The Assist (Smart Jocks #1)

by Rebecca Jenshak

  “I convinced Professor Reilly to let me do some extra credit to make up for the grade.”

  “Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter as he hands me the paper with directions for the additional work. “I don’t know shit about programming, David.”

  His lip twitches on one side, and he takes out a heavy textbook and plops it down between us. “Thought you’d say that.”

  I’m still staring at it baffled when he stands. “Need it by Tuesday next week.”

  Awesome. Add programming to my list of classes this semester, why the hell not?

  I read the directions five times. Yep, five. I give up and shove it in my bag. I’ll deal with it this weekend.

  My shift at the café ends at three thirty, so I reek of coffee and whipped cream as I walk up the sidewalk toward a house I can’t believe belongs to anyone I know.

  It’s only a block from the baseball house so I guess it’s fitting – most the jocks live near the fieldhouse. But this isn’t like any other off campus house I’ve seen. It’s huge, and the lawn is manicured with shrubbery and flowers. It’s obviously landscaped professionally and often.

  I check the address three times. It’s only when I hear the faint sound of a basketball bouncing from inside that I believe I’m in the right spot.

  Wes’s instructions were not to knock, so I disregard all manners and push open the door and hold my breath, preparing for anything.

  Standing in the entryway of the massive place, I gawk. The room I share with Vanessa would fit inside the foyer.

  Zeke comes down the stairs, sans shirt, a pair of long shorts slung low on his hips. I try not to stare but I figure it would be a crime not to admire all that muscle. A series of tattoos trail from his left shoulder all the way down to his fingers. He nods to me and attempts a small smile. His gesture makes me take a deep breath and relax.

  “Hey, Zeke,” I pause. “You know where I can find Wes?”

  “He’s in the gym upstairs.”

  “The gym . . .” My voice trails off as he continues past me walking toward an open room with a large television mounted on the wall. Unsurprisingly, it’s tuned to ESPN and a couple of guys are lounged back in big armchairs that look like theater seating.

  “You aren’t coming?” I call after him. Joel mentioned they’d need help too.

  He shakes his head and keeps going without saying any more.

  Oh-kay. I walk up the stairs, the sound of basketballs leading me to the court. It’s a half-sized version of the one at Ray Fieldhouse and even has the roadrunner mascot painted on the sideline.

  Three guys are positioned around the hoop, a ball cart full of basketballs between them, but Joel and Wes huddle together on one side. A shirtless Joel stands with his hands on his hips, watching Wes carefully. Wes has a basketball in one hand and uses his other to emphasize whatever he’s saying.

  I walk slowly toward them as I take in Wes’s focused and determined face and the way he so effortlessly holds the ball, dribbling it occasionally or palming it with one large hand, fingers splayed out to cover what seems like half the ball. It doesn’t look like he is even aware he is doing it. The ball is an extension of his hand.

  Joel nods slowly, as if a light bulb is being switched on in that pretty head of black hair. He holds both hands out, asking for the ball as he cuts to the top of the three-point line. Wes passes, a crisp fast move that has the ball in Joel’s hands before I can be thoroughly impressed with the way he moves. The ball arches to the net and in. The guys move toward each other happy smiles on both their faces as they exchange some words I can’t quite hear.

  “Hey.” I hang back a few feet, giving them room for their bro moment.

  Joel and Wes turn to me in unison.

  “Stat girl,” Joel says with a smirk. “You’re just in time. We’re just finishing our study session. He’s all yours.”

  Joel has the sort of charisma and good looks that convince girls to do dumb things like make out with their friends or follow him to his room.

  Or send nude photos.

  I shake away the negativity and give his sweaty forehead and chest a once over. It doesn’t look like much studying has taken place, but I’m not about to argue that point.

  Joel lifts his head to Wes in acknowledgment. “Thanks, man.” He bounces the ball to Wes and tips his head to me. “Catch you later.”

