The Assist (Smart Jocks #1)

by Rebecca Jenshak

  “It was a while ago,” I admit. “Come on, please?”

  “The sorority girl wants the dumb jock to tutor her? It’s pretty funny, really.”

  “Sorry I assumed you were a dumb jock.”

  “You’re only sorry because you need my help.”

  “I’ll play you for it.”

  “Play me for what exactly?” He cocks his head to the side.

  “More of your tutoring services.”

  “You think you can beat me??” He raises a brow as he spins the ball around in his hand. He’s showing off, but I’m very much enjoying it.

  “Not one-on-one.” I hold my hands out, and he bounces it to me. I moved to the side of the basket, dribble once and pull up and shoot. As the ball goes through the net, I turn to him. “We’ll play PIG.”

  One side of his mouth tugs into a half smile, but he retrieves the ball and dribbles it to where I stand. I hold my spot, so he moves behind me, the warmth from his body swallowing me up. He leans down so that his lips are a hair’s breath away from my neck. “I’m seventy-five percent from the left wing. You sure this is your play?”

  I turn my head to meet the arrogant glint in his eye and nod. “I’m not intimidated.”

  That’s a lie, but I’m not about to show any more weakness in front of this guy.

  Without taking his eyes from mine, he raises the ball over my head and shoots. The sound of the ball swishing through the net is the only indication it went in. That, and the swagger and cocky athleticism that ooze from him as he retrieves the ball.

  And so it goes. I take shot after shot, taking my time and concentrating like I haven’t since the SATs, and then he makes the shot while watching me. It’s infuriating. And seriously hot.

  When I miss, he takes over, picking spots all over the court and moving back a foot each time. Miraculously, I manage to capitalize twice, and we’re tied, both having P-I.

  “Only one more letter.”

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.” Lining up at the free throw line, I turn away from the basket and hold the ball with two hands. I hear him snicker, but I keep focused on the shot. Trying not to overthink it, I toss it up and over my head and then crane my neck around to watch as it rattles through the net.

  “You got trick shots,” he says, sounding more impressed than anything.

  “Trick shots? Does it somehow count less this way?”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Fair enough.”

  He lines up in my spot, peeking over his shoulder once before facing away from the basket and tossing the ball up into the air. The ball hits the front of the rim and bounces back to him.

  “Yes! I did it! I beat the conference assist leader.”

  “Seems you do know my stats.”

  Heat floods my cheeks. “I might have looked you up. I won! I won!”

  “You got lucky. I demand a re-match.”

  “Nope. I won fair and square.” I walk off, grabbing my purse and phone from where I left them.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I know when it’s time to walk away. Tomorrow at two work?”

  I don’t look back, but I can feel him smiling after me. “See ya then, baller.”

  8

  Wes

  “All right, the probability of success remains constant for all trials. In other words, the probability of me making a shot is always fifty percent no matter how many times I shoot.”

  The words fall out of my mouth without thinking, which is good because all I can concentrate on is how fucking adorable she looks as she lines up at the free-throw line in her short shorts and Valley T-shirt. Eyes focused on the hoop, she dribbles three times and then pauses with the ball up to her face before shooting. Fucking adorable.

  And I’m not the only one who is taken with Blair. The whole team is here, hanging on Sunday afternoon, and she won them all over the minute she waltzed in with paper bags. It looks like she wiped out their entire pastry counter, but she waved off any notion that it was a big deal as she’d tossed the bags onto the counter with no need or want for thanks or acknowledgment. The gesture gained her both.

  It isn’t just the food, though. Only two type of girls come over to hang at the house. Type one is the ball honeys who have only one objective—landing a basketball player. Those girls are tossed around and become frequents lounging in the house at all hours willing and ready to be used for the bragging rights that she landed a ball player. I stay far, far, like outer space far away from those girls. The second type is girlfriends and those are far and few between. Zeke’s made it very clear he isn’t dating until he’s signed an NBA contract. Nathan parties too much for any girl to take him seriously, and Joel refuses second dates like he’s afraid it binds him contractually to marriage and kids.

  But Blair isn’t either of those things. She isn’t settled down with any of the guys, and she most definitely isn’t a ball honey. Right now, though, she looks like a cross between the two—hotter than both but taking the best of each. Being all domestic and feeding and taking care of us but looking too hot to be in a relationship. No sane dude would let his girlfriend wear what she has on right now in a house full of other guys.

  Joel and Z shoot around us. Joel pipes up when he thinks of something to add. He’s smarter than people give him credit for. He just doesn’t like to make a big show of it. Z stays quiet like he always does, but he’s listening. He’s always listening.

  “Sounds like you have it down,” I say reluctantly. As much as I didn’t want to tutor her, I’m clinging to our time together. What I feel borders on disappointment that it’s over so soon. “How about a rematch?”

  “PIG again? You sure you want me to embarrass you in front of the guys?”

  My teammates have trickled in from around the house and the pool and mill about, but they don’t intrude, just linger on the sidelines watching.

  “Nah, one on one. First to three points. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here with the boot and all.”

  “You’re like a foot taller than I am,” she squeaks and waves her hand, gesturing from my feet to head.

