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

by Stephanie Queen

  Of course he’s not the same person as that boy. He has so much going for him now. He’s going to get everything he’s struggled for, I just know it.

  Forcing myself to relax, I sit next to him with my computer on my lap. He squeezes my thigh, that same possessive gesture that never fails to excite me and scare me. But most of all, that silent squeeze of his strong hand makes me feel warm, accepted. He doesn’t take his eyes off the iPad. Shit. He’s going to see everything in that story, all of me, more exposed than my naked body. I take a deep breath because I need to do some work and get my mind off what he’s going to think of my story, of me. I never told him what it was about. I think he just understands it’s about me, about my childhood, my life.

  Jack reads without looking up and I finally focus on my paper. As the sun sets early in the afternoon my joints feel stiff, but I manage to click save and my paper is done. I look over at him again. He hasn’t moved much in the past couple of hours, except to stretch, smile at me, and give my thigh another squeeze.

  It’s been enough for me and I’m seduced once again by him as I believe without reason that the story is good, that he’ll like it. Like I believe beyond reason that he’s good.

  “I’m getting up. I’m finished and I’m starved,” I say.

  “Mm hmm.” He nods and pinches my ass as I rise. I laugh like a silly girl, as if I was never that girl who cried when he called me names. As if we skipped from the day at Lake Winnipesaukee to St. Paul’s without going through the pain of Moreland High School. Because I know now it was just as painful for him as it was for me.

  I also know we would never be here now, allies and lovers, if we didn’t share the secret of our pain. Leaving the room, I turn on the light and leave him alone, suddenly needing the fresh Jack-free air, the space to think away from his influence. Maybe it’s too late, because I carry him in my head as I wander to the kitchen, absently saying hello to a few girls, dormmates who are familiar strangers. I grab a bag of cookies and bring them back to the room.

  Standing outside the door with my hand on the knob, I hesitate. I want to know what he thinks, but the fear and bile rise because it means everything, far more it should mean to me what he thinks. After all, who is he?

  He’s everything to me. A fresh wave of fear strikes me and I freeze. God almighty, where have I gone? How did I get from sharing secrets and then sharing his bed to losing my heart? Or maybe it’s not. It can’t be, can it? It’s lust, like Jack says.

  But I’m not like Jack, my heart says.

  With shaky hands I pull together whatever bravery I have and open the door. Jack stalks around the room and looks up. His face goes from serious, almost disturbed, to that sizzling panty-melter smile, charm and affection oozing from him.

  I don’t know if it’s real.

  But it doesn’t matter now because he pulls me into a crushing hug, the kind that you give a returning war hero.

  “Joni, it’s a masterpiece. Your story is off-the-charts gripping and emotional and real and fascinating—like you. You’re so much more talented than I could have hoped for.” His enthusiasm is unrecognizable, nothing like the cool controlled guy I know who only shows his passion in bed. Has he crossed some sort of line? Have I reached him? My heart squeezes and I find myself crying real tears.

  He pushes me away.

  “What’s wrong, Joni?”

  I wave a hand, laugh-crying in heavy sobs of joy. “Happy tears,” I manage to say as the tears stream uncontrollably. I don’t know what the tears are for, if they’re celebrating my novel, the work I poured myself into, or if I’m overjoyed by Jack’s approval, his real passionate joy on my behalf, at my accomplishment.

  “Come here.” He pulls me into his lap as he sits in my rocking chair, kissing and licking my tears, making me laugh and cry even more until I hiccup and he wipes my face with tissues and I blow my nose, mortified.

  “Oh my God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just … it was so much work and so hard to share and I’m so happy you like it because it means it’s real, that I really wrote a novel worth reading.”

  “No fucking shit, you did. I can’t wait until you publish it,” he says.

  I shake my head, laughing. “I’m not publishing that story. But I do hope it gets me an A in Soullier’s class.”

  “I know it’s about your family,” he says, stroking my back.

