

  “You’re going to turn into a crazy rich baller?” She shakes her head. “You have such a beautiful mind and you’re letting it all go to waste for what? Football?”

  “What the hell’s wrong with that?”

  We’re both leaning in again, our crazy dance of danger and heat seeming endless because if there is an end, there’s only one way it’ll go. And that way, with her in my bed and in my arms, is the way to certain death, the way my life would come crashing down. The way I lose everything I’ve been struggling for.

  Her eyes glisten and she shakes her head. Her lips are close again and I can feel her energy, the heat of her passion ignited because she thinks my decision on how to survive, how to get myself out of poverty is somehow all wrong.

  “Do you know what I’d give for a brain like yours?” she says, intent and real. Her question is like a slap—it excites me and wakes me up at the same time.

  Pulling back is hard after her eyebrow-raising assertion about brain envy. I can’t soothe her or even accuse her of being too lazy, because she always worked hard—even when I mocked her for being lazy—and didn’t seem to get the best grades in spite of it. My mind is torn between talking and pulling her into my arms. I choose talk. I choose keeping some distance even if the significance of our distance dwindles.

  “Playing ball takes brains and pays better than almost anything else I can do.” It shouldn’t. Doctors should make more money than they do. I know if I went to med school and pursued that path, it might take longer, but I’d end up making a pile of money. I would make sure of it. Too bad I don’t have the luxury of time.

  “Is that all you care about? The money?”

  “Spoken like a true rich bitch who never had to worry about their roof collapsing or whether to pay for the phone bill or tomorrow’s food—or maybe your mother’s medication.”

  “Your mom takes medication?” The look on her face is heartbroken as if I’m one of those pathetic puppies on animal abuse ads.

  “Spare me.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you. How could I? You’re a beast with the worst judgment I’ve ever known. You lash out at people for no reason—”

  “No reason? The guy punched me. Besides. Look who’s talking—”

  She raises a hand to slap me again and I grin as I watch her lower it, blushing with shame.

  “Now who’s lashing out.” I growl the deliberate words, low and raspy, leaning into her ear. I know why she wants to slap me, why her chest is heaving again with the confusion of lust and hate. “I know you were talking about my bad behavior in bullying you. You’re easy to get all riled up, princess.”

  As I feel her tension release, the hand I have wrapped around her wrist eases and the mood in the small space of my truck cab changes from rage to raging hard-on. Again. I let go of her wrist, my hand shaky as I regain my distance.

  “Why did you?” She’s staring at my lap now and I hope she’s enjoying the view, but after a beat I realize she’s not seeing everything. She’s back to where we were four years ago. She’s asking me why I bullied her.

  “I needed to.” My answer is automatic, unfiltered by good sense or even understanding. Bullying Joni was one of those things I purposely never examined too closely. I despised myself for it. I guess I still do based on the way my gut churns right now.

  She looks up and is about to ask me more when the front door of the house opens and one of the guys rush outside across the lawn toward the car parked on street. He stops when he sees my truck. “Shit. Duck down.”

  I shove her down and when she bends her body at the waist, lowering her head as much as she can—without asking why or complaining—I silence the urge to pull her back in my arms and kiss her silly. Instead, I open the door and meet Billy before he gets close to the truck.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Didn’t you know? There was a beat down at the alumni building—at the reception. Weren’t you there?”

  “I left early. What happened?”

  “Man. You’re lucky. Dean Lassiter called the ambulance for Posen. He got a broken nose. Says he fell. Lassiter is convinced it was a brawl of some kind. No one’s talking deets. Coach is livid. I’m heading to the hospital now. Want to come?”

  “No thanks. I’m beat. Knowing Posen’s hard head, I’m sure he’s fine.” Billy laughs, high fives me and takes off. Fuck. Lassiter is the guy who’ll make a deal of this. But Posen and Hatch won’t talk. No reason Lassiter should find out I threw a punch.

  But I know that’s not going to stop him from assuming the worst. Fuck. The last thing I need.

  Waiting until Billy takes the turn off our street before I move, I go back to the truck where Joni is sitting up straight, her long, straight, aristocratic blond hair shining in the moonlight like an angel’s. I have no business laying a hand on her, but that’s exactly what I want to do.

  Poor judgment. That’s what she accused me of. But I can do better.

  I get in the truck and start her up. “Adventure’s over for the night. Same rules apply. Say nothing. Not about my family or my lack of money or about tonight.” I stare into her stormy eyes and she stares back. I know she’s going to say something and I hold my breath.

  “Please.”

