Their skin tone varies from light to dark, as does their hair color, but each one is tall and muscular. Decked out in athletic gear, they look like they walked off the set of a Nike commercial.
The one on the end closest to the aisle has his foot propped up on the seat in front of him, a black walking boot covering it completely from just below the knee on the right leg. His arms are crossed over his chest, and the blue Valley basketball shirt he’s wearing is bunched up around his muscular arms and pecs. A baseball cap is pulled low so it’s covering his eyes, but it doesn’t matter—it’s obvious whatever lurks below is as good as the rest.
"Why is the line moving so slow?" I step to the right to see what the holdup is. I have places to be, and it’s lunchtime. What’s the hold up?
"Slow down and appreciate the view with the rest of us," Vanessa retorts.
I glance ahead and behind, seeing nothing but necks careening and eyes darting to the back row. The line out of the class moves at rubberneck speed. Has this been going on since classes started three weeks ago? How had I not noticed the ovary explosion they caused? I’d assumed it was just Vanessa being well, Vanessa. Apparently, no one was immune to their beefy muscles and chiseled jaw lines. Except me.
I would be proud of that fact if my grade backed up the time I’d spent not noticing hot guys. I’ve actually been paying attention to the professor. I need this class. Correction. I need an A in this class. Now, I wish I’d used my time more wisely like V.
“Everyone is staring at them.”
“Duh, look at them. They’re the best part of this class,” Vanessa says loud enough that the girl behind us snickers.
She’s right about that. Each one of them is stop-and-stare worthy, but my eyes are pulled back to the guy on the end. The top half of his face is a mystery – always covered by a white university hat. But his lips are fantastic and full in a way that no lip injections could replicate.
I’m still starting at him when his teammate, the one sitting closest to him, reaches over and flips up the baseball hat, revealing a pair of heavy lids. He rights his hat and then reaches for the paper on his desk. My eyes follow his long fingers and bulge at the big red letter A that is underlined and circled just like mine. The underline and circle treatment of my D seems a lot less hostile now, so that’s something.
But what the hell? This guy is sleeping during class and still gets an A?
“Why does he even bother coming to class if he’s going to sleep through it? There’s no way he earned that grade without help. How are the rest of us supposed to compete with the private tutors and special treatment that’s afforded the student athletes?” The words spill from my mouth before I can censor and spin them in a more positive way.
We push out of Stanley Hall and join the rest of the students bustling between classes at Valley University.
“Bitter much? What happened to your peppy optimism and we-can-do-it attitude?”
I wear my positivity like armor. Smile on and words of wisdom on deck, I’m always the first person to look at the bright side to hide the insecurities and fears I don’t dare speak.
“It just had a heavy dose of reality. Even the jocks did better than we did,” I say as I stare down at my yellow chucks.
When I look up, she gives me a sympathetic half-smile and shrugs. “I don’t know about the basketball team, but Mario says the baseball guys get ridden pretty hard about grades.”
“I’m sure they get ridden hard, all right.”
Vanessa’s eyebrows disappear under her long bangs. “That is the weirdest thing you’ve ever said. Never repeat it.”
She’s effectively lightened my mood, and I hip check her playfully. “Speaking of riding them hard. Where is Mario? He’s usually waiting like a puppy out here.”
On cue, Mario comes into view. He’s jogging to get to V as quickly as possible, as if it’s been days since he’s seen her instead of fifty minutes.
“We’re going to lunch at University Hall after I stop by the registration office. Come with?”
Not even a full month into the semester and my roommate has already managed to snag a boyfriend. Mario may be a jock, but he seems different. He doesn’t have any of the asshole, holier-than-thou narcissism I’d expected. He’s pursuing V hard, walking her to and from every class, bringing her flowers, and taking her out on date nights, the works. I’d knock his adoration and classify him as a stage-five clinger if he weren’t so handsome and sweet.
Wearing his practice clothes—a cutoff T-shirt and baseball pants—accentuates the whole all-American, tan, blond-hair, blue-eyed, good-guy thing he has going for him. Bonus points that Vanessa is completely smitten. I know this because she’s trying way too hard to convince me otherwise. Case in point, inviting me to tag along on their lunch date.
“Can’t save you from love today. I’m heading to the library to study.”
“That sounds positively boring,” she says over her shoulder as she skips off to meet him halfway. They come together, hugging and kissing, completely oblivious to the people shoving around them.
Gross.
Except it isn’t. It’s actually really sweet.
As skittish as I am about the opposite sex these days thanks to the last guy I trusted, Mario has given me no reason to doubt his intentions. And I refuse to let one asshole taint my view on every other guy for the rest of my life.
Speak of the devil.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I fight back the urge to press Ignore.
“Hello?” I answer cheerfully as if the man on the other end isn’t the absolute worst.
“Where are you?” He wastes no such effort on niceties.
“I’m on my way,” is the only thing I say before I hear the line disconnect.
