The Assist (Smart Jocks #1)

by Rebecca Jenshak

  “I deduct two IQ points for every text acronym or abbreviation,” I say around a mouthful of pasta.

  “This is why you haven’t gotten laid in six months,” Joel quips, still not looking up.

  “Fuck you. It hasn’t been that long.”

  Close.

  I’ve been busy.

  Busy sulking. First a soul crushing loss to end last season and then an injury that’s kept me sidelined.

  And I’m real tired of girls throwing themselves at me for the thrill of sleeping with a jock. Or in some sort of misplaced show of support to heal my fragile ego. Pity fuck? No thanks.

  I know, I know. I got uptown problems.

  “What happened to Sarah?” Nathan says as he stands and starts to jog in place.

  “It was Tara, and last time I saw her, she was giving a big Valley welcome to a freshman soccer player.”

  Joel looks up. “God bless her dedication. She’s single-handedly welcomed nearly every jock to campus in her short time here.”

  “Yeah, she’s a real Mother Teresa.” Z rolls his eyes. He’s adamant about not messing around with girls in college so he can focus on ball and his quest to the NBA, so he thinks we’re all petty assholes.

  He isn’t wrong.

  An hour later, I’m in hell. Practice is shit. Shaw has talent, but he’s all over the fucking place, trying to prove his worth by taking risky shots and hogging the ball. My nerves are shot. I can’t do a damn thing but wait for this boot to come off.

  “Reynolds, my office,” Coach calls to the sideline when he’s done giving orders for the guys to work on shooting drills.

  I take my time, already knowing what he’s going to say.

  He’s sitting behind his desk, and though I’ve seen him in his office before, it always strikes me how weird he looks perched upright like he’s working a nine-to-five desk job. Some men just weren’t meant for that kind of life, and coach falls squarely in that category. “Come on in, son. Have a seat.”

  I take the old chair in front of his desk. Thing looks like it’s been here since the university opened in the fifties.

  “How’s the foot? Cast comes off in two weeks?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m anxious to get back on the floor.”

  “And we’re anxious to have you back, but the trainers say you may not be back fully for another two to four weeks after the boot comes off. We have the exhibition in two weeks and then our first game the week after. I know it isn’t what you want, but have you considered a medical red shirt?”

  I grind my back teeth to keep from speaking exactly what I’m thinking. Even knowing this was what he was going to say, it still pisses me off. Hell no, I don’t want to redshirt my senior year. Sure, I take the redshirt and I’m still eligible to play an extra year. We get five years to play four seasons, but next year Z will be gone. I’ll be done with my degree. It’s an option. But it isn’t one I’m willing to take.

  “I’ll be ready. Whatever it takes.”

  He nods. “Once you step out onto that floor, it gets a hell of a lot harder to take it back. You’re sure about this? You can take some time and talk to your folks about it.”

  Right, like they give two shits about my ball career.

  “Positive.”

  I can tell he’s torn. He wants me to play and wants me to take the year to heal properly. I get it. I do. It’s risky, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to be ready to go and to lead my team to a national championship. We were so close last year. Top four in the nation is good. Most people would be happy with that.

  I’m not most people, and I want that national title.

  5

  Blair

  Three more statistics classes pass in the same fashion. I sit, feverishly taking notes, as Wes sits in the back sleeping. Today I’ve given up the pretense of stellar note taking. My scribbles don’t even make sense to me as I write them. It’s more about keeping my hands busy and my attention trained forward.

  I’m doodling hearts and flowers along the margin of my notepad when Professor O’Sean’s monotone stops. The lack of noise is deafening.

  “Mr. Reynolds,” Professor O’Sean’s voice booms off the walls of the room, and every person in the room, including me, duck and pray for invisibility to avoid being the next victim of public shaming in the form of being called on in class.

  I keep my head low and peek up to the top row just in time to see Joel elbow Wes. Slowly, he lifts the hat and sits straighter.

  “Mr. Reynolds, can you tell the class the probability of the example on the screen?”

  I wince for him. Despite my glee that he’s been caught sleeping, no one deserves to be grilled in front of the entire class.

  “The probability is three-eights. It’s a binomial distribution with a sample space size two to the third equaling eight. Would you like me to list the events?”

  My mouth gapes. Wes wears an arrogant smile and boyish charm that makes the guys in class laugh and the girls swoon. Professor O’Sean has a begrudging look as he shakes his head to indicate the answer is sufficient. I’m inclined to be on his side. How dare Wes sleep through class and still know the answer? Here I am, taking notes and hanging on every word, and I still have no idea if I could have provided more to the answer than the scribblings I’d written down in my notes.

  Glance at my neatly printed letters. The collection of all possible outcomes of an experiment is called a sample space. Yeah, that isn’t helpful. All I’ve done is copy the definitions.

  Without responding to Wes, Professor O’Sean moves on. At least I wasn’t the only one who assumed the guy sleeping at the back of the class had no idea what was going on.

  I dare another peek at the back row, stilling when I find Wes’s gaze on me. He smirks as if mocking me instead of the teacher. My cheeks warm, and I turn quickly and keep my eyes forward for the rest of the class.

