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

by Stephanie Queen

  I say to him, “I’m going into the end zone tonight.”

  He gives me a you’re shitting me look. “What are you talking about? Coach’ll never allow that.”

  “Fuck the coach,” I say. He stares me down, going from disbelief to a flat-out grin, then slaps me on the back.

  “Jack the rebel. I bet you get away with it because who can argue with success?”

  Coach can argue, but he won’t do anything about it. And the press will eat it up. My fucking ridiculous deal with Joni may just earn me a few more Heisman votes. Shit-damn. Instead of running onto the field with my usual game face, I grin wide and mean it and somehow feel fiercer than ever as we start the game.

  BC is tough. They have a lot of firepower so we need to run the ball to eat up the clock and keep their offense off the field. George gets called to run with it play after play and by the fourth quarter we’re only ahead by three points and BC has the ball. When they fucking score with four minutes left in the game, I grab my helmet and put it back on, trotting out to the field. We haven’t been down in the fourth quarter all season.

  Coach grabs my arm, stopping me and says, “Throw on the first down. And make sure you get down the field. We need this score and I don’t care if we leave time on the clock.” I nod. He knows I know to throw short passes using Tristan as a decoy. We get to the fifteen-yard line and Coach calls for a run play with a minute left. I’m supposed to hand it off to George. We huddle and I tell him, Tristan eyes me, remembering my promise to score. I say to George, “Go for a first down, not a touchdown. We need to use the clock.” He nods. It’s a risky move, not something the coach said or even implied, but I’m sure about it. And I’m willing to take the heat if we don’t win.

  We line up and I call out the play. The center hikes me the ball and I fake a pass and hand it to George who’s running right while I move left. He spins through a hole in the defensive line and falls forward at the five-yard line for a first down. The clock is ticking and I call everyone back to the line of scrimmage to repeat the play. Coach is pacing the sideline, but he stays silent.

  The clock is down to under thirty seconds and I call the play and get the ball. I fake the pass, George runs right and I run left, only this time I don’t give him the ball. He’s surprised, but only for a split second, then he reverses and runs with me as I head to the sideline, pumping my legs to get to the edge, to make it to the pylon at the end zone before I’m run out of bounds. It’s close and BC’s star linebacker is gunning for me, but George is faster and cuts him off. I leap over the both of them as they roll to the ground and land in the end zone on my back with the ball.

  Cheers erupt as I lie there and I look up at the scoreboard. The clock says ten seconds. I smile because I know it’s the game. And I scored my touchdown. The winning touchdown. The princess is coming to my castle tonight.

  Breaking out of the stadium, away from the coach, the locker room, and the press, feels like a prison break tonight. Joni texts me that she’ll see me at the party at BMOC house later, juicing up my level of impatience. It doesn’t feel right that she’s not waiting for me after the game, but I know she doesn’t like all the press attention, so I push it aside.

  Heading to my truck, I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am, to find Voland leaning against the wreck waiting for me.

  “You better watch out or the fucking wreck might collapse under your weight,” I say.

  He straightens and puts his hand out to shake mine, saying, “Great game tonight, Jack. Especially that last touchdown. I want you to know you have my vote for the Heisman.”

  Standing alongside the truck’s door, I put my hand on the handle, signaling my impatience if he’s too stupid to already know he’s pushing me, handshake or no handshake, Heisman vote promise or not. This guy has been a particular pest. Maybe he thinks he can get away with it because he’s a local bigshot writing for the AP wire.

  “About the truck. I was thinking. It’s kinda strange a kid like you driving a junker.” He stops and waits for me to speak. I don’t, but after a minute I realize he’s going to wait me out. And I need to go.

  “That it, Voland? You just want to share your wandering thoughts with me? ‘Cause I need to—”

  “I know you have no money, kid, and I don’t care. But I’m curious—”

  “I have to go.” I pull the door open, my chest tight and the stabbing pain in my back trying to murder me so that I want to jump in the truck and drive as far as I can go.