  “I’ll even give up my good hand.” I put my right hand behind my back and walk the ball to her. She looks up at me with a cocky grin that is sexy as hell. I can see the hesitation as clearly as I can see her determination.

  Pulling her bottom lip behind her front teeth she looks like she is in deep concentration as she tries to figure out her next move. I hold the ball out to her, and she reaches for it. I’m faster and move it out of her grasp as I shake my head. “If I win, I want no mention of last night’s loss to anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Her brown eyes sparkle. I push away the thought that I just referred to a girl’s eyes as sparkling as she speaks. “Buying my silence?”

  I nod.

  “What do I get if I win?”

  “I’ll keep tutoring you.”

  I’m not even sure I’ve been all that helpful. She’s a sharp chick, she’d have figured it out on her own. I wonder if she can see through my weak attempt to see her again.

  “Give me the ball, hotshot.”

  Ball in hand, she telegraphs her every move, giving me a distinct advantage even with only one good leg. She has no poker face and when she fakes left while looking right, I’m already prepared for her to make a move. What I’m not prepared for is Joel standing in my damn way.

  “What the hell, man?” I ask as I nearly trip over him while Blair dribbles undefended to the basket and tosses up an easy shot just under the basket.

  “Sorry,” Joel gets out between chuckles, clearly amused at my expense.

  Nathan calls out the score from the sidelines. “You’re rusty, Reynolds. Weak defense.”

  Blair saunters back to me, swinging her little ass side to side as she dribbles like she’s just walked on to the team. She dribbles the ball right up to me. Her hair is pulled up into another high ponytail, and it flips from side to side. “One to zip.”


  “You got lucky.”

  I take the ball and palm it in my left hand, dribble side to side, front to back. She tracks the ball with a focus that makes me want to keep showboating. Thank you, Pistol Pete. I spent an entire summer doing ball handling drills until not having the ball in my hands felt like the loss of a limb.

  The guys around the gym have stopped any pretense of minding their own damn business and all eyes are glued on us.

  “Show off,” and “Steal it, Blair.” ring out in steady succession. It’s clear who they are routing for, and it aint me.

  Traitors.

  I make my move to the basket, spinning around her as best I can with the boot weighing down my right foot. Z steps forward just as I’m preparing to pull up and puts his big body between me and the basket. No way am I getting around him with a bad leg. Even with two good ones, he would still be a wall that is hard to break through. I get the shot off, but he’s thrown me enough that it rattles around and bounces out without going through the net. Z rebounds and tosses it to Blair.

  “What the hell?” I stop and glare at my center just as Blair whizzes by me again and makes another short shot.

  “This is sabotage,” I mutter as I watch Z and Blair high-five.

  To be clear, I want her to win . . . but I don’t want to get my ass handed to me.

  My teammates are very squarely on her side. She brings the ball back to me with a smile so sweet I want to kiss it off her . . . and then beat her. Girl or not, I have my pride, and the more she taunts me, the harder it is to let her win.

  While she stands there waiting for my reaction or for me to make a move to the basket, I decide not to risk it and shoot the ball from where I stand at the top of the three-point line. The surprise on her face turns to a frustrated, and maybe impressed, frown as the ball swishes through the net.

  The gym erupts with boos. I turn to the guys sitting around the sidelines and nod toward them. Wise guys, the whole lot of them. I meet Shaw’s gaze. No surprise that he’s the loudest heckler. “You keep at it, and you won’t see the ball all year, Rookie.”

  He pipes down, but the rest of the guys continue to let me know how much they want her to hand me my ass.

  “Aww, come on, don’t be a poor sport,” Joel says as he shoots a wink to Blair and beckons her over to him.

  My “friends” huddle around her, leaning down so they can . . . fuck, I dunno, come up with a game plan?

  “What the fuck? I’m only using one hand and I have a boot on my foot.”

  Silence. They ignore me and keep whispering until finally Blair nods frantically and smiles. She takes her spot at the three-point line and then holds her hands out for the ball. I’m nervous and maybe a little pissed that I’m going to lose like a chump. There’s a big difference between letting someone barely eke out a victory over you and whatever the hell is going on right now.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m also a little turned on watching her strut around all dark hair and long legs in a tight little petite package. It’s all very confusing.

  “You ready for your whole team to watch you lose to a girl?” she taunts as she dribbles twice and then dares to crossover to her left hand right in front of me. She’s goading me, trying to get me to make a move, and my hands tingle to oblige.

  “Your win is going to be tainted in lies.”

  “A win is a win.”

  She steps closer, putting her right hip into me and keeping the ball on her left side. She’s surprisingly good with her weak hand. The long strands of her ponytail tickle my arm and chest as I put pressure on her side. The air between us shifts and maybe that was her plan all along because she doesn’t seem nearly as affected as I am. I wrap my left hand around her tiny waist, nudging her backward. I hadn’t planned on getting this handsy or aggressive, but she’s making it hard to remember this is a friendly game. A friendly game that I wanted her to fucking win.

  “You smell good,” she says on a breathy whisper so quiet I’m sure no one else can hear.

  The statement catches me off guard, but I manage to get out a weak thanks.