  “Okay.” She sits back in her seat and I’m half disappointed as I let out a sigh. She’s probably too exhausted to fight me anymore. Truth is, I’m too exhausted to fight with her. But I want to. Badly. Even if it is so fucked up I can’t even think about it.

  “I live at West,” she says.

  I drive her to West and pull up at the curb in front of her dorm. It’s in a cluster of brick buildings in the center of campus that look like mini castles arranged in a horseshoe with a lush center lawn and connec
ting walkways. Befitting the princess that she is. My old derisive attitude won’t be resurrected. Can’t find even an ounce of resentment in me now.

  But I’ll make damn sure it’s there in the morning, because even if she’s agreeable now, she’s the enemy and not to be trusted.

  “You do realize,” she says, not moving, one hand on the door handle, “that everyone saw us rush across the dance floor and out the front door? So I’m not sure how big a secret tonight is.”

  “It’s not. That much isn’t. But everything else is. I took you home because you weren’t feeling well—that’s why we were in a rush.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You’re going to start now to put up a stink?”

  “No stink. Just curiosity.”

  “About?”

  “Why you’re so secretive. Why everything has to be a big secret? You’re always hiding things, afraid of being who you are.”

  “Says the little princess. Maybe if you were the pauper you would get it. But you’re not—” She opens her mouth like she’s going to object, but I put up a hand. “And you never will be, so you are never going to get it. Deal with it.”

  “You mean I’m never going to get you.”

  She gives me a look I’d have to describe as meaningful even if I’m not sure what the meaning is. My gut says sexual innuendo, but we’re talking Joni the innocent princess here and even if she’s been around the block since she’s been away to college, I doubt it’s been around one of my blocks. She couldn’t possibly be interested in getting into a thing with me.

  I wanted to kiss her earlier. An aberration

  “That’s right. You’re never going to get me.” I’ll agree with her, whatever meaning she wants to give it, sexual or otherwise. And even when her eyes go soft and sad, I steel my back and keep my dick out of it. Turning my eyes back to the road, I wait until she finally opens the door in no hurry, as if she’s reluctant to leave me. I’ve been in that boat before, been in the circumstances where I’ve had to wait for a rejected woman to get out of my car.

  But this is different. I can’t wait for her to leave, but not for the usual reasons. I desperately need her to leave so I don’t succumb to that poor judgment she accused me of. Because I want to touch her. To kiss her, and not the innocent foreplay kind of kiss. I want to own her mouth with a kiss for the ages, one that brands her. And then I want to own the rest of her with the rest of my body. I want—

  She slams the door without saying goodbye or See ya later or It was fun or anything stupid or inane. That’s when I know I dodged a real bullet, not an imaginary come-on. Because I like her.

  Chapter 6

  Joni

  I walk to the door of my dorm and it takes every ounce of self-control in me not to run. Overwhelming emotion fuels my need to escape. My heart beats out of my chest. The way he looked at me with those impossible-to-resist undefinable eyes, so pretty and so bad.

  Yet I can’t think of him as bad anymore and that scares me. Because he is. He bullied me because he needed to? That’s so wrong. And yet so easy to understand. But understanding is the last thing I need to give him. Understanding. He wants nothing to do with me. And I agree. We need to forget that each other exists. It’ll be easy for him to forget about me. I’m no one on this campus and glad of it. I’ll get lost in the sea of students and write my book, find my poet, and never, ever go to a football game. Ever.

  Once inside, I run upstairs to my room and shut the door behind me, getting a few looks from some of the other girls who are lounging around in T-shirts and panties. I haven’t exactly been social. Yet. Tomorrow I’ll make an effort. Tonight I need to sleep because I’m emotionally exhausted from the rollercoaster ride with Jack.

  From the excitement. Because if I’m honest with myself—and the continued rat-tatting of my heart won’t let me forget—the night was exciting. Slipping from my dress and sandals, I grab a T-shirt from my drawer and throw it on. Forget about the neatly folded baby doll pajamas under my pillow. When in Rome. With the riot of emotions and excitement running circles in my head and my gut like hamsters on wheels, I pace around.

  I need to go to bed and sleep. I had every intention of doing that, but I can’t make myself stop. Taking deep breaths, I slow down. I need to call Dooley. If I talk to him about it, he’ll put everything in perspective, put all the restless feelings to rest.

  But what do I tell Dooley? I promised Jack I’d keep his secrets and that’s a promise I intend to keep. Pacing, I pass by the mirror and see that I’m biting my bottom lip. It looks kiss-swollen and I only wish it was. I wish to heaven that Jack had kissed me.

  That. There, it’s out. My deepest, darkest fear and desire mixed up together and out in the open, exposed to my conscience, threatening my well-being. Calling up my survival instincts for defense, I frown at myself.

