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

by Stephanie Queen

  “He’s there—he tracked Dashell to some rooming house in a Podunk town outside of Fairbanks.”

  “Did he talk to him?” Pain stabs my back for the first time in days.

  George shakes his head. “No. Your dad is dead. Sorry.” He pauses and looks at me as if just realizing I might not be happy about this news.

  “No skin,” I say, no emotional response registering. It’s more like finding out later, after you’ve read it, that a character in a book died. It’s all fictional and distant.

  “Good—let me tell you the best part. He worked in gold mining, right?”

  “How did he die?” Tristan asks, the only decent one among us. Because I’m wondering more about the gold mining angle.

  “Oh yeah. He died in a mining accident. The landlady showed the detective press clippings—like from a paper newspaper—but he didn’t have any details. But that’s not the biggest news.”

  Tristan slaps him in the head again and he gets all mad.

  “Wait till you hear it, man, you’ll regret slapping me.”

  “I doubt it,” Tristan says. I’m laughing, but I’m vibrating with curiosity and something else that I squash because the last thing I need to feel is any emotion about a dad I never had, least of all regret.

  “Get on with it, dude,” I say in a tight voice, trying to stay light.

  “So your dad had a box, some locked-up metal box in his room with his stuff and the landlady, who was a friend of his because I guess everyone in the place is friends, she tells the detective she’s supposed to give the box to Dashell’s son.”

  “He left me a strongbox?”

  “Yeah, dude. He died four years ago. He had no wife and kids. He’s been in Alaska mining gold all these years, living hard. He had this box he left for you but she never knew what to do with it or how to find you. It’s probably filled with gold. The landlady won’t spill what’s in it and won’t turn it over to our detective. Says he has to prove he’s working for you.”

  “What the fuck.” I haul in a deep breath, resting my nerves.

  “How’s he supposed to do that?” Tristan says.

  “The detective is going to set up a Facetime call in a couple of hours. Do you have a birth certificate we can show her?”

  Damn. “No. My birth certificate is blank where it should show my father’s name.” I glance at Mom, who’s been listening to everything without a word though she’s jittery and her face has that pinched look. Of course I’m being an insensitive prick about the fact she just found out her long-lost lover is dead.

  She stands at the sink and turns away to stare out the dark window. I get up and go to her.

  “Mom. I’m sorry. I know you—”

  “No, it’s all right. He’s been dead to me for a while. This just makes it official.” She smiles and it’s a heartbreakingly sad look. Without instruction from my brain or even my conscience, my arms go around her. Reflexive emotion I didn’t realize I had, is unburied as my heart thunders and my chest tightens. I let her go and my friends turn away, pretending they didn’t see a thing.

  I laugh because the tension is too heavy and I need to breathe.

  “Well that’s that. Whatever he’s left me, we’ll never know.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mom says. “You look a lot like him. Maybe his landlady will be convinced you’re his son when she sees your face, especially your eyes.”

  Maybe she’ll recognize my dark soul.

  “That’s it, dude. We’ll get our hands on that treasure chest yet and—” George doesn’t finish because Tristan slaps his head yet again.

  “Do you hear yourself? It’s not our treasure chest, it’s Jack’s. And only Jack’s.” Then in a conciliatory voice, Tristan adds, “Not everything belongs to the team.”

  It’s the eve of Christmas eve and we’re well stocked with food thanks to George, so I persuade Mom to make us beef stew. I call Majik to get her recipe and wish her Merry Christmas. Mom takes the phone and Majik talks her through it.

  When George’s phone rings next in the middle of dinner, we all jump and George pronounces it’s the Facetime call from the detective. I get front and center and George introduces me. We’re looking at what looks like a general store in the background where a sturdy weather-beaten old lady wearing glasses and a plaid wool hat stares back at us.

  “Well if that ain’t Dashell’s son I need to turn in my license. You look exactly like he did when he first came here I don’t know how many years ago. He was a good man, son. A man you could be proud of.”