  “I met your mother,” he says. I stop short, one sneaker in the car, and I turn to him. My body is cold enough to shiver, but I tense every muscle in my body waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “She’s a lovely woman. Very young.” I want to slap him and my hands fist before I realize it. He notices because he’s an observant prick.

  “No, no, don’t worry. I was a perfect gentleman. I only meant that she must have been in her teens—”

  “Get to your point.” My voice is tight, but I try and stay civil, not give away that I have anything to hide.

  “I asked about your dad and she told me he was dead, that you never knew him. I’m sorry—I’d never heard that. You must have had a tough childhood. I was thinking I could do a story—”

  “No.” I don’t wait to argue and get into the truck. He waves me to put the window down, so I roll it while I start it up.

  “I can do the story with or without your cooperation.”

  “I’ll make sure my mom doesn’t talk to you again. I appreciate my privacy.” I look away, holding in my rage and shame and know he can run with whatever story he wants. Most reporters these days don’t go past what they find online. Lucky for me we were so poor I had no internet and no internet footprint. Literally no social media, nothing. The only thing that’s online is my football history.

  “Look, how about if I promise you an exclusive interview after I win the Heisman?”

  He nods, but looks skeptical.

  “Have a good night, Voland. Say hello to the wife and kids.”

  He laughs, but it’s not a friendly laugh. I’m an asshole when I should be nice. But the crack about money and the fact that he talked to Mom has me rattled. I’m going to have to call her. Soon. Tomorrow.

  When I get to the house the last thing I’m in the mood for is a party, but prep is underway as all the furniture is moved out of the living room and into the basement. Thank fuck I didn’t get recruited for that job. My post-game press conference went longer than usual. Silver lining.

  “Hey, Jack,” Ben says as he helps the DJ set up his equipment at the far end of the living room. Since his game is hockey he’s in charge of football season parties.

  “I didn’t get your hundred bucks for the party.” He walks up to me and I wish I’d come in the back door.

  “Right. How about if I give it to you next week.” He looks at me funny and then nods.

  “Sure. It’s okay if you don’t have it—”

  “I’ll have it next week,” I say. I can’t even think of what kind of excuse will make sense to him, so I don’t come up with one. He puts up his hand in a peace sign.

  “It’s cool.”

  “Later.” I waste no time heading for the stairs even though I’m starving. There’ll be other guys in the kitchen and I need to get my head together. In my room I change from my gym shorts into my only semi-clean pair of jeans and a faded Wildbeasts T-shirt from the bottom of my dresser. I haven’t had money for laundry and Joni never offered to do it for me. Fuck. I can’t ask for her help now. She’ll know it’s about the money.

  And if there is one thing I will not do, it’s take money from Joni. Not if I’m half dead of starvation and living in a cardboard box by the river.

  It’s six o’clock and I have some time before the party starts in earnest. My choice is to grab some food or work on my project. I need the money as much as I need the food, maybe more. Slipping my computer out, I know I’m taking a risk logging in here from the house, but it’s a sm
all risk, right? No one is monitoring my account. Why would they?

  They wouldn’t unless I was under investigation. But that’s not going to happen. I log into the account using my platform ID, BrainBeast. I flinch, realizing I shouldn’t even have used that mild reference to St. Paul U’s mascot. Too late now. I’ll change it again after I finish this project. It’s a fine line coming up with IDs that are obscure and that I’ll remember. And every time I change it I lose my reputation and have to start over so I don’t get the best prices. But I have a rule. Never more than three projects per ID and never a repeat customer. This keeps my rates lower than they might be, but it also protects my identity and prevents me from getting caught.

  These websites get shut down from time to time and law enforcement goes after only the heavy hitters. As much as I want to earn the bucks the heavy hitters do, I’m not greedy and foolish enough to risk getting caught. I’m only desperate to make enough to keep Mom and me afloat.