  “There’ll be another short test in two weeks that will cover the material in chapter three. The midterm is only one month away, and it makes up thirty-five percent of your overall grade. These tests are a taste of what will be on the midterm, so I suggest you prepare for them accordingly. Have a good weekend.”

  Good weekend? He’s just ruined any possibility of my doing anything but studying from now until the test. I trudge up the stairs with a pit in my stomach, and a foreboding feeling that I’ll be lucky to eke out a C in this class. So much for my stellar GPA and so much for getting into the highly competitive MBA program.

  At the top of the stairs, I look up to see that Joel and Zeke wear worried expressions. Ones that I’m sure match my own.

  Zeke scrubs a hand over his massive jaw. “Man, I don’t think I can learn this shit by then.”

  Joel nudges him. “Sure you can. Wes could teach this stuff to children.”

  “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?” the man himself states dryly.

  As I approach, he stands and meets me on the stairs.

  “Blair.” He says my name like a challenge.

  “So, you’re what some sort of statistics genius?”

  “Your words.”

  “And in your words?”

  “I already told you in my words, I could pass this class even if I never showed up.” He shrugs as if it’s no big damn deal.

  I hold back an actual growl. “That’s infuriating.”

  He grins wide. “And impressive?”

  “Maybe, but more infuriating than impressive.” I point toward his teammates. “And those two, you’re tutoring them?”

  “What? No, nothing like that.”

  Something tells me that’s exactly what’s happening. He looks almost embarrassed by the prospect. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before. I don’t need to find a tutor; I’ve already found the best man for the job. I just have to convince him to help me.

  The excitement of my idea must be written all over my face.

  “Oh, no. No. I’m not a tutor.”

  “I know, but you obviously know your
stuff.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know the first thing about being a tutor, and even if I did, I don’t have time. Between practice and homework . . .” He offers another shrug. “There’s a reason I sleep in this class.”

  Nodding, I swallow the lump of disappointment in my throat.

  I have no idea how I’m going to convince the statistics God to help me. I don’t have anything to offer him. And my schedule is as insane as his until I get David off my back.

  Between classes and practice, I don’t doubt Wes is strapped for free time. And then there are the parties and the ladies. I’m no fool. I know how girls throw themselves at jocks. Vanessa’s told me what it’s like. She’s ready to throw down every time a girl so much as looks at Mario. And they do a lot more than look.

  So far, they seem to have gotten the memo V isn’t one to mess with because I guarantee the first time one lays a finger on him—innocent or not—she’ll be walking around campus with a black eye or half her hair pulled out.

  I digress . . . how do you get a man to do something he doesn’t want to do for someone who insulted his intelligence and has absolutely nothing to offer him?

  I mull over this question on the two-hour drive to Succulent Hill as I sing along to an old high school playlist. When I pull up to Gabby’s house, I haven’t managed to come up with any solutions, but I’m in better spirits anyway.

  Gabby’s mom, who had taken a job that allowed her to work from home after the accident, greets me at the door before I can ring the doorbell.

  “Come in, honey. Gabby is upstairs.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, smiling as if it were totally normal for her twenty-one-year-old daughter to be hiding away.

  “Knock, knock,” I call as I enter Gabby’s room. Unsurprisingly, I find my best friend behind her laptop with eyes squinted behind thick glasses. My life has changed so much since the accident, I moved to Valley and did all the things we’d promised—pledge a sorority and major in business. I even force myself to go to Pilates occasionally.

  I got my miracle that day. Whether it was thanks to God or the power of positive thinking, I’ll never know for sure, but that day changed me forever.

  Gabby’s memory returned, but the fun-loving and determined girl I grew up with was lost during the crash. She stayed in Suck Hill, refusing to move away and basically hiding out in her parents’ house. Deep down, her ambition hasn’t changed. I know this because I almost always find her in front of her computer, studying or doing homework for her many online classes. She’s a Valley U student, too, but taking classes online isn’t the same as being on campus.

  “Come in,” she calls without looking up, and then as if just registering my voice, her eyes find mine and a big smile spreads across her face. “Blair.”

  I make the two-hour trip to Succulent Hill at least once a month to see Gabby and have dinner with my parents. Today, though, is just about Gabs.

  “Happy birthday!” I squeeze her tightly and then step back to examine her outfit of yoga pants and tank. She looks fabulous, but she isn’t exactly ready for dinner at our favorite local restaurant and pub. “You aren’t ready.”

  She bites on her lip. “I thought maybe we could just hang out here.”

  “Uh-uh. You cannot celebrate your twenty-first birthday at home.”

  “But going out is so”—she sighs and then plops back down onto the bed—“soul crushing. I don’t want to deal with the pity smiles or stares.”

  I try to see her as a stranger might. She has two long scars on the left side of her face that cross in an X. I think it makes her look badass, but I can’t say I haven’t noticed the looks she gets when we’re in public.

  “I promise to verbally attack anyone who dares to look at you the wrong way.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Come on, please?”

  After a few more minutes of pleading, and twenty more minutes for her to change, Gabby and I head to dinner.