  I give a noncommittal nod and George takes over the phone to work out the details with the detective.

  Tristan doesn’t say anything and Mom goes about the business of clearing the table. It goes without saying that we’re done eating. George arranges with the detective to get the next flight from Alaska to Boston, but he won’t arrive until sometime tomorrow, depending on the weather.

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Mom says.

  “No problem. We’re staying for this. Right, Tris?”

  Tristan nods. “In it until the end of the journey.” He gives me a nod.

  We finish the night watching a Dallas Cowboys game because we can never get enough football, more because it’s the genesis of our brotherhood than anything else, I think. We have three more days off before the team reports back to school for practice and prep for the bowl game—the Cotton Bowl.

  I’m not playing. It’s the coach’s decision because of all the fucking publicity, though it’s not all bad press thanks to Voland and some others. I’ll be at the game anyway, to pay my penance and support the team. Since the worst football-related disaster has already happened—losing the Heisman in fucking spectacular fashion—sitting on the sidelines for the bowl game doesn’t even feel like a bump in the road. More like rolling over a pebble.

  The next day I cave to George’s demands that I show him around town and we go to my old football field and Moreland High School. He dubs it the Jack Hunter Shooting Star Pilgrimage and manages to duck another slap on the head from Tristan. I’m thinking I should take them to the library, maybe run into Joni there, but in truth I figure she’s staying holed up in her family mansion to avoid me.

  Voland calls me to set up a meeting for his exclusive story and I tell him next week at BMOC House. My lawyer wouldn’t approve, but I’m not telling him. Voland earned my trust and I made a deal. He’ll wait to publish it after my hearing. Probably same fucking day.

  It’s late in the afternoon and I’m so edgy I pace around the tiny living room while the others watch more football. George has his car delivered to the house because he’s driving with Tristan home from here. We’re all jumpy every time a phone rings or the microwave buzzes.

  “Doesn’t your mother want you home for Christmas?” Mom says, looking at Tristan and George.

  “Sure, but I told her I was in good hands.” George says, wiggling his brows. I whack him on the head.

  “Have some respect.”

  “We’ll be leaving tonight after dinner,” Tristan says. “We’ll get home in plenty of time for Christmas celebrations.”

  “I’m Jewish, didn’t I tell you?” George says and I laugh.

  “No fucking kidding.”

  “Your mother still wants you home,” Tristan says. “She texted me three times today. I told her we were waiting for Jack’s treasure chest.”

  George’s phone rings loud and he answers it before the first ring ends. “It’s the detective.” We huddle around him while he talks to the guy and writes something down on his napkin with a stray flair pen, the kind I used to use to sign autographs.

  He ends the call and says, “He’s at the airport. I got him a limo ride to the house. He should be here in an hour with your treasure chest, Jack. This is fucking awesome.”

  “What do you suppose is in the box?” Tristan asks.

  “Gold, of course,” George says, bouncing around like a kid waiting for Santa.

  “Shit,” I s
ay, my gut flipping around like a Maytag. I’m hoping there’ll be a note, an apology, some recognition of me as his son, some kind of regret. I shouldn’t even allow myself to think the thoughts, to acknowledge my pathetic hope, but spending days with the constant reminder of friendship and warmth softens me. I’m a weak bastard underneath my tough exterior.

  Tristan grins and winks at me. “Jack’s going to have a Christmas full of surprises.”

  I’m not sure what he means by that, but I know Tristan has something going on because he’s not cagey or experienced enough to pull off a real surprise.

  My question is answered without me asking when there’s a knock at the front door.

  “That can’t be the treasure chest yet,” George says. I race him to the door and even though he’s fast, I’m big and muscle him out of the way as I pull the door open.

  It’s Joni. Fucking Tristan invited her.

  My first instinct, the reflexive action, is to reach out, haul her in, and wrap her in my arms, but a storm of emotions and a gut-deep fear of rejection stop me.

  “Joni.”

