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

by Stephanie Queen

  Well, I found a way to do it. To have my cake and eat it too. To live my dream and play college football, but I paid a price. Or I’m paying now. The only question is, how high a price will the devil I sold my soul to be extracting from me?

  She laughs and we end the call. I stretch and shake my stiff limbs then head back to the house.

  I show up at Wildbeasts Pizza with Tristan. He was hanging out at the house so I invited him along. I bring my credit card and hope it’s not maxed out yet. I didn’t have time to check. Maybe I don’t want to know. On the way over in my truck, I want to ask him if he knows about the press conference, but I don’t. Best not to make a big deal out of it. Not until it blows up in my face and I have no choice but to deal with it, right?

  Grandpa always said don’t borrow trouble.

  But then I doubt he’d suggest I ought to go blindly walking into an ambush unprepared.

  Whatever happens, I’ll have to rely on myself. Prepare myself and get myself out of whatever comes my way. Tristan can’t help me. Maybe he ought to steer clear. And Joni? No way can I let her anywhere near a shit show. If I sink, I won’t take her with me. I don’t know if I owe her, but it’s the way I need to do it. It doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t mean that our relationship is serious or that we have anything beyond sex between us and maybe some calculus. I’m just not going to take her down with me. There’s no thought or decision to be made, that’s just how it fucking is.

  But who says I’m going down? Voland? The NCAA? The FBI?

  So far that’s all speculation by a lone reporter, so I push it from my mind as we walk to the table where Joni, Dooley, Izzy, and George sit.

  “Pizza smells like crack,” I say. “I need a double fix. Did you order yet?” I slide in next to Joni, my smile automatic as she looks at me like I’m tastier than the pizza.

  “Crack doesn’t have a smell—does it?” George says, holding his beer mug halfway to his mouth.

  “No. I meant the smell is addictive,” I say. Izzy rolls her eyes and Joni laughs.

  “Why do you bother explaining?” Tristan says, grinning and shaking his head.

  “We waited for you to order pizza,” Joni says as if she’d willingly starve to death waiting for me. A frisson of satisfaction and warning shivers through me. We order and I’m tempted to have a beer, but I squeeze my eyes shut against sliding down that steep slope. Fuck. Hold firm. I squeeze Joni’s thigh, the familiar fleshy feel of her bringing me home, keeping me on this side of the line, in the dimension of possibilities and promising futures.

  “Did you know my girl finished writing a novel and will be a published author by this time next year?” I raise my glass of water as she slaps my arm, turning pink, a smile filled with guilt and pleasure accusing me and grateful for the spotlight. The table is impressed and the conversation stays with her until a few reporters crash our party. I see them the minute they walk through the door, Voland leading the pack. Fuck.

  Shameless in only the way sports media are, the three men and a lady head straight to our table in a short parade.

  “Press heading our way,” Tristan says, nudging my shoulder. I nod.

  They don’t have the decency or patience to sit down and pretend to be customers. All four of them stop and hover at our table creating a spotlight on us worthy of a Hollywood premiere. Not that I care about the attention because that train wreck left the station years ago. But I might take a swing at Voland if he brings up the question of my financials in front of my friends.

  “Jack,” he says and nods at everyone else as if they don’t count.

  “You know Tristan Collins and George Sylvester from the team,” I say, “and this is Joni Dowd, Isabelle Temple, and Dooley. The pizza is great here. Enjoy your meals.” I know my attempt at dismissal is futile, but it’s worth sending a polite message while I still have it in me to be polite. These people are the ones who will be voting on the Heisman this week. I need their good will. But I don’t need controversy and I meet Voland’s eyes. He gives the slightest nod.

  “How’s it feel to be on the short list for the Heisman?” Connie, the lone woman of the small press corps, asks me.

  “Grateful,” I say. It’s true. I feel on edge, like I’ve been on a high-wire act for almost four years and I can see the end a step away. But I smile like I mean it without sharing my soul. Like always. When one of the other guys is about to ask another question, Voland nudges him along.