  A few more pages, another half hour of work, and I’ll be done. Then I can submit the partial file for payment and as soon as I get the money in my PayPal account, I’ll send the complete file. The PayPal account is attached to a joint account that had been set up for me and Grandpa a long time ago at a credit union out of town. They don’t know Grandpa is dead and the balance stays low enough to never earn more than two dollars in interest a year.

  I’ve learned far too much about how to get around the system trying to make quick money that it doesn’t seem like quick money anymore. It feels like a burden, a job like any other, but I’m locked in and know how to do it with minimal disruption to my life and keep it private. No one knows about it. Not one single living soul.

  By the time I get down to the kitchen there are only three sandwiches left on the plate Majik left in the fridge for us. I know it started with two dozen. She always makes two each. The only ones left are tuna, but I don’t care as I take one. I’ll have to wash it down with a beer to get rid of the tuna breath, but I can handle one beer.

  “Hey Jack, want a beer?” Billy says as he pumps the keg’s tap to get rid of the foam.

  “I’m not taking the first draft. Isn’t there another keg tapped somewhere?”

  “Out back. Ben has it going.”

  I go out back, checking my texts to see if Joni is on her way. Shoving the remainder of the sandwich into my mouth, I put out a hand to take the red cup Ben just filled.

  “Since when are you thirsty enough to drink a beer? Must be a cold day in hell.”

  “Nah. But I did just see a pig fly by.”

  He laughs and hands me the cup then gets busy pouring another one. I take a long gulp, swishing it around my mouth like mouthwash. It tastes good. It’s been a fucking long time since I had a drink. Mom comes to mind and Grandpa. I was fourteen and it was after a big game like this. I ended up passed out in a parking lot and the local cop called Grandpa instead of taking me to jail. He probably knew Grandpa would take care of me and I’d wish I was in jail. Mom treated my hangover. She’d been in her element and knew exactly what to do. She looked at me like a kindred spirit the next morning and that scared me. That and Grandpa’s pronouncement that if I ever drank again he’d throw me out. Mom was afraid and was convinced he was serious, though he’d never thrown her out. That always puzzled me, but either way, aside from a few polite sips of celebration champagne, I never drank again, not even the night he died.

  The real question is why am I breaking my drinking drought today, now. I know it’s not about fucking tuna breath. Before I think too much, I down the rest of the beer and toss the cup. My phone pings and I fumble it from my pocket.

  Ben laughs.

  “This girl has you by the balls. A sight I never thought I’d see.”

  “Fuck you. It’s the other way around—or would be if she had balls,” I say, half grinning. I swipe on her text. She’s on her way, thank fuck. I text her back to come in the back. I’ll wait here for her.

  I don’t know what’s putting me so far on edge. I should be used to the pressure from the media. The financial struggle has always been part of my life. But today it feels like Voland has upped the ante, turned the screws. He knows something. He was fishing with purpose today. It feels in my gut like maybe he’s connecting the dots between football and money.

  Exactly at the wrong time. With the Heisman vote coming and the NCAA breathing down St. Paul’s neck with a threatened investigation. Maybe Voland heard about it. But he would have said something, wouldn’t he? Maybe not.

  Either way, the sharp pain through my back is making it hard for me to breathe, like a knife blade cutting close.

  “Pour me another beer,” I say to Ben. He looks a question, but I’m not smiling and I’m not talking, so he shrugs, gets another cup, and pours.

  “Guess this is a good time to let loose and celebrate. This season must be a pressure cooker for you.” He hands me the beer and I raise it to him. He knows all about pressure. The hockey team is more often in the Frozen Four than not and he’s the rising star.

  “To the St. Paul U athletics pressure cooker,” I say and knock back half the beer. The cold liquid soothes my throat. Maybe another one will dull the knife blade shooting across my back. I roll my shoulders. People start arriving and the music starts up with my personal favorite, Imagine Dragon’s “Believer.” I look at Ben, knowing he’s in charge of the DJ. And the song choice.

  He lifts a cup in salute. “Congrats on today’s win. And that kickass touchdown, man.”

  Joni walks up the steps behind me and I turn at the telltale cherry-almond scent of her.

