The Hook Up (Game On Book 1)

by Kristen Callihan

  “Right.” I’m going to mess this up royally.

  Drew grins wide. “Yes, the first throw is going to suck.”

  “Get out of my head,” I mutter.

  He just laughs. “More like reading your expression. Now stop stalling.”

  I go through the motions, feeling like an idiot. And the ball wobbles through the air to land with a dull thud some ten feet away. Awesome.

  “Welp,” I dust off my hands. “That was fun.”

  I turn to go, when he grabs my arm, still laughing. The moron. “Nice try, Anna. But I don’t think so.” He slaps the ball back in my hand. “Again.”

  “So bossy.”

  “You like it.” His eyes are gold now, glinting in the sun.

  Yeah, I do. I grumble and try again. And again, with Drew stopping me every once in a while to give me pointers. Suddenly, it’s fun. Not spectacular fun, but kind of addictive. I say this to Drew, and he positively shines when he smiles down at me.

  “Exactly,” he says. “Why do you think I do this? It’s the need do better every time.”

  “To do better?” I stare up at him, shocked. “But you’re already perfect.”

  His expression turns soft, warm, and he steps close. “You think so, huh?”

  I know that tone too. And when his lids lower, his gaze going to my mouth, my heart kicks in my chest. I grip the ball between my hands. “Show me,” I blurt out.

  He blinks, his eyes lifting to mine, and a furrow wrinkles between his brows. “What do you mean?”

  “Show me how far you can throw the ball.”

  One corner of his mouth kicks up. “You want me to show off for you?”

  “If I have to ask, it isn’t showing off. But, yeah, I want to see what you can do.”

  Drew studies me for a moment, the soft breeze lifting the ends of his hair. Maybe he knows I’m avoiding things, maybe he wonders why. Or maybe he just thinks I’m crazy. As if he’s come to that conclusion, he shakes his head slightly. “Okay, but you’re going to have to snap the ball to me.”

  “Snap the ball?” I make a face. “Like bend over...”

  His grin is evil. “And I put my hands between your legs. Don’t give me that look. Dex does this for me every game.”

  “Is this the point where I launch into a diatribe about the blatant homoeroticism found in football?”

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. But since we’re talking about me putting my hands on you, I don’t think it applies here.” He leans close to my cheek, and his proximity makes my skin tighten. More so when his deep voice rumbles in my ear. “I promise to let you know the next time the team hits the showers.”

  “Oh my,” I wave a hand as if to cool myself off, which is only half in jest, “that’s a pretty picture you’re painting, Baylor.”

  Drew snorts and gives me a nudge with the football. “Just snap the ball, Jones, before I change my mind.” But he’s grinning as he steps back.

  “Fine.” I sigh and get into the position I’ve seen players assume.

  Drew moves in closer than I think is strictly necessary. His size and strength is a wall over me. “Mmm, spread those legs wider and get that sweet ass up higher, babe.”

  Despite our teasing, heat floods my belly. But I give him a dirty look over my shoulder. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

  He just winks. “You know it. Snap count on three.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Third sound I make, you hand me the ball.” He gives my butt a light slap. “Keep up, Jones.”

  And then his voice rolls over me like thunder. “Hut, hut, hut!”

  Jesus. My nipples tighten and a thrill courses through me as I obey and toss. He manages to catch the bobbling ball. I turn to watch him, and it’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous. Up close, his body is poetry. His muscles actually ripple along his torso and up his arm as he throws, his expression fierce and focused. I want to tackle him, throw myself on his body and devour him bite by delicious bite.

  I’m so caught up in gaping at him that I nearly forget to watch the ball, but I keep it together and look.

  “Damn,” I say. The ball is a rocket, hurtling through the air in a high arc. And it keeps going. Until finally it comes down from space to land with a hard bounce in the end zone.

  Drew’s lips curl up at the corners. “Good throw.” He says this to himself, not exactly as praise, but satisfied, and I wonder if he always appraises his work.