  “You enjoy your pizza,” he says and shuffles them to the back of the restaurant. There are no empty tables and I see them head out the back door.

  “That was weird,” George says. “I thought they were going to bombard us with questions like they always do.”

  “You mean bombard Jack with questions like they always do,” Izzy says to her supposed date. He gives her a look I can’t read, not angry, but not happy.

  When we finish and my credit card doesn’t get rejected, thank fuck, I know Voland and his crew will be outside waiting for us, so I’m not surprised. Taking Joni’s arm, we’re the last ones out the door and I move us fast toward my truck. Tristan is heading back with George, Izzy and Dooley. Voland and his friends linger in the lot at a sedan parked right next to my truck. Fuck.

  “How are you handling the stress, Jack?” one of the guys says, eying Joni. I turn, standing at the back of my truck, pushing Joni to get inside, but she doesn’t. She stands firm beside me.

  “Are you and Ms. Dowd serious? Will she be going with you when you get drafted by the NFL?”

  “Who will you be choosing for an agent?” Voland says.

  “If you two are serious,” Connie says, “Don’t you think she deserves better than a pizza night out? You’re a big star.” Then she turns to Joni and says, “Is Jack a cheap boyfriend?”

  I have trouble biting my tongue, but I do. The voting is this week.

  Joni says, “Pizza was my idea. I’m sick of eating steak.”

  “Is that a euphemism?” Connie wiggles her brows and Joni turns crimson. I don’t like the reporter embarrassing her. A protective streak rears up bigger and wider than even my cock and I shoot back.

  “No need to project your dirty little secret wishes, Connie.”

  The other reporters laugh, cell phones are held up either taking pics or recording us, I’m not sure, as I hold Joni’s hand tight and take her to the passenger door.

  “Nice ride,” Voland says. “You sure you’re not a closet pauper?”

  I slam Joni’s door after she gets inside and I turn to face Voland, a fake pleasant smile on my face, hiding the shaking fear inside me, desperate not to show the others that he struck a bull’s-eye deep and true, hoping the others aren’t as aware of my pauper status.

  “Go home to your wife and kids and have dinner, Voland,” I say, knowing full well he has no wife and kids. Then I whisper for his ears only, “Oh wait—that’s right. You have no life.” No need to worry about his goodwill. I’ve already lost it. He knows something he’s not telling me about. I walk around the truck, not paying attention to whatever the fuck his response is. The other reporters are shouting more inane questions about our next game. At least they’re off the fucking topic of my pauper status.

  I get in the truck and meet Joni’s golden eyes. My stomach churns.

  “Thank you. For covering for me.”

  “It’s our secret, right?”

  I wish. But the leaking has begun. I stare at her and try and make sense of how I feel. It’s not normal, not good. I hate not knowing what this is between us, but I don’t. Not anymore.

  I know I don’t hate her violently the way I used back in high school. Back when she reminded me of everything bad in my life, my mother’s failures, her drinking and drugs, her lack of ability to cope with life, Grandpa’s death. Not knowing who my father is. I think this is the worst shame of all. The biggest hole in my soul that resembles swiss cheese.

  “What? What are you thinking?” she says, curiosity and fear mingling on her face and righ
tly so.

  I’m determined that I’m not going to be a loser, that I’ll rise above the gutter trash circumstances of my upbringing and family heritage. I was always going to make more of myself than Joni ever could in spite of all her privilege. Or so I thought. Now all of that doesn’t seem real. All the truths I held onto for years are getting diluted by the reality of today.

  I always thought that I’d never see her again until I was on top of my game, her equal.

  Because my deepest darkest secret is that I’d felt an attraction to her, a connection. And no matter how much I told himself that it was nothing but hormones, I knew otherwise.