  “How are classes going?” she asks as we’re seated into a high-top table near the bar. She fidgets and keeps her gaze turned down, basically ducking out of anyone’s line of vision.

  “Mostly good. Statistics is a bit of a nightmare.”

  “You’ll manage. You always do.” Her voice is proud, almost motherly.

  “I actually made quite an ass of myself trying to get a tutor,” I admit. I like to fill her in on bits and pieces of college, but I almost always underplay the good and leave out the truly terrible—such as David blackmailing me. Somehow, it makes me feel less guilty about being the one pursuing our dream and hopeful that she might join me someday.

  When I’ve finished telling her how I wrongly assumed Wes was a dumb jock, she is hysterical with laughter.

  “It isn’t funny,” I say but join in laughing anyway. “I was a total ass, and now, I need to convince him to tutor me.”

  “You’re going to have to grovel,” she says decidedly. “Try food. Men love with their stomachs.”

  “I think that ship has sailed. I’ll go with helpful acquaintanceship.”

  As she drinks her first legal adult beverage, I fill her in on Vanessa, who is always a favorite topic. Vanessa’s life is way more entertaining than mine, and though, they’ve only met once, I think Gabby likes to hear our college escapades. And I’d never deny her that.

  I’ve tried on more than one occasion to get Gabs to Valley, but she maintains she’s perfectly content at home. I think she’s hiding scared, but can I blame her? I’d like to think I’d be able to get out of bed each day and ignore the questioning looks, but I don’t know if I’m that brave either. Still, I sometimes wish I could trade places with her. It’s her dreams I’m living every day, and I can’t help but think she deserves it so much more.

  “Oh, hey, I made you a new bracelet to match mine.” She lifts her arm and points to an orange bracelet. It’s one of about twenty on her arm, but it matches the one she’s slid to me across the table. “Another year of friendship.”

  I tie the bracelet around my wrist and then run a hand over my matching bracelets as I smile. “You know, Valley has a really great arts program, including jewelry and fashion design. You—”

  “Not this again.”

  “Yes, this again. Gabby, you should be with me at Valley.”

  Before I can pitch her my best argument on all the reasons she should be at university, two guys approach our table.

  They aren’t bad-looking and are dressed as if they just came from work, but they look at least thirty-five. “Can we buy you ladies a drink?”

  “Sure. Actually, it’s Gabby’s twenty-first birthday.”

  Gabby shifts, letting her hair fall over her face, and stares hard at the table top.

  “Oh yeah? Happy birthday. Birthday shots are on us. What’s your poison?”

  It’s silent for two long seconds before she looks up and meets his gaze. She flips her hair back, deliberately drawing attention to the scars. Both men drop their eyes.

  “Fire ball,” she says and finishes the drink in front of her in a long gulp.

  “Coming right up.” The men recover from their surprise and scurry off, presumably to get our drinks.

  “That is why I can’t go to Valley. I’d rather hide away in my parents’ house than spend all day, every day, watching people react to my face.”

  “Ignore them. Those guys are idiots.”

  “It isn’t just them,” she insists. “Last week, a kid in the dentist waiting room cried when I sat beside him. He cried, Blair.”

  “Your scars are not that bad.” I cringe at the way it sounds, but honestly, I don’t see her the way she must see herself. She’s still stunning. The scars didn’t change her obvious beauty – only her confidence. “And anyway, college is different. I promise. No one cares. There’s a guy in two of my classes who never wears shoes. He has these dirty, calloused feet, and he just owns it, and no one says a thing.”

  “Not to his face, just over drinks with friends.”

  The guys return, cutting o
ur conversation short, and set four shots onto the table.

  “What are we drinking to?” The guy closest to me asks.

  I grab two shots, hand one to Gabby and lift the other in the air. “To Gabby. Happy twenty-first birthday to the most amazing chick I know. Love you, Gabs.”

  “Love you too,” she says with a smile before we clink glasses and throw back the fiery cinnamon liquid.

  Shortly after we’ve thanked them for the drinks, the guys seem to get the memo that we aren’t interested and return to the bar. Gabby and I sit and chat about anything and everything. With each glass we finish, Gabby acts more like the confident and happy girl of the pre-accident days.

  “So, Vanessa is still dating the baseball guy, any prospects there for you?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t met any of his teammates.”

  “Vanessa is dating a hot jock, and you haven’t scoped out his friends? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’ve been studying.” I point a finger at myself. “Failing statistics a month into the semester.”

  “Lame. You need to get back out there.” I resist the urge to throw the advice back at her. It’s too good of a night to ruin.

  But Gabby isn’t done doling out the advice. “Seriously. You haven’t dated anyone since David. What’s up with that?”

  “Nothing is up with that. I’ve just been busy.”

  She gives me a no nonsense look that has always caused me to cave under her peer pressure.

  “All right fine. I’ll scope out the hot baseball guys.”

  Satisfied, she smiles. “And report back.”

  6

  Blair

  I haven’t seen much of Vanessa since she dropped statistics. She’s taken to staying at Mario’s most nights, and during the day, our class schedules keeps us out of sync. It goes without saying that when I find her rummaging through our closet singing along to K-pop the next night after work, I’m caught completely by surprise.