  My curiosity is drowned out by a long, appreciative male whistle.

  The tall blond guy I often see hanging with Drew is jogging down the stairs. “Beautiful, fucking bomb, man. But you missed me by a mile.”

  Drew laughs. “And we know how hard it is to miss that big head of yours.”

  “You best be thinking about connecting with my hands and not my head, dude.” The blond holds a hand up against the sun’s glare to study the field. “What was that, anyway? Sixty-five yards?” He whistles again and then lopes across the grass, moving as though walking is never an option when he can run.

  “Seventy-one,” Drew answers. “But who’s counting?”

  Drew’s shoulder brushes mine as the guy stops before us. He is massive, an inch or two taller than Drew and easily twenty pounds of muscle heavier. The guy eyes me with caution, but he puts on a polite smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I’m pretty sure Drew’s talked about me, us, and his friend doesn’t approve.

  “Anna,” Drew says, “This is Gray Grayson. He plays tight end.”

  “Ass jokes are welcome and encouraged,” Gray adds with wag of his brows. Like Drew, he’s extremely good looking, but in a California surfer way, with his mop of sun-streaked blond hair flopping over his tanned forehead.

  “Gray Grayson?” I shouldn’t repeat his name that way, but I can’t help myself. What were his parents thinking?

  Gray winces. But beneath dark blonde brows, his blue eyes show no hint of annoyance. “I know, right?” he says to my unanswered question, which he must get a lot. “My mom had a total crush on Gray Grantham, a character from this John Grisham book, The Pelican Brief.”

  “She named you after a character in a book?” I blurt out. Atticus Finch is one thing. Hell, I’m pretty sure the South is peppered with Atticuses and Rhetts for that very reason. But this is a new one to me.

  “She was reading it during the end of her pregnancy. Anyway,” Gray shrugs, “she though Gray Grayson would be ‘just so cute.’” Now he’s scowling, but there’s no real anger behind it, only fondness, and a slight wince as if it pains him to think of his mother. “So that’s what I got stuck with.”

  “Sometimes we call him ‘Gray-Gray,’” Drew puts in helpfully and earns a punch on the arm from Gray.

  “And sometimes I call him,” Gray nods towards Drew, “‘QB with my foot up his ass.’”

  Gray eyes the ball waiting in the end zone then looks at Drew. “You ready, man?”

  Because Drew is standing so close, I feel the tension in his arm.

  “Yep.” Drew glances as me. “It’s Gray’s birthday.”

  I give Gray a polite smile, because I’m still pretty sure he doesn’t like me. “Happy Birthday.”

  Gray’s answering smile turns more genuine. “Thanks. Though I don’t know about turning 22. It’s like the beginning of the end.”

  “I don’t know what he’s crying about,” Drew says to me. “He’s the baby of the bunch.”

  Gray sighs loud and long. “Feels like yesterday when I retired my fake ID.”

  The corners of Drew’s eyes crinkle. “The way you carried on over that damn thing, you’d think it was your baby.”

  “Hey, it gave me years of service, devoted to finding me pleasure.”

  I smile at their interplay, but then catch on to what Drew says. “You’re already 22?”

  “I told you I was older, Jones.”

  “I thought you meant by a day.” I glance between him and Gray. “How is it you’re both 22?” Hell, Drew’s
almost 23.

  “We redshirted our freshman year,” Gray says, as if this is obvious.

  When Drew sees that I have no idea what the hell Gray’s talking about, he gives me a tight smile. “Basically, we spent our freshman year on the sidelines, taking classes but not playing. It’s called a redshirt.”

  “Think of it this way,” Gray puts in, “we’re aged like wine. The longer we’re here, the bigger, stronger, and better we get. Why should a program lose out on playing us when we’re reedy little 18 year olds instead of waiting until we’ve reached maximum efficiency?”

  It all sounds kind of mercenary, but smart, I suppose. And because there’s a hesitancy in Drew’s eyes, like he expects me to think less of him because of the redshirt, I tell him this, watching as he visibly relaxes.

