by Lily Cahill
Can we win a championship? Hell … can we even win a single game?
The scalding hot shower beats down against my sore shoulders. I believe in Weston, and I have high hopes in the new coach, but … I can’t shower away the worry that I’ve made a huge mistake by staying with the Mustangs.
Last year, after the scandal broke, I was approached by a couple of other colleges looking to add more muscle to their offense. NFL scouts like players from winning teams, and if I’m not on a winning team this year …. For the first time, I’m afraid there’s a real possibility I won’t get drafted. Has loyalty screwed my chances at playing pro?
But the Mustangs are my family … literally. My father and uncles were all on the team twenty years ago, when the Mustangs were becoming the team to watch. I talked it over with my dad last year when recruiters started sniffing around, and we agreed that I should stay with the Mustangs. Well, I decided, and I convinced my dad it was the right choice. I was so certain that we could come together and make something magical out of this terrible year.
I don’t feel that way anymore.
The rape scandal shocked me to my core. I would never have believed it if it hadn’t been caught on tape. And what does that say about me, that I would have stood up for these guys who did such a terrible thing? Who might have done that sort of thing more than once? Lilah wasn’t wrong when she talked about the mentality that winning excusing all kinds of bad behavior. It makes me ashamed to be part of it.
I turn in the tight shower stall, brushing against the curtain. I let the water pound my chest, idly soaping my armpit. Even though she’s been distantly polite during classes the last three weeks, my confrontation with Lilah on the first day of class still haunts me. It pisses me off that she pre-judged me, but the more I think about it, the less I blame her.
She has a point about football players. Some of us are arrogant bastards who take their fame and talent for granted. And more than that, the free education. Thousands of people would kill to attend MSU. Yet look at Reggie. I love the guy, but he’s throwing away four years of an education that would cost someone else nearly a hundred thousand dollars for that same slip of paper. But because he’s built like a wall and has cinderblocks for shoulders, the administration always seems to find a way to keep him on the team. And it’s not just him. I know lots of guys who get away with shit that would get a normal student kicked out of school.
And I’d have to be a moron not to acknowledge that physical and sexual assault is part of that. People tend to believe that when a woman accuses a sports player of rape, she’s doing it for attention or money. Nobody wants to believe that a guy you cheer for, you idolize, is capable of hurting a woman. But from O.J. to Ray Rice, there’s plenty of evidence that some of those accusations are true.
It never really bothered me before last year’s scandal. I knew I would never do something like that, so I didn’t really care about it. But now … now that I’ve joked and laughed and played with guys who turned out to be monsters, it’s totally changed football for me. Now, if I can stay healthy and get drafted, do I even want to play pro?
But if I don’t try for the NFL, what else am I supposed to do? I’ll be graduating this spring with a degree in Ag Science, and pretty much the only place I can take that is back to the farm. As much as I love my family and my hometown, I don’t know if I can go back. I spent high school the local hero for my ability on the field. I’m a goddamned god to some in the town now that I play for MSU. And if I go back …. I shake water out of my hair and scrub hands down my face. I don’t even want to think about being a failure in their eyes. And not just the townies. My dad and uncles have dreamed of my professional sports career since I was born. Disappointing them would be terrible.
Even though I’m working harder than ever this season, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’m living a life I don’t want. Everything seems tainted by the scandal last year. I can’t stop thinking about the way Lilah stumbled back from me the first time I approached her. It kills me, remembering that for just a second, she seemed afraid of me.
Especially since she has been anything but afraid ever since. Every class, she gets more incredible. Not everyone in the class is a beginner like me, but no one even comes close to her innate talent. And she has a way with the students—I’m not the only one mesmerized by her casually brilliant aura. I know this is her first semester teaching, but she’s a natural.
She’s a natural, and I’m … I’m not sure what I am. When I walked in for the second day of class, the carving I’d been working on that first terrible day was suddenly sitting on her desk. I must have dropped it during the paint debacle. Claiming it crossed my mind, but it seemed silly to get proprietary about a piece of wood. I carve dozens of these things a year, and my dorm room is filled with them. But I could do better than that unfinished owl.
So the next class, I brought in a carving I’m proud of. It’s a delicate willow tree that looks just like the one outside my window at home. Scalloping the leaves had taken forever, but I liked the effect it made in the end. When Lilah wasn’t looking, I left it on the top shelf of a supply cabinet where she couldn’t help but find it. The next class, it was sitting on her desk next to the owl.
Seeing my work—my art—displayed by someone amazing like Lilah filled me with pride. Over the last two weeks, a deer, her fawn, a wizard in robes, and a chubby piglet have joined the tree and owl. I have been having way more fun than I should admit hiding them around the classroom, palming them as I retrieve supplies for our various projects. She never asks about the figurines, and I never volunteer that I made them. I just want her to have a piece of me that I don’t really share with anyone else.
I soap my way down my chest, thinking about Lilah. True to my word, I had made no attempt to flirt with her. She treats me like the rest of the students. I shouldn’t be thinking about a relationship anyway—this upcoming season will be the most important one of my life, and I really need to concentrate.