  “You started celebrating without me. You’re even drinking beer.” She’s surprised, but not alarmed as she comes to me and gives me a hug. “Congratulations, Jack.” I kiss her hard though she hadn’t planned for me to. I can tell by her nervous laugh and how she pulls away.

  “Another round of beer, Ben.” He pours three fresh cups and I give one to Joni. She accepts it reluctantly.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t expect to get away without drinking beer at a football party this season, should I?”

  She takes a sip and makes a face. “Wine is more my drink,” she says.

  “That’s why I call you princess.” She slaps my arm. Ben laughs.

  “But as they way, when in Rome.” She takes a bigger sip and then shakes her head in a shudder as if it’s bad medicine.

  “Thatta girl,” I say, then I lean in and whisper, “It’ll calm your nerves for tonight. I don’t want you backing out on our deal.” She turns pinker than usual and I take the cup from her and finish it off, knowing I’m on my way to buzzed. Not knowing why and not fucking caring anymore.

  “You make it sound so romantic,” she says in a quiet voice. “But don’t worry. I always keep my promises.” Her words have the kind of dignity that make me feel like trash. But then I am trash, so no kidding.

  Her phone buzzes and she checks it. “Dooley and Izzy are here.” She moves to go in the back door and I snake an arm around her, slowing her down.

  “How about if we skip the party?”

  She looks at me and I don’t know what she sees, but she nods. Maybe it’s my pathetic desperation for her. Maybe it’s the beer buzz. Maybe she knows something is off. If she does, I’ll have to ask her what it is, because all I know is I’m not myself.

  We leave Ben and bypass everyone in the kitchen, including Tristan and George, and go up the back stairs. I hear George’s wolf whistle and I want to go back and punch him, but watching Joni’s ass in front of me keeps me going straight to my room. The party going on in full force downstairs, but when I close the door behind us, it’s not too bad.

  “The noise will hide your screams,” I say. She looks horrified and reassured at the same time and I laugh, high and ready to be inside her.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No worries. I can handle a few beers.” To convince her I grab her hand and hold it over my cock through my pants. It’s hard and spunky in spite of th
e alcohol.

  “That’s not what I mean.” She leaves her hand where it is and caresses when I want her to squeeze, but I don’t push because we have all night. “You never drink. Not even as a teen, as I remember it. From what kids used to say. Not that I was ever at any of those parties.” She smiles like she’s apologizing for her awkward teen self.

  “I don’t.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t have a ready explanation and I’m not about to make one up. “It’s not worth talking about. Or worrying about. Not what we came up here for, is it?” I move her into my room to the mattress, my hand pushing up under her sweater and, finding her braless, I heave a sigh of shuddering pleasure.

  Lowering myself onto the mattress, I pull her with me, cushioning her as she lands on my lap, savoring the pressure and warmth of her ass on my cock.

  “You know it’s getting hard to separate the sexy physical part of our relationship from the rest of it.”

  “Tonight all you need to concentrate on is that sexy part, the part where you have multiple orgasms, rendering your brain incapable of thinking about anything else.”

  She gives a breathy laugh and I lower her to the pillows and kiss that mouth that I’ve come to think of as my private preserve of sensuality, and float my palm over her nipple as it pebbles and she moans into my mouth. The dizzying journey starts and I know I’m heading to the promised land of mind-blowing multiple orgasms for us both, the place where we can lose ourselves, where nothing else matters and I plan to stay there all night, as long as we can.

  When I wake to the sweet scent of cherry-almond and her hair tickling my nose, a smile takes hold of my face and my head. She’s naked next to me and my hand travels from the smooth, perfect slight curve of her belly, down to the hot creamy dip between her legs. I want to wake her up with an orgasm and my fingers find her soft clit in the dormant folds still moist from the night before—or maybe her dreams of me right now.

  She wriggles and moans and I play with her, blow lightly in her ear so I can see the gooseflesh rise on the delicate flesh around her ear. My cock is ramrod stiff against her thigh as I press her legs wider.