  “Yeah. I figured you would catch on. So you know why I can’t—”

  “Yes. You can. And you will publish it. You can’t write an eighty-thousand-word novel and not publish it. Let’s face it. No one writes a novel for a grade in English class.”

  I laugh a brittle nervous laugh because it’s not funny. “But Jack. What about—you know? You may not care about my mother’s affair with Greta, but—”

  “I’ve known about the affair all along.”

  I stare at him. He’s not kidding. My heart goes into palpitations. “Does this mean everyone in Moreland knows?” I whisper the words.

  “No. I discovered the truth accidentally. It’s the reason your father hates me. But never mind about that. I can’t wait until you publish it. I wonder if he’ll recognize himself.”

  “I’m never publishing it. God no. Can you imagine? In spite of what you think, I wrote it for my class with Professor Soullier. I think it’s worth an A. My parents should be proud of that.” And I wrote it for myself, because I had to. I don’t admit it, but I have a feeling he already knows. I have a feeling that he knows all my secrets, all my feelings because I’m so hideously transparent to him.

  “You need to publish this,” he repeats. “The story, the writing, they’re too good not to publish.”

  “I can’t and you know it. People would know—”

  “No, they wouldn’t.” He sighs. “You hid the true identities well—an Italian family running a restaurant in New York City? What could be further from your family and their banking empire in New England?”

  “Don’t mock my family, Jack. Only I have the right to do that. Besides, people would know—you knew, didn’t you?”

  “Because I’m me and I know you.”

  “My parents, and Greta, would know,” I whisper, afraid that I want them to know, to see and confront their behavior and the effect it had on the young woman trying to make sense of life, trying to be noticed, recognized, and truly loved.

  “Your dad will pretend he knows nothing, your mom will brush it under the rug and diminish it into nothing more than dust, and Greta—”

  “Greta will be devastated,” I say, knowing he’s right, about everything. He narrows his eyes at me, recognizing my sudden determination, inspired by him as always.

  “You’re going to do it? You’ll publish the book.” He squeezes my thigh.

  I nod. “Maybe. Eventually.”

  “As soon as you get your A-plus. Not a minute later.”

  “What are you? My agent? You expecting a cut of the royalties?” I try to joke again, my insides jittery from too much exposure to the wide-open inspection of Jack Hunter.

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “Seriously, Jack. It’s a big step putting the story out there. I need to be prepared.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll all still love you the same as they do now, princess.”

  His mean words slap me into reality, making me wonder if I’m loved after all, wondering if I have anything to lose—and then knowing. I do. I stare at him, unsure if he’s a bully or a sage, my nemesis or my savior.

  He takes me in his arms. “Seriously, Joni, if they really love you—and you know they do in their own way—the book won’t matter. If anything, it’ll guilt them into showing their feelings.”

  “You talk like you know something about showing feelings.”

  “Strictly on other people. I don’t have to be shot by Cupid to know when I see a fool in love.” I want to ask him to look in the mirror and see if that’s what he sees, but I settle for being a hypocrite.

  “You’re
such a bag of shit. An emotional coward.”

  “Through and through. And don’t you forget it.” His words make me shiver even as his kisses flutter against the pulse point in my neck like the flick of a poisonous snake’s tongue. I should pull away and run, but he’s too intoxicating, too seductively wonderful. I want to take in every delicious gulp of him, consume everything he gives me. Live for today. Live without fear.

  I wonder if I can, as he brands me with his hot mouth and all my thoughts melt away.

  Chapter 15

  Jack

  When I finally peel myself away from Joni Saturday night, it’s only because she’s so exhausted that she’s fallen asleep and I don’t have it in me to wake her for goodbye sex. Maybe I don’t have another round of sex in me anyway.

  So, at nine o’clock on a Saturday night I go back to a dark and empty BMOC House and wish dark and empty didn’t feel exactly like where I am without Joni.

  Either way, the only thing I’m fit for is sleep. All the work, the unpaid bills, the calls for interviews, the pressure and the problems, will still be there tomorrow. I’ll handle it all then. I always do.