But none of that makes a difference. I’m still insanely hot for her.
She seems to have an endless wardrobe of sexy skirts that show off her legs and silky tops that make me wild thinking about the skin underneath. I could spend hours stroking the tattoo that spirals up her arm, kissing the rings and studs lining her ears, tangling my hands in her wild hair. I can’t stop thinking about how the sandalwood of my skin tone would look against the ebony of hers.
My cock’s rising now, just thinking about her, and my soapy hand slides ever lower. I prick up my ears, straining to hear any movement in the locker room. Empty. I don’t make a habit of jacking off in a semi-public place, but there is no way I can go to class in this state. I close my eyes, take my cock in my hand, and begin to stroke.
Immediately, my mind floods with images of her. Her leg hitched up against the desk, laughing, as sunlight pours through the windows. Wearing her glasses, blending watercolors. The lacy pink bra strap that peeks out from her dress during the class. Then my imagination takes over, and I lose myself dreaming of her soft lips, her heavy breasts, her wet, hot pussy.
I’ve never lusted after a girl like this. But I can’t seem to hold back. Every time her eyes find mine during a lecture, my system floods with heat. Every time she stands near me to look at my work, my cock swells against my tight boxer briefs. Once, she laid her hand on my back as she was demonstrating a technique, and I wanted to flip her over and fuck her blind right there on the table.
Fantasizing about that—her legs wrapped around me, my face buried in her breasts, the rest of the students cheering us on—I stifle a groan as I come.
I rest my head against the wall of the shower, breathing like I’d just run the forty. Now that my head is cleared of lust, a peculiar mix of shame and amusement washes through me. I feel like a randy teenager. And if I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late for class.
CHAPTER SIX
Lilah
RILEY FUCKING BRULOTTE IS DRIVING me crazy.
I’ve been teaching this class for three weeks now, and I’m proud to say that it’s working out much better than I expected. The projects have been going well, and the students are responsive and engaged. Once I got over my nervousness, it has actually been really fun to go back to basics. I learned most of these techniques a decade ago, and I’ve been taking them for granted.
Seeing the students get excited about what they are creating has been great. I just wish I could say it’s spurred my own artwork. But I’ve barely sat in front of my easel since class started. I’m too busy researching lectures and putting together lessons. Maybe that’s a cop-out, but at the moment it feels like a relief to not be chasing my own creativity.
And I’ve got enough on my mind trying to ignore Riley. He’s sitting at the back of the class, taking notes again. He seems almost too big for the chair, with the way his long arms and legs spread out in every direction. It should look silly, a man his size sitting in a standard classroom chair, but instead he looks calm and confident, like he’s hardly aware that he’s the biggest man in the room.
He usually wears sweatpants and T-shirts that look thin and soft with wear. These T-shirts have become a source of fascination for me—or, more accurately, the way they cling to his body as he moves. He’s got this thick golden hair and sweet brown eyes and a motherfucking dimple, all of which is totally unfair. He should not be allowed to be this hot.
I was hoping that he would be rude or dumb, to counteract the hotness, but so far it doesn’t seem like it. In fact, so far he’s been attentive and enthusiastic. He asks good questions. The essay he turned in for extra credit was thorough and well-written. And he specifically scheduled a make-up class with me today, after the regular class, to go over the lesson he missed.
All of which makes me feel even worse about the way I pre-judged him. And still—still!—I can’t look at him without thinking about the Mustangs who raped my best friend.
It’s illogical, but logic has never been a particularly important factor in my life. I run on instinct, emotion. But when it comes to Riley, all my senses are at war.
“All right, so now that we’ve talked about mixed media, I want you to give it a try on your own. Your homework over the next week is to gather some pictures, items, flotsam and jetsam, whatever, and bring them to class next week. Try to think about composition, and take a look at the selected works by James Rosenquist and Richard Hamilton. We’ll start putting together a mixed media piece on Monday.”
Every time I say something like that, I get a little thrill. Who would have thought I would ever be the one in charge of a classroom?
I never did particularly well in school—I was always too busy doodling in the margins to listen to my teachers. As an artist, I’m mostly self-taught. Gamma could barely afford supplies when I was growing up, let alone private lessons. Instead, I watched art shows on PBS and read every book I could find. By the time I started winning contests and bringing in a little money, the habit of figuring things out on my own was ingrained.
But now, I’m starting to see what I missed. Being surrounded by other creative-minded people is more fun than I expected. For example, someone has been leaving little hand-carved figurines all over the classroom. They’re beautiful and whimsical, and every time I find one it feels like a gift from the universe, just for me. Whoever is making them is incredibly talented. I’m planning on showing them to Marty when he gets back into town. He might be interested in carrying something like this in his gallery. And I get a kick out of the idea of shepherding a young artist.
“Lilah? Do you still have time to do that private lesson?”
I blink myself out of my reverie. I’m glad I asked the students to call me by my first name, but there is part of me that wishes I could change the rules for Riley. My name sounds too intimate, too warm, on his lips. The slight country twang in his voice always has a powerful effect on me.