  “Hi Jack. Tristan said—”

  “Of course, come in,” Mom says, coming to my side and pulling Joni into our overcrowded but cheerful living room. She takes Joni’s designer coat and tells her how beautiful she looks. She’s not wrong. Joni looks like the star on the set of a Christmas movie dressed in a red sweater dress that looks touchably soft. I stand there silent, like a dolt, knowing I want to bridge the gap between us, take back all the bad, all the distance, to have another chance at us being us. But I have no fucking idea how or where to begin.

  In the meantime, George and Tristan fill the void, telling her all about the saga of Dashell’s treasure chest. She stares at me, not asking the questions I know she’s feeling, I can see the concern in her eyes. But can I see forgiveness there? I don’t know.

  “You never know,” I say. “Maybe I’ll get my Christmas wish.” On the surface, the comment is about the treasure chest, but I hope she knows I’m talking about her, about us. I don’t have a chance to get further with my lame attempt at reconciliation, to ask her if we can talk privately, because a car pulls up outside, followed swiftly by a knock at the door, and then bodies move.

  The detective comes inside and hands me the box with George and Tristan crowding me. Mom takes the guy’s coat and he eyes her, giving her a smile. Joni hangs back, unsure what to do, where to rest her nerves.

  “Come on. Don’t you want to see what’s in the treasure box?” I wave her over and we go in the kitchen where I put it down on the table. “It’s fucking heavy.” I hear the tremor in my voice and snort a laugh at myself. “We need a key.”

  The detective follows us into the kitchen with my mother and slips a key from his flannel shirt pocket. Hands it to me without a word and leans back against the counter across the room to watch. My mother stands next to Joni who stands next to my side because I realize I’m holding her there and I squash a sudden desire to squeeze her thigh, to squeeze her everything.

  Instead I let go and take a breath.

  “Open the fucking box, dude,” George says. I snort another laugh, try to stop the shaking in my hand as I insert the key and turn it. In spite of a good amount of rust covering the thing, the latch opens and I lift the lid without a hitch.

  “Oh my God.”

  “I was right, dude.”

  “Holy shit.”

  All the air is sucked out of me as I stare down at four small gold bars packed in with yellowed tissue, but what has my nerves buzzing to the point of dizziness is the folded piece of note paper tucked in beside them.

  “Say something, Jack.” It’s my mom. I feel Joni squeeze my arm, and her cherry-almond scent calms me. Instead of answering, I pull the paper from the box and, like an old man with palsy, unfold it.

  “A note from your dad?” Tristan says. I nod. And I read it in silence, no one around me saying a thing, not even George.

  Dear Jack,

  I don’t know at what point I figured I was a no-good fuck-up, no use as a dad, that you’re better off without me. But today I want to do something to change that. To give you something, as shitty and petty as it is and as late in the day as it may be.

  I want you to know that I do care about you. I’m the worthless fool, not you. Your grandpa keeps me up on how you are whether I like it or not and I figure he’s doing a fine job. You’re probably already a rich and famous baller by now and won’t have much use for a few pounds of gold to add to your fortune, but it’s all I have.

  I can’t come back. Never could go back there. I doubt you’ll ever understand about that.

  He’s wrong. I understand all too well, but I’m over that because I’m here aren’t I? damn it. And he never did and how he’s gone. I force myself to read on.

  But I can give you what’s left of me, so here it is. I think about you, and your mother, every single day whether you believe me or not. You’ve given me more than I have a right to, pride I don’t deserve in a son I’ll never know except as much as blood can tell. I care, Jack, but I didn’t want to drag you down, so I left you alone. My fucked-up way of showing love.

  Your father, Dashell Hunter

  “Fuck.” I close my eyes, overwhelmed with the sadness and regret and anger at the universe thundering through me, making my soul burn. Making me cry. I crunch the paper in my fist and throw it at the wall. Then without looking at anyone I leave the room.

  Slamming the door behind me, I look in the cloudy bathroom mirror to see red-rimmed bloodshot eyes staring back in misery. I should be happy, right? My father says he cared. Left me his fucking gold.