  “It’s just the two of us?” My voice is a screech, but I’m too nervous to care. “I thought Zeke and Joel were joining us.”

  “They had some stuff they needed to do this afternoon, so we studied early. They’re good, so that just leaves you.”

  We stare at each other for a moment. Well, I stare. He is probably trying to figure out what is wrong with me while simultaneously devising a plan to get the crazy, gawking girl away from him. He has to be used to that by now, though, right?

  “You ready?” Wes finally asks.

  “Sure. Yep. Great,” I manage with more confidence than I feel.

  “We can study downstairs in the television room, but I think some of the guys are down there hanging out, or we could go to my room.”

  “Your room,” I blurt too quickly and then fumble to cover my slip. Great, now I sound like I just want to get him alone. “I mean, the quiet would be good.”

  “Cool.” He motions for me to go before him, and I backtrack out of the gym and into the hallway.

  “This way.”

  I let him take over, and I follow him past open bedrooms while I openly admire the living arrangements these guys have. I’ve counted three bedrooms already. Each one is large and set up almost in a dorm format with the same bed frame, desk, and large flat screen mounted on light yellow walls. And the bedding and décor isn’t bachelor style mismatch stuff picked up from Target. It’s all in team colors, and the roadrunner mascot makes an appearance in much of it.

  “This is me.”

  His room looks exactly like the others, but I still scan it from floor to ceiling, looking for clues that make it different. Make it solely his.

  “This is your room?” I turn and grin. “What no balcony or bathroom?” I say sarcastically.

  “Joel has the master since his dad paid for the house.”

  My attention snaps to Wes, and the wheels turn as I piece together what I’ve read about the team and his last name clicks. It should have since it’s plastered all over campus. “Joel Moreno. He’s a Moreno, like, Moreno Hall and—”

  “The president of Valley University? Yup.”

  Wes grabs the statistics book and a pair of glasses from his desk before taking a seat on his bed.

  “Chair’s yours if you want it, or you can sit up here. Big bed.” He slides his glasses on and then flips open the book, and I swear it’s like someone turns on a wind machine. The black rimmed glasses take him from hot jock to hot smart jock, and I know this must be what it’s like for guys watching a supermodel eat a double cheeseburger. It seems all wrong, and yet, it is sooo right.

  “You have specific things you want to go over? Questions? I’m not a tutor, so I don’t really know the right way to do this.”

  I take a seat on the edge of the bed. My heart rate spikes just being this close to him. “Joel and Zeke seem confident enough so whatever you taught them in the past few hours seem to contradict your modesty.”

  He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, all right. How about we start with measuring variation in data sets?”

  For the next thirty minutes, Wes basically recites the book as I ask questions and pour over the notes I’ve taken in class. He never looks at the book before he answers. He flips through it a few times when I mention something in reference to a chapter number, but he seems to be an encyclopedia.

  His effectiveness, though . . . I mean, I have read the book on my own, but I’m not even remotely close to understanding a fraction of what he does.

  Zeke walks in and then freezes. “Sorry, didn’t realize you two were still studying. Practice in ten.”

  Wes tak
es off the glasses and sits back on the bed, resting his large frame against the wall. He clears his throat like all the talking has made him lose his voice. I suppose lecturing to a person for an hour could do that.

  I gather my notes and shove everything into my back pack as I try to lift the fog that has settled over my brain. This is worse than the confused and drugged feeling I have when I leave Professor O’Sean’s class. I’m more confused than ever. Between the glasses and his general hotness, I barely registered a word he said.

  When someone likes the way a person’s voice sounds, they often say they could listen to them read the phone book. Yeah, that’s basically what just happened. He read me the stat book and his smooth voice and handsome face mesmerized me, but I learned absolutely nothing.

  I stand and shift toward the door. “Thank you for the, umm . . . help. See you guys on Monday.”