“Yes, of course,” I say, determined to be professional. “Why don’t you grab the acrylics out of the supply cabinet, and I’ll grab you a fresh canvas.”
During the first class, when I had gone through the basics of acrylics with the rest of the students, I had walked among them so I could see what they were doing. But there is no need to do that today. I perch on a table near his easel so I can watch over his shoulder.
“Okay, so this is a basic lesson in blending and scumbling. Acrylics blend really well when they’re wet, and layer really well when they’re dry. We’re going to experiment a little with both techniques.”
“Sounds good,” Riley says. “Where should I start?”
“Hmm?” I snap my attention back to him and his innocent question. I had been too distracted by the play of muscles in his back. I can think of plenty of places he can start. I have to clear my throat before I say, “Just pick a color and paint a patch on the canvas.”
“Okay,” he says, choosing blue.
This close, his scent wafts around me. He’s always shower-fresh, like plain soap and sunshine. I’m pretty sure he goes to the gym before class, which means he must get all hot and sweaty each morning. I can almost imagine him, his hair and shirt dark with sweat, his skin glistening with it, his muscles—
“What now?”
“Uh ….” What was I doing again? “Let’s start with blending. Don’t clean your brush—just dip it straight into the white. Do you see how the blue comes through when you paint with it? So now, blend that color into what you already have. Do you see how it’s easier to blend while the paint is still wet?”
“Yeah.”
“So scumbling is a little different than blending. It’s a sort of scrubbing motion with your brush, using the side.”
“Like this?”
“Not quite.” I hop off the desk and walk up beside him. “It’s more like this,” I say, adjusting his hold on the brush.
“Like this?” he says again, turning his face toward me.
I’m standing closer than I should be, just over his shoulder. We’re separated only by the muscle of his arm. This close, I can see that he has a dip in his upper lip that looks perfect for kissing.
“That’s fine,” I choke out, stepping back. “Do … do that for a minute.”
Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? It’s been a while since I got laid, but I’ve never felt this hungry and reckless about sex before. And Riley is out of the question as a partner. I don’t have to be in love with every man I sleep with, but I probably shouldn’t hate some intrinsic part of his life. Football is a big part of him, and I’m not sure I can tolerate that.
Not to mention that I’m his teacher. Yeah, it’s just for the semester, but I’m taking it seriously. It wouldn’t be right to indulge this momentary lust, not when I have to see him every other day for the next three weeks.
When I dare to look at him again, Riley is still dabbing at the canvas, his brows lowered as he studies the various shades he’s creating. “What do you think of working with acrylics?”
“Takes a firmer hand than watercolors,” he says, still focused on his work. “But the colors are bolder. Gutsier.”
I raise my eyebrows at that description. “Gutsier?”
“Well, harder to blend, at least. I think I’ve made a mess of it.”
I come around to look at the canvas. “No, you’re doing great. Do you see the difference between the two techniques? Blending makes the brush strokes more obvious, while the scrumbling has more of a spongy texture. It’s great for trees and waves.”
“Do you mostly use acrylics?”
“Or oils. You’ll like oil paint; it’s definitely gutsy.”
He smiles, his dimple winking at me. “First Sky—the painting that w
on you the Pitkin—that was acrylics, right?”
“Right. Have you been googling me?”
He shrugs and goes to get more paint. “I had a while, sitting out in the hallway on the first day of class. It’s an amazing painting,” he says, returning to First Sky. He sits back down with the new paint—more shades of blue. “The MOMA website says it’s ten feet high and eighteen feet wide. That’s crazy big.”
I smile wanly. “Crazy big paintings are my specialty.”
“I’m pretty sure my phone screen didn’t do it justice. How does it feel knowing that thousands of people are looking at your painting every day?”
“Surreal,” I say, before thinking. “I never thought I had the chance to win it.”
“I looked at your website. It looks like all your stuff is pretty amazing.”
Warmth is crawling up my cheeks, and I have to look away. I have been praised before, I remind myself. “Thanks.”
He continues to work for a few minutes. Something about his silent presence invites confession. After a moment, I say, “You weren’t wrong, you know. The other day, when you called me a one-trick pony.”
“That was a shitty thing to say. I was riled up, and—”
“I said some shitty things to you, too. Don’t worry about it. But the truth is … I’ve hardly painted anything since I won the Pitkin.”
He touches me—just the tips of his fingers, tilting up my chin. “Did you lose your mojo?”
I can’t help but smile at the term, but it falls quickly. “Sometimes I wonder if my well of talent is dry.”
He shakes his head, exhaling out his nose. “Yeah, right. I’ve never seen anyone as talented as you. When you demonstrate this stuff, you make it look effortless.”
“That’s just technique.”
His hand drifts to my shoulder, its warmth seeping through my blouse. He’s still seated at the easel, but even at my perch on the desk he’s eye-level with me. It feels close, intimate.
“You’ll be that good too, with enough practice,” I say, trying to ignore the way my entire body is becoming slowly consumed with heat.