  “Big fucking deal,” I shout at my reflection, knowing I’m no better, no nobler. I’ve done the same thing to Joni, leaving her because I don’t want to drag her down. Same fucking thing.

  Like father like son.

  “I don’t want to be like you. I don’t want to fuck up my life and end up with nothing but a metal box filled with worthless inanimate gold. Gold can’t keep me warm at night, can’t hug me, can’t make me feel the way I do when I’m with Joni.”

  Now I need to do something about it. Turning on the cold water, I wash my face. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but it’s long enough to make a decision, the right decision. I want Joni back. I need to have her with me again, to have us.

  I come out of the bathroom and back into the kitchen. No one’s talking. The detective is gone. So is Joni.

  “Where’s Joni?” A ball of dread rises in my throat.

  “She left, honey,” Mom says. “We read the letter. I hope you don’t mind—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the letter. Or the gold. You can have it. You deserve it more than me, need it more than me.”

  Grabbing my coat out of the one closet, I slam out the back door and dash to my truck. It’s snowing.

  No one tries to stop me. I don’t know if Tristan and George will still be around when I get back, but fuck, I’ll catch up with them later. Right now, I need to catch up with Joni, to stop her before she gets home because I don’t want to have to knock on the door of her fucking mansion, but I will if I have to. I turn the windshield wipers on fast, the radio on low and the heat on high and take off.

  My phone rings and I ignore it for two rings, then pull it from my pocket. It’s not George or Tristan like I thought it would be. It’s Joni.

  “Where are you?”

  “Jack, I’m on the side of the road. Old Mill Road. My car slid off—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I’m sorry I called you. I probably shouldn’t have. I know you’re dealing with—”

  “You, Joni. I’m dealing with you. I’m glad you called me. Who else were you going to call?”

  “Not my father,” she says, reading my mind. “I read the letter.”

  “I know. Mom told me. It’s fucked-up.” I take a right turn onto Old Mill, going slow to stay on the road as the snow picks up, my windshield wipers on
and lights showing millions of flakes falling like fairy dusty sprinkling down from the heavens, calming me. “I’m almost there, Joni. I’m not going to make the same mistake my father made. I promise.”

  “Be careful, Jack.”

  Driving, squinting between the flakes, I see her car up ahead, a champagne-colored Mercedes half off the side of the road. I remember calling it the princess-mobile when I’d see her driving around with her friend Stacy. My breath hitches. She lost her friend on a night like this three years ago.

  Pulling my truck up behind her, I watch her get out of her car at the same time as I jump down from the truck and I run to her. She looks like a fairy, snow sticking to her golden hair, arms outstretched as she runs towards me.

  “Oh my God, are we going to meet in one of those scenes where you lift me into your arms and swing me around?” She’s laughing as she lands against my chest and I squeeze her into me, not laughing, heart pounding.

  “Not unless you want us to slip and fall in the ditch with your car, princess.” Instead I half carry, half drag her back to my truck, opening the passenger door for her and lifting her inside. She laughs again, a nervous laugh, snowflakes glittering on her eyelashes.

  Andy Grammer is singing “I Am Yours” on the radio as I slip inside my pickup next to her. On impulse, my chest welling like I’ve never felt before, I turn up the volume. And then because I’m crazy madly in love, shaking with impossible emotion, I sing the words, loud and heartfelt. “I am yours, I am yours, I am yours.”

  She throws herself into my open arms, laughing and crying, sobbing into my chest, cold and wet and I feel that impossible thing turn into the possible.

  “I love you, Joni.”

  “Oh Jack,” she sobs. “I love you so much. I think I’ve loved you forever. Ever since that day at Lake Winnipesaukee.” I squeeze her tight, stroking her back, owning everything about her, the beauty, the bravery and even the occasional lapses of confidence and math-blindness.

  Warmth flows through me, different and somehow better, more complete than the hot burning need. What I feel is a deep, soul-expanding need, acknowledged, requited and appreciated to my bones, in my head and my heart and last, but not least, in my expanding cock.