  Wes follows me to the door with a scowl on his face. “Sure. No problem. Hope you got what you needed. I’m sorry to cut out, we have late practice tonight.”

  “Practice on Friday nights, huh?”

  “Every day. We have an exhibition game coming up.”

  I nod and shift one foot farther as I consider asking if I can come back for more help just to see him put the glasses back on. It wouldn’t help my grade, but it’d certainly brighten the day. “Thank you again.”

  I spend the rest of Friday night finishing David’s music appreciation paper and Saturday alternating between trying to figure out this stupid computer programming assignment, trying to study for statistics, and figuring out what I’m going to do when I fail the midterm and have to drop the class with an incomplete. I’m taking four classes this semester. That isn’t counting the four classes David is enrolled in but passing along to me. I’m drowning in assigned reading, research, and assignments.

  As the quiet sorority house starts to buzz with excitement of girls getting ready for a Saturday night out, I finally give up any pretense of absorbing any more information.

  With no other plans for the night, I find myself back at the baseball house. I shoot Gabby a text to let her know I’m back and scoping out the hot jocks. She replies with about ten smiley faces. I’m standing with Vanessa, Mario, and a freshman named Clark, who hasn’t left my side since I walked through the door unattached. He’s funny, charming, and cute, but I have one eye aimed on the door as he trails on about his first months in the Arizona heat. And if my pulse accelerates at the sight of Joel and Zeke entering the party . . . well, I’ll blame that on the alcohol and not the blip of hope that another player might not be far behind.

  “I didn’t realize the baseball team was tight with the basketball team,” I say to Mario and Clark, trying for nonchalance. “Aren’t you guys supposed to have some sort of rivalry or something over gym time and national titles?”

  Clark pipes in. “Basketball team is cool. It’s the soccer guys we don’t like.”

  Mario gives Clark a glare. “We don’t have beef with any of the jocks.”

  A steady stream of guys I now recognize as basketball players follow in behind Joel and Z. It looks like the whole team is here . . . sans one. Maybe Wes is busy memorizing more of the statistics book. How does someone get that sort of knowledge? I consider myself bright, but he has some sort of effortless genius. Or it appears effortless anyway.

  I wave to Joel and Zeke as they look out over the crowd but resist the urge to go hang out with them and ask where Wes is. Maybe he’s just late like last time. I don’t know why I’m hoping for the latter, but as I let Clark attempt to dazzle me with more conversation, my nerves start to fray a bit more each time the front door opens.

  “Listen to me go on and on, tell me about you, Claire.”

  His inability to even remember my name annoys me and snaps me out of my trance. “You know what? I think I’m gonna go home and study. I’m failing statistics, and I’m stressing and . . . well, I won’t bore you.”

  I turn without waiting for his reply and curse the heels that are pinching my feet with every step. I knew I should have stuck with my guns and worn my chucks, which make much better getaway shoes.

  “Wait, can I get your number?” I hear him call but hurry my pace and don’t stop until I’m a block away and it’s clear Clark has given up the chase. I laugh to myself. Did I really think a guy who couldn’t even remember my name was going to follow me to get my number?

  I keep walking, waiting to call a sober driver, telling myself it’s because it’s still early and it is a nice night to walk a bit, but when I arrive at the front of Wes’s house, I stop and look up at it for signs that he’s inside. The faint sound of a basketball being dribbled catches my attention, and I smile, imagining Wes inside hard at practice. Maybe it isn’t even him, he has another roommate I haven’t met, and Wes did mention that all the guys on the team hung out here. Still, I want to imagine it’s him practicing and that’s what kept him from a night out with his friends.

  I take another step down the sidewalk and pull out my phone to dial the sober driver when I realize the sound I’m hearing is outside. It’s the echo of a basketball hitting pavement and not the gym floor inside. Curious, I ignore every single girl horror story thing I’ve learned about trespassing and being out alone at night and I walk toward the noise. The parking garage for the house curves around the back, and in the far corner, they have a basketball hoop set up. The rusted backboard and chain look out of place with the immaculate house. It’s funny to me that anyone would be out here playing when they have such a nice court inside.