  “I can’t be this stupid,” I say out loud, pacing in a tight circle in front of the mirror. He’s a bully and a heartbreaker. He toys with women. Look what he’s done to Isabelle—Izzy. And he doesn’t even care. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. Doesn’t believe it—there’s a difference. He doesn’t believe in himself. That’s why you can’t hate him, not truly.

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?” I say to the mirror. Shit. I have to call Dooley before I need to be locked up. I can tell him about my mixed feelings and blame my reluctance on Jack’s heartbreaker ways. I don’t need to tell him about the bullying—or anything else about Jack. He’s too complicated to explain, to do justice to unless you’ve lived through it with him. I was there and heard the whispers about his mother, knew he didn’t have a father, saw how it killed him after the football games when other teammates’ dads would congratulate them. His mother would be there and I remember watching her hang back, remember their awkward exchanged glances, her hopeful smile, his neutral rebuke.

  Why I used to watch him, I don’t know. I was fascinated with him like everyone else, I guess. Maybe more so because I felt a connection. Up until his senior year. The year of intense bullying. Maybe he felt the connection too. Maybe that’s why he bullied me.

  It was a tenuous connection built on a small chance encounter when we were adolescents, both at the same beach on Winnipesaukee. I was surprised to see him there, but someone must have invited him because it was a private barbeque one of my Dad’s friends was hosting.

  I pull the memory out from the bottom of my mind’s closet, dusty and purposely ignored, but resilient and beautiful, not to be denied.

  “To the beach!” one of the kids yells and we all scatter like laughing mice. Most of the kids run down the clearing to the well-worn path, except Jack. He’s running toward the other side of the boat house and I dash after him. He has that sneaky smile on his face like he knows a big secret and I want to know it too.

  “Where are you going?” I say, catching up with him alongside the boat house.

  “Short cut,” he says, slowing down to wait for me.

  I laugh, “How do you know? You’ve never been here before.”

  “How do you know? You shouldn’t assume things about people, Joni.”

  I’m surprised he knows my name. He smiles and reaches for my hand. “Let’s run and beat them all to the beach.” I laugh and we take off. But Jack stops short when one of the older guys comes around the end of the boat house and jumps in front of us, almost knocking Jack over. But Jack doesn’t fall and he catches me, making sure I don’t fall either.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going, Hunter?” The older boy says, hands on his hips and mean look on his face. I know who he is. He’s three grades ahead of Jack. He’s in high school. Mom told me once to stay away from him. He flicks his eyes at me now and Jack pushes me back behind him.

  “What’s it to you where I’m going?” Jack says, sounding different, tough, and he stands straight. He doesn’t have his hands on his hips. They’re out in front of him, wide and flexing.

  “You don’t belong here,” the kid says. “Why don’t you j
ust go home to your whore mother?”

  Everything in Jack tenses up and I know he’s going to try and fight this kid, but he’ll never win. The bully is too much bigger and older. And meaner. I know Jack will get in trouble if he hits the bully and it’s not fair because he deserves to get hit.

  I jump in, outrage forcing me, and yell at the kid, raise my fist to him and punch. Repeatedly, I call him a bully and a jerk and mean and that he should go home before I tell his father. The kid laughs at first and holds me off. I’m not hurting him, but I’m preventing Jack from punching him. He’s behind me, probably in shock.

  “What the hell, Jack? You have a little girl fighting your battles?” The kid says, and that makes me madder, makes me panic that Jack will be more humiliated. Red-hot hate hits me and I want to hurt this kid so bad. I do the one thing I know will hurt him, the thing I’ve been holding back. With everything in me, every ounce of anger and outrage at his meanness, I kick him in the balls. It’s a move I’d seen in TV and movies often enough. And it works.

  Jack laughs, lets out a hoot of pleasure and reaches out, taking me in his arms.

  “Looks like the little girl beat you, big shot.” He pulls me away and we leave the kid standing behind the boat house where he’d taken us by surprise. Jack and I walk down to the beach where we’d been headed, taking our short-cut. He holds my hand and smiles down at me.

  “You’re not so bad for a spoiled rich girl, Dowd. You have spunk.”

  I don’t see him again after that day except from a distance or in the sports columns online and on TV, until we’re in high school. I was a year behind him and by then I’d retrenched to being shy and feeling like a failure because my parents set a high bar and I exhausted myself trying to jump for it. Every single day.

  The memory of that Winnipesaukee incident soothes me. Something in me rose up that day, remnants of a younger confident self, maybe a glimpse of my future confident self. Wherever I got it, I had spunk, as Jack called it.