With a heavy sigh, I head to the library. David paces the front entrance. His dark hair is tousled perfectly and emphasizes the crisp white dress shirt. He stands out among the other students who are dressed more casually. I used to like that about him, how he stood out amongst the crowd. Now, it’s just another thing I despise.
“You have it?” he asks before the double doors have even closed behind me.
I bite back every mean and awful thing I’ve thought about the man in front of me. Polished and handsome on the outside. Horrible and ugly where it matters.
I hand over the folder, keeping my mouth closed.
He opens it, absolutely no regard for its contents. He can’t fathom his actions having consequences, and he’s made me all too aware of the ramifications of every single action I’ve made.
“Jesus, David, you could wait to inspect it until you get back to your room. It’s all there. I wrote the answers on a blank piece of paper, so you can fill the worksheet in with your handwriting.”
“We aren’t in fucking high school, Blair. The librarians aren’t sitting around looking for suspicious activity. As long as you keep your mouth shut, no one will ever know.”
I grind my back teeth.
He snaps the folder shut and holds it in one hand at his side. “Professor Shoel assigned a five-page paper on a classical music composer. It’s due next Monday, but I need it Friday so I can go over it and make sure it sounds like me. The last one you wrote sounded too girly.”
Because a girl wrote it.
“How much longer are you going to do this to me? I'm failing my own classes, I can't keep up.”
Desperation clings to my voice as if I could be anything but desperate.
He sneers, turning his handsome features cold and sinister until the outside matches the inside. “Would you rather I share your nude selfies with the world? Maybe that’s what you wanted all along, for me to pass them around and give everyone a little taste.”
My stomach twists with shame and regret. “Those pictures were for you, my boyfriend. You know I never meant for anyone else to see them.”
“I’m sure you tell that to all the guys, but I’m not buying it.” He leans in close, and I hold my breath as if not breathing
in the scent of his expensive cologne and mint gum could take back everything. “When I feel like you’ve learned your lesson, then we’re done. You got a problem with that, Blair?”
I hate that I'm in this position. Hate that he put me here. But, mostly, I hate that I don’t have the balls to knee him and tell him to go to hell.
“No problem,” I mumble.
2
Wes
Joel pulls the Tesla into the garage and Z and I pry ourselves out of the tiny sports car. The rest of the team is already here and the splashing and music from out back filters through the house. It’s a hundred and eight degrees in Arizona today. August was worse, but we’re nearing the first day of fall, and I could literally fry an egg on the hood of the car. Shit isn’t normal.
I miss the Midwest humidity. Never thought I’d utter those words.
Sometimes, I’d like to come home to a quiet house instead of the craziness of our non-stop party house, but I get why our place is the hang out.
The White House, which is what it was dubbed because it’s white, it’s huge, and it was purchased by the university president. Our house is only a few blocks from campus and right across the street from Ray Fieldhouse, making it ideal to walk just about anywhere we need to go—not that we had to thanks to my gimp foot and handicap parking. The only perk of being injured.
The White House is nicer digs than anyone else has. Fuck, this house is nicer than the one I grew up in. The only place I’ve seen that’s nicer than this house is Joel’s parents’ estate. Estate as in it’s too fucking big to just be called a house.
But the pool is really why they’re all here. Well, that and the stocked fridge.
I swipe a cold water and head out to sit under the mister. Z grabs a protein drink and follows, taking a seat next to me off to the side and away from the pool hangers.
“Welcome home, roomies,” Nathan calls from the pool. He has a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a beer in hand. It’s barely noon. On a Monday.
I shake my head at him. I’m not pissed he’s drinking and smoking. I’m pissed he’s doing it in front of the young guys. He can handle himself. I’m not sure about the freshman.
I turn my attention to Z. “Getting in today?”
He grunts something in response. I’ve never seen Z get in the pool. We give him shit about it, but I honestly have no idea if he doesn’t like getting into the water because it’s usually filled with lots of people or because he can’t swim. I can’t imagine there’s anything he can’t do.
Quiet. Grunting. Out of the limelight. That pretty much sums up Z off the court. On the court, he’s a whole different person. People who have never seen him play assume all kinds of dumb shit about him solely based on his mammoth size, or as he would put it, a big, beautiful black man. The fact that he walks around wearing his headphones oblivious to the world and rarely speaks more than a word or two at a time also doesn’t help.
Once people see him play, though, it’s like seeing someone in their natural habitat. He’s smart, quick, and loud. Dude doesn’t shut up on the court.
Shaw tosses one of the ball honeys—Charlene? Charla? Carla?—into the air, and her high-pitch squeal makes me want to cover my ears. There’s a whole posse of girls standing in the shallow end, being careful to keep their hair and makeup water free. I wish I were a bigger asshole because I’d really like to go dunk the whole lot of them and watch the chaos that would ensue. Lucky for them, I only think this. Also, I’m not doing a lot of swimming these days with the boot and all, so I just sit back and admire the view. I’m annoyed, but I’m not blind.