  In the darkness, I can’t make out his face, but the movements are all him. Even without the cast, I think I would be able to pick him out of a silhouette lineup of athletes.

  I cross the lot, taking advantage of the view. He’s tossed his shirt on the ground and wears a pair of athletic pants that zip at the ankles but are open on the right leg around his cast. The late summer night has cooled, but sweat beads up and shines in the light the streetlights cast around him.

  “Hey, Reynolds. Didn’t anyone tell you it’s Saturday night?”

  He stops under the hoop, but he doesn’t stop dribbling as he stands to his full height. “Best time to be out here. Got the whole court to myself.”

  “And no spectators to appreciate the view.”

  “If you build it, they will come . . .”

  “How’s that?”

  He palms the ball and extends his arm toward me. “You’re here.”

  “I’m not much of a spectator.” I close the distance between us and take the ball from him. I turn the ball over in my hands and then dribble it twice, hyper aware that he is watching me. I stop a couple of feet in front of the hoop and shoot the ball.

  “Yes!” I call out when the ball rattles around the rim and goes through the net.

  “Nice shot.” He catches the ball and passes it back to me. I shoot it again, but the basketball gods are fickle, and it bounces off the rim.

  “Try again.”

  He passes it back to me, and I take my time lining up and concentrating at the free throw line. The ball sails up, and I hold my breath until it swishes through the net. Gabby and I played one whole year of junior varsity basketball before we determined we were not cut out for competitive sports.

  “Two out of three. You have a spot for me on the team?”

  “Sixty-six percent would have you riding the pine.”

  “What about you? You gonna be ready to play this season?”

  He looks down to the cast and grimaces. “Comes off next week, but I won’t know what sort of shape I’ll be in until then.”

  “What’d you do? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I don’t mind,” he says and dribbles the ball slowly. “Stress fracture. I hurt it in practice about a month back. Just came down on it wrong and that was it.”

  “I broke my arm once. Missy Thomas pushed me off my bike. My cast was pink, though.”

  He looks down at his black cast and then pushes his bottom lip
out in a pout. “They didn’t give me that option.”

  “Too bad.”

  He tosses the ball to me almost as if he’s forgotten I’m me and not one of his teammates.

  “So, really, why are you out here on a Saturday night and not out with the guys? I saw Joel and Z and a bunch more of your teammates at the baseball house. Were you busy memorizing more textbooks?”

  He arches a brow.

  “I took a guess. The way you know statistics, I assumed you spent your spare time memorizing it.”

  He chuckles. “Photographic memory. Plus, statistics is my life.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, say I get fouled taking a shot and get two free throws. Each shot has two outcomes: make or miss. So, there are four possible outcomes. I could miss both shots. Miss the first shot and make the second. Make the first and miss the second.”

  “Or make both.”

  He grins. “Exactly.”

  I stare at him as he moves around the court, and I process what he just told me. “Oh my God. This is how you’ve been tutoring Joel and Z.”

  He shrugs. “Not tutoring, just explaining it in terms they understand. They’re smart dudes, but ball is our life. So, by giving them examples about shit that doesn’t mean anything to them is a lost cause.”

  “Wes, that’s genius. Can you show me more? Explain it like you’ve been doing for Joel and Z?”

  Scrubbing his hand over his jaw, he studies me carefully. “I don’t know how much sense I’m going to make talking ball stuff with a chick in a dress and heels.”

  “Don’t let the outfit fool you. I can keep up.”

  “That so?”

  “Yep. I’m not some prissy sorority girl.”

  He gives me a once over that sends a shiver through me.

  “Okay, well, I am, but it isn’t all I am. I’ve played basketball before.”

  “Yeah, how long ago was that?”