  I collapse onto my pathetic mattress and close my eyes, letting the pain in my back have its way, knowing I’ll sleep regardless. Knowing I’ll have a dream about Joni. Knowing it’ll turn into a nightmare, the kind of amorphous, indefinable nightmare that leaves only unsettled dread in its wake. My mattress didn’t seem so pathetic when Joni shared it with me. I let myself sleep anyway.

  The sun is barely up at seven am as I head to the library. I meet the librarian at the door and she lets me in, surprised and impressed. I smile, but I don’t give a shit what she thinks. I need to work on a project with my new ID for half the price it’s worth. Hours later when it’s finished, I manage to cram for my economics exam for a while before I get tired of checking my repeatedly buzzing phone. The only reason I keep the phone on is in case Joni texts me.

  Am I that pathetic?

  No. I’m that into fucking her. Hopelessly in lust. Head over heels in lust. Madly in lust. All the clichés in lust. I’ve never tested my stamina the way I have with her. I feel like I could win the world championship marathon of banging if they held a competition. If Joni was my partner in fucking.

  Leaning my head on my hand, I stare at the phone, scrolling through the texts and missed calls. Media, media, media, George, Tristan, Dooley, media, media, Coach. Fuck. I click on the message and it only says to call him, so I do.

  “Coach Radz.”

  “Coach, this is Jack. You said to call you. I’ve been in the library—”

  “Sure. For two fucking days? Get your head out of your ass, boy. I know where you’ve been. Do you think I don’t know what goes on?”

  He has people fucking spying on me?

  There’s a beat of silence, but I don’t fill it. I have nothing to say. He’s not going anywhere people haven’t stomped before. I can out-tough him.

  “You have a press conference tomorrow after practice at six at the field house. Bring a suit, shirt, and tie.” He hangs up with a bang, literally. I hear the receiver of his old-as-dirt desk phone slam into the cradle and jolt my eardrums. That’s a blast from my grandpa’s past I didn’t need to experience. I scroll back and see one of the missed calls is from Voland. I press the phone icon and call him. He must know what the fuck this is all about because it’s about something. Coach doesn’t get this worked up over the usual press conferences. We’ve been media darlings for the past three years, especially heading in to Heisman voting and the competition for bowl game selections.

  The phone rings twice and Voland picks up.

  “Jack Hunter?”

  “You know it is, Voland. What’s going on? Anything special I should know about?”

  He laughs. “That’s not how this works, kid. I’m the one who asks you what’s going on—you’re the source of the news, the horse’s mouth.”

  “Cut the crap. I’m in the dark. My life is an open book. I play football. I go to class. I attend the occasional party—”

  “You spend a lot of time in the library. Like every time I’m looking for you.”

  “That’s how it works when you get straight A’s, Voland. But I guess you don’t know about that.”

  “Touché. But since I have you on the phone, how about if I ask you a question first and then I’ll answer yours.”

  It’s a bad deal, but it’s the only one I have. “You’re on.”

  “Is Charles Dowd giving you money to help—”

  “No.” My voice is a low growl. This is some kind of nasty bullshit. “Who’s spreading this rumor?”

  “No one. Just two and two. You’re dating his daughter. He’s recently become a trustee. He’s wealthy and you’re from the same town, so—”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing to it. Why don’t you call up Charles and ask him about it?”

  “I did. He didn’t take my call. If I wasn’t such a tough bastard, I might be offended by all the unrequited love.”

  “Now you can answer my question. Why all the speculation about money?”

  “A few things. Not the least of which is the NCAA investigation. Ever since the Reggie Bush scandal years back, they take the idea of college players and where they get their money very seriously.” He pauses and I know there’s more because Reggie Bush is ancient history. “Plus, I heard the NCAA is sharing their findings with the FBI.”