So yeah, I’m a grumpy asshole. I haven’t always been, but getting injured senior year—the year I was supposed to take the team all the way. Yeah, that would make even the nicest guy go a little douchebag.
The rest of the team mills around, swimming, lounging, drinking, eating all our damn food.
I drain the water bottle and drum the plastic container on my leg.
Bored.
Restless.
Joel appears at my side and flings himself down, cracking a beer open in the process.
“Rookie is out of control. I can’t wait until you’re back. Freshman needs to be put in his place.”
My eyes go back to the freshman rookie who is front and center in the pool, tossing girls up and lavishing in the attention.
“Three more weeks. Fingers crossed.”
“Good because we’re screwed if we’re depending on Shaw to get us the ball. I know it’s supposed to be some big damn deal that he’s playing two sports, but shit just makes me nervous. Twice the risk of injury and half the amount of focus.”
I nod in agreement. “I’ll talk to him and to Mario. I’m sure the baseball team has the same concerns.”
“Wanna have a little fun with them?” Joel’s attention is focused on the pool and pure mischief coats his expression.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Remember my freshman year when you guys made us crash parties and run plays?”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest. Being a freshman sucked in so many ways. My rookie year, the upper classmen mostly just made us do things like carry their gym bags and act as water boys. Fuck, I’d been so glad to be a sophomore and for a new crop of guys to take the heat. Joel and his class had been an obnoxious batch of freshmen and we’d increased the torture to knock down their huge egos. Come to think of it, Joel’s class was a lot like this year’s rookies.
“You thinking of taking them out tonight?”
“Yeah, but I think we should elevate – take it to the next level.”
Shake my head. “We have practice in the morning, so don’t elevate it too much. Coach’ll kick our ass if we show up with a bunch of hungover rookies. Exhibition is coming up, and he’s chewing Tums like candy.”
“Live a little, Reynolds. It’s your senior year. We’re doing it up right.”
“We’re? You still got another year.”
“Yeah, but it isn’t gonna be the same without you and Z. This feels like the last year of something great. Something none of us will ever forget.”
Shit. He’s right. The season is shaping up to be the best year of our lives, and I’m itching to get out of this damn boot. It’s making me cranky.
“Yo, Shaw.” My voice booms across to the pool, and he lifts his head slowly, taking his damn time. A chin tilt is the only acknowledgment I get.
“Get me a beer.”
Joel cackles. “My man, you don’t even drink during the season.”
“Rookie doesn’t know that.”
“No. No. No. Come on, guys. That’s sloppy.”
Sitting in a plastic chair on the sidelines with my booted foot propped on another, I bounce the ball back and forth under my knee. Back and forth, back and forth. I can’t tell if it’s making my nerves better or worse. I don’t need to be here. It’s torture, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. This is my team. I may be injured, but they’re still my responsibility.
“Fifty free throws and two miles on the treadmill and call it a day. We have a big week coming up. Talent only goes so far. Focus. Repetition. Heart.
Already having about a gazillion shots in for the day, I head to the weight room. I can’t remember the last time I did leg day, and I’ve never wanted to squat and dead lift so much in my entire life. I pass Mario and a few of the baseball guys leaving as I enter.
Athletes have our own weight room, but we share it between all the different sports. It’s huge—easily big enough for three or four groups to be in here at any one time, but we’ve all got our own styles. Football guys can’t be in here without grunting and talking smack. The swimmers spend more time gossiping like old ladies than lifting. The basketball team likes the music turned up so loud there isn’t much of an option to chat.
“Reynolds. Still gimping around, huh? When’s the cast come off?”
Mario’s guys keep going with a nod in my direction.
“Three weeks. Can�
�t freaking wait.”
“Thank the fuck. Those chicken legs of yours are getting damn near embarrassing.”
I take his jabs in jest. Mario and I have been leaving our blood, sweat, and tears in this room for four years, and we both know I have fucking great legs.
“Give me a few weeks, and I’ll be squatting your pansy ass under the table.”
“We’ll see.” He wipes his forehead with a towel and tosses it on his shoulder. “We’re having a party at the house next Thursday. Be cool if you guys stopped by, haven’t hung out in a while.”
“Yeah, I’ll let the guys know. Speaking of the guys, how’s Shaw doing? Team’s worried about him splitting his time. I am, too, if I’m honest. We’re gonna need him to sub in some this year. Need him to be ready.”
“I hear ya. I don’t like it, either, but he’s the best damn relief pitcher we’ve had in years. I’ll keep an eye on him as best as I can while he’s with us.”
“Ditto.”
Fucking freshman has two babysitters and almost fifty teammates between the two sports, and he’s still shaping up to be the biggest pain in the ass I’ve seen in my four years.
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Sweet Spot Page 24