  “I guess you aren’t used to your opponents noticing things like that.”

  “If they did, they definitely wouldn’t say it.”

  “They’re probably too busy trying to keep up with you to notice. You’re a really good ball handler. Some of the things you can do with the ball in your hands is just insane. Where’d you learn to do all that?”

  “I, uh, well . . .” I clear my throat while I try to figure out how to respond to that, but it’s too fucking late. She pulls a spin move that wouldn’t fool a preschooler toward my bad foot and is off. I turn just in time to see her pull up and make another damn shot just under the basket. No block, no assist—all her. I lost to a fucking girl. A hot girl, but a girl none the less.

  Z and Joel laugh their asses off, and the rest of the guys rush toward Blair. They have her up in the air on their shoulders before I can even hobble over and rebound the ball.

  “You played me,” I yell to her over the noise. I doubt she can even hear me over the guys, but I don’t miss the triumphant smile plastered on her face and surprisingly I think my smile is almost as big . . . just not victorious.

  9

  Blair

  After my victory, the guys take over the court for their own game, leaving me, and much to his obvious dismay, Wes, on the sidelines.

  “Come on, we can finish studying in my room where my teammates can’t get in the damn way.”

  If I were a better person, I’d let him off the hook tutoring me since I clearly had help beating him. But now that he started teaching me like one of the guys and shown me what a good tutor he is, I’m not about to pass up the opportunity.

  Also, he’s hot. I mean I’m not shallow enough to only entertain the idea of hanging around hot guys, but when they’re hot and fun to be around and they can help me get a better grade? Yeah, I’m grabbing the opportunity any way I can.

  In his room, I pull out the Chewy Sprees tucked away in the side pocket of my backpack and reward myself with two. One for learning something and one for beating him.

  He doesn’t bother grabbing the statistics book this time as he sits on his bed and winces as he props his foot up on a pillow.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, just gets sore if I don’t elevate it every few hours. You want to cover covariance next?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right, let’s do the definitions first and then we’ll go into scenarios.”

  He fires off terms and I reply, parroting back the information I’ve read and memorized from the text.

  At each nod from him, indicating I have the right answer, I pop another candy into my mouth.

  He raises a brow. “I can’t remember the last time I saw someone eating Sprees.”

  “Want one?”

  “Dear God, no.” He looks absolutely horrified at the idea.

  “Come on. Have one. Live a little.” I wave a red candy in front of him, and he grimaces, pulling his lips into a tight line.

  His refusal only eggs me on, and I lean on my knees to get closer and press it into his lips as he tries to keep me from getting the candy into his mouth. I swear you’d think it was poison the way he fights.

  “Come on. One piece.”

  His lips part slightly, and I drop the candy in and sit back. I watch his face carefully. The grimace turns to intrigue and then pleasure.

  “That’s good,” he says finally. “Give me another.”

  I hand him the pack and he tosses a handful of colorful candies into his mouth.

  “Hey, that’s all I have left.” I swipe my precious Sprees back and frown at the two remaining. “Now how am I going to study?”

  He shakes his head. “I could rub behind your ears and tell you good job.”

  “Just ask me the next question,” I grumble and hold my candy tightly.

  He gives me a scenario, and I fumble to remember anything we’ve just c
overed.

  “You know the parts, just put them together.”

  “Ugh, I suck at this part. The essay questions kill me.” I close my eyes and focus. Negativity isn’t going to get me anywhere. “Stay positive. I can do this. I’ve already come a long way. I know more today than I did a week ago. I just need to keep putting in the effort. I can do this.”

  “Uhh . . .” He cocks a brow, and I realize I’ve been muttering aloud.

  “Sorry, you weren’t meant to hear that last part.”

  “What the hell was that?”

  I’m sure I turn a hideous shade of red as he stares at me like I’ve officially lost it. “A pep talk. When I’m feeling down about something, I try to flip it, phrase it to better represent my achievements instead of focusing on the things I can’t control. Positive thinking attracts miracles.”

  “You’re weird,” he says but winks and goes back to drilling me.

  We continue long after the Sprees are gone, and my eyes start to glaze over. “I need a break,” I finally admit when I can’t take it any longer. “All the definitions are jumbling in my mind.”

  “You want to stop for the night or . . .”

  “I just need a short break. You ate all my rewards, and I’m losing focus.” The loss of focus might be in part due to the way he’s sprawled out on the bed, making me picture all sorts of scenarios that involve fewer clothes.

  He snickers. “I’m afraid we don’t have any candy in the house.”

  “Of course, you don’t.” He probably fills his sculpted body with carefully proportioned meals meant to fuel the long hours of practice and training. Not pure sugar.

  A knock at the door snaps my attention toward it. Joel’s face appears, hand covering his eyes. “Everyone decent in here?”

  “We’re studying, asshole.”

  Joel stands to his full height and lets his hand drop. “I know. Just messing with ya. It’s six.”

  “Again, we’re studying.”

  “Take a break then.” Joel turns, and I’m looking between them, trying to figure out what is so important about six o’clock. “Movie starts in five. Nathan said to tell you he wants extra butter on the popcorn this time.”