  I knew I had a deeper, darker attraction, the kind that was as far away from an enemy, a rival, as a guy could get. From a young age, ever since that day at the barbeque at Lake Winnipesaukee, I felt the tug. And as we both got older, matured, the tug turned into a full-blown attraction, the kind that made my junk jump whenever I was in her presence, the kind that set my dreams on fire at night. I still have those dreams of her riding me like a stallion, with me deep inside her going off the ledge of indecency.

  Even now that our lust for each other is infamous, when I should be satiated and rid of the dreams, they come back to me. And I have no fucking idea what it means, but they scare me like nightmares.

  “I was thinking about the dreams I have at night. About you.”

  Her grin goes wide and she leans in. “Tell me all about it, big man on campus.”

  She gives homage with her teasing reference and at the same time she mocks me. And I’m not sure if she knows it.

  Or if it matters. I grab her with both hands and haul her into me. As if she belongs with me.

  Though I know she doesn’t. I can have her body, but I can never touch her soul. Not without destroying her. Not without losing myself.

  Exhaustion hits me after I drop off Joni and return to the house. I want to talk with Tristan though I don’t know what to say to him, what to ask him.

  Catching up with him in the semi dark kitchen where he’s alone drinking milk from a carton, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

  “I need to break up with Joni.”

  Wiping the milk from his mouth, he puts the carton down on the counter, almost hiding his surprise.

  “Why? I think she’s really into you. I think she considers herself more than a girl of the moment.”

  “She’s not.”

  “You tell her that?”

  “I warned her. She won’t be surprised when we break up.” I shrug, pretending I don’t feel that stabbing pain in my back through my shoulder blades, the need to get in my truck and drive fast and far.

  “What’s your hurry? Aren’t you going to wait until Christmas break?” There’s a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s your thing. You know—how you have these superficial relationships that don’t mean anything, like they’re just for show, and then they’re mysteriously over during break and you come back and do it all over again. Dude, I’ve been with you since we were freshmen. This is our seventh semester together. I get how you operate. Only… never mind.”

  “No—tell me. Say what’s on your mind.” I’m shaking with the need to hear it and the fear of what truth he’s going to force me to face.

  “I thought Joni was different. She’s cool. She’s not into impressing people. Maybe she’s your type. Maybe—” I stop him because the churning in my gut and the tightness in my chest can’t stand it. Maybe I’m weak like my mother. But hell no, I can’t allow it. I’ll never allow a relationship to rule my life—to ruin it—the way she did. My mother never got over that man she chased after when I was not quite young enough to forget and she let it ruin her entire life. Almost let it ruin mine if it wasn’t for Grandpa. If it wasn’t for my determination not to let that happen. Joni will not become someone special. I can’t let her.

  I say, “You know I don’t have a type, right? I like all women the same. Some I want to fuck and others not so much, but I like them all. They remind me there’s a softer, prettier side to life.”

  “You like all women? What about your mother?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dread and anger and fear combine. What does he know?

  “Never mind. Forget I brought it up.” The look of apology on his face is sincere. This is Tristan. Taking a deep breath, I let go of the anger and fear, though the dread stays.

  “Forgotten,” I say. I turn to go up the back stairs to my room, but pause. “You hear about the press conference tomorrow after practice?”

  He smirks. “No. It’s probably one of those Heisman Trophy candidates only invitations.” He slaps my back and heads into his room across from mine.

  Probably.

  Chapter 16

  Jack

  The press conference is tougher than Monday practice and that’s saying something. Heisman voting is open as of today and the deadline is after Saturday’s game. Finalists will be announced a week from today and then the winner will be named the Friday after Thanksgiving at the award ceremony in New York City at the Marriott Marquis. I plan on being there.

  And I plan on taking home that trophy. I hold onto that thought with every memory muscle in my brain, calling on all the stubborn determination my grandpa bequeathed me. And not knowing if it’ll be enough because I don’t know if I have it in me. Because I don’t know who my fucking father is and I know my mother is weak and defeated.