  The fucking FBI? What the hell? My body goes taut and I breathe deep, automatically going into game mode, specifically, the mindset I adopt when I’m staring down the fat throats of three hippo-size defensive linemen with bad breath steamrolling my way. I keep in my periphery while I take care of business, breathing evenly and finding an outlet for the ball.

  Now with my breathing even and the adrenaline allowing me the self-control to avoid panic, keep the danger at bay in my periphery, I speak calmly. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me that. Seems the NCAA found some anomalies in your financials from what I can tell. They can’t figure out where you’re getting your money. You’re like a house of cards built on no foundation.”

  “You really suck at similes for a journalist, Voland.”

  He laughs. “True. But I’m a fucking bulldog when it comes to tracking down a story. You seem to be floating on air financially, getting by on a scholarship and a lousy summer job and yet managing to keep your mother’s household going.”

  “Mom has a job. She pays her bills.” It’s a flat-out lie, but he doesn’t know that.

  He laughs. “You and I both know that’s not true. But if you want me to think it’s your mom pulling money from a hat like an illegal magic rabbit, I suppose that’s one way to handle it.”

  “You’re way off base.” I don’t like where this is going. “She has money. From my grandfather’s estate.” Another fucking lie, but I know he doesn’t have access to my bank statements. The NCAA and the feds are another matter, but they can’t be wasting their time on a small potatoes matter like this. Tell that to Reggie Bush. All he allegedly did was accept money from his agent and they took away his Heisman. My money? It doesn’t come from an agent or a generous alumnus, nothing that obvious. No, a lot worse than that. If they ever find out where I get my money, losing the Heisman will be the least of my problems.

  I could be looking at jail time.

  “Maybe I am off base,” Voland says. “But be prepared for these and other uncomfortable questions at tomorrow’s press conference, Jack. I know you think otherwise, but I’m on your side. I know your story and I like it—kid from a rough background struggles to make good. I admire you. I’m rooting for you.” He pauses, but I know he’s not finished talking. He knows I’m far from admirable. “But if there’s some shit you’re involved in that you want to talk about, let me know.”

  I don’t answer. I end the call, wishing I had one of those fucking old-fashioned phones like Coach that I could slam down and make his
ears ring.

  What the fuck is this shit all about? I sit staring at my economics book which may as well be written in hieroglyphics when my phone vibrates against the ancient wooden table. It’s finally Joni calling. My head shifts gears and the change when I hear her voice is disorienting, like I’m living in two dimensions, one heaven and one hell. I don’t even want to think about what happens when the dimensions overlap.

  “A group of us are going for pizza. Want to come along?” She doesn’t press it, doesn’t assume that I will. That’s what I like about her, about us. Right? If that’s true, then why do I feel the pinch of annoyance?

  “Of course.” I fucking waited all day to hear from you. Why aren’t you as hung up as I am? Reining in my desperation, I chalk it up to being starved since I’ve eaten nothing all day. “I’ll meet you there. I’m still at the library. I need to go back to BMOC House and change.”

  “Did you study for economics?”

  “Sure. What are you, my mother?” I tease, but in truth, I don’t mind that she worries. It’s not something I’m used to. Having someone care on my behalf. She’s not like Coach and others who care because it affects their own asses if I mess up. Tristan cares I suppose. And maybe Majik. Probably not George. And that’s my list of people who give a shit. I don’t bother including my mother on the list because she’s proven that her words of support are more like lip service than anything else, and I’m her meal ticket so I can’t trust any professed affection she has. Made the mistake of doing that long ago and found out where I was on her list real hard and fast.

  Nowhere. She left for a mystery man once when I was young and didn’t come back for six months. And that’s when her drinking and drugs began. I shouldn’t have such a vivid memory of how things were since I was only about five. But I do. I remember empty booze bottles and needles and battles between her and Grandpa. He shielded me as best he could. Until he died and I became the official man of the house. The breadwinner. Exactly when I was on the cusp of escaping and making it, when I signed for a full-ride scholarship to go to St. Paul U.