  Standing at the podium with Reverend Church and his blind faith support on one side, and Coach Radz with his support based on resentful reliance on my other, I survey the packed audience of reporters.

  They all have Heisman ballots. I know that’s why they’re here now—to see whether they ought to cast their vote for me, or if I’m too much trouble.

  Church makes an opening statement using all the buzz words to describe me like proud, hardworking, winner, talented, smart, excellent student. But somehow none of it seems impressive.

  “There’s not a more deserving candidate for the Heisman Trophy this year. As you can see from the stat sheet we’ve provided you, the numbers don’t lie. And now Jack will answer questions, but we’re limiting this to thirty minutes.”

  If I was expecting raised hands and an orderly question and answer session, I’m disappointed. But I know better. This is the big game for these reporters and the free-for-all ensues like a full rush by an entire defensive line. Only in this game, I have no one blocking for me.

  “The NCAA is doing an investigation into the financial status of full-ride scholarship students at St. Paul University. Have they contacted you yet?”

  “What is your source of income, Jack? Besides your scholarship?”

  “Is it true that you support your mother?”

  “Is it true you received twice the normal pay for your summer job with Moreland Chevrolet?”

  “Are you into gaming?”

  “Do you gamble? I hear you’re a math whiz? Do you count cards? Do you go to casinos on Sundays when you tell people you’re in the library?” That’s from Voland and I ought to thank him later for providing comic relief.

  I laugh, putting my hands up and waving them until the questions stop.

  “If I can have the floor, I’ll answer as many of your questions as possible, both the serious and the crazy ones.” I get a smattering of laughs and take a breath.

  “No, the NCAA has not contacted me. I don’t know anything about their ongoing investigation so I’ll assume it has nothing to do with me. Apparently, it’s St. Paul U’s turn to be under their microscope.” I smile. They nod.

  “I’m not into gaming and I don’t gamble. I really do spend too much time in the library. Guilty as charged on that one.” More laughs.

  Church inserts, “As I mentioned before, Jack is a straight-A student.”

  For some reason, Church’s eagerness makes me more nervous than the herd of media. Maybe it’s his misplaced faith. I shove
aside the idea of him finding out how I earn my money and move on.

  “I help my mother with bills as much as possible. I did have a summer job with Moreland Chevrolet and the salary was cut in half last summer. I had been unaware that it was inflated, but then I’m just a college kid. I don’t know what jobs are supposed to pay. I only know I ended up making minimum wage last summer. Luckily my grandpa left my mom some emergency money to help.” That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I can’t pretend I’m not poor, but no one has to know how poor, or that the biggest bill I’m paying for is Mom’s rehab. Or that Grandpa’s emergency money is fictitious.

  “Me and Mom don’t have a lot, but we’re careful with money and we get by. Though I’m flattered that you paint me as the sole support of my mom—and someday I hope to be able to do that—that’s now how it is.” I’m as calm and humble as I can be and everyone in the room, especially Reverend Church, is mollified, even sympathetic.

  Except Voland. Though he doesn’t ask any more questions, I know he has some. He’s too cagey to reveal any leads in a crowd like this. I can’t figure him, whether he’s looking to expose me or trying to help me like he claims. He gave me a heads-up yesterday and yet he picks at the story like he wants to nail me.

  Maybe he’s applying the Colombo method to investigative reporting—make it seem like you’re a harmless dope as you close in on your prey. Too bad for him I’ve been living too close to the edge for too long to be anyone’s prey. Not if I can help it.

  Even as I feel the buzzards circling, I gather my defenses and prepare to fight back, to find a way to last until the final bell. I’m heading into the last round and I can taste the victory. I’m too close to do anything but bully through. I’m all in for a fight to my metaphorical death.

  Church wraps up the press conference after a few more questions about actual fucking football and the honor of being a Heisman candidate. My answers are all about the team around me, the truth.