  “College football is nothing if not mercenary,” he says lightly.

  Gray gives Drew’s arm a slap. “The guys are waiting. Let’s get a move on.”

  But Drew eyes me again. “You want to go? We’re just hitting a couple of bars.”

  It’s actually sweet the way he’s visibly conflicted, as if he doesn’t want to leave me but wants to go out with his friends too. I smile and shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ve got a paper due.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.” His fingertips graze my elbow, and I feel the touch between my thighs. Jesus, I’ve got it bad.

  While Gray runs off to gather the other guys, Drew and I leave the stadium. The air between us is subdued, as if both of us are too aware that we don’t hang out like this. And it’s just as clear to anyone who’d bother to look that we aren’t just friends. Not by the way we walk so close, our arms nearly touching. His hand brushes against mine, and I wonder if he’ll hold it, but we’re at my scooter, and I reach in my bag for my keys.

  Drew sizes up my ride with a quirked brow. “You ride a red Vespa. With a basket on the front?” His dimple is showing. “God.” He clutches his chest. “The urge to make a Red Riding Hood joke is killing me.” An exaggerated groan of frustration leaves him.

  I roll my eyes as I crouch down to unlock my chain. “I knew it.”

  He’s unrepentant. “It’s fucking adorable, Jones.” Warm brown eyes look me over. “You’re adorable.”

  “And you’re about to lose valuable equipment, Baylor.”

  He gives me that shit-eating Drew Baylor grin. “I’d be worried if I didn’t know you have a vested interest in my equipment.”

  “God, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” For a moment we just smile at each other, then something changes. My heart begins to beat faster and another flush of warmth washes over me. I think I’ll want him always. And by the way his eyes darken and his body tightens, leaning closer to mine, he wants me too.

  But he’s looking at my mouth, his lids lowering, his own mouth going soft. I stand and abruptly smash on my helmet. My hair springs out around my neck like red tentacles. “Well,” I say with false brightness. “Have fun tonight.”

  Drew’s quiet as he steps up to me. Everything inside me seizes, but he simply lowers my visor with a gentle hand. “See you, Jones,” he says. “Take care.”

  I straddle my bike and start it, but I pause and lift the visor. “Drew…” I take a small breath. “Thanks for listening, for making me feel better.”

  He rests his hands low on his lean hips, and when he speaks, it comes out just a bit rough. “Thanks for trusting me enough to share.”

  My throat aches as I leave him standing in the parking lot, my neck tight with the knowledge that he’s watching as I drive away.

  FOR THE FIRST time since I’ve been with Anna, I’m relieved that she doesn’t want to be with me tonight. I don’t want her to see the spectacle that is Gray’s birthday celebration.

  We hit a few bars, staying only long enough for the crowd to shout its appreciation, for Gray to have a drink, maybe play a game of pool or darts, and then move on. It might seem tame, but even now, there are rules. No binge drinking, no public spectacles, and absolutely no taking home random girls. Right now, we’re ranked number one across the board, and every team wants to take us down. There’s no room for mistakes. Maybe other teams play it differently, but it works for us. Dex and I are in charge of keeping the guys in line. We’re the sober sentinels standing on either side of the ever-moving group of our guys.

  Ordinarily, this is a suck-ass job, but I don’t mind it tonight. Though I love hanging with my guys, the whole scene tires me. A few months ago, this might have me worried, but now I recognize it for what it is: my idea of fun has changed. It no longer includes anticipating how many different sets of tits are flashed at me or how many girls I can fuck. I don’t care if people recognize me or slap me on the back and offer to buy me a drink. I’d rather they not notice me at all. That sort of attention means dick-all to me now.

  Life has more color, more flavor, and heat in the few hours I’m with Anna, then I’ve experienced in all the years I’ve partied. Because that fun always felt like I was searching, pushing for some ineffable satisfaction that constantly eluded me. With Anna, I feel like I’ve landed right where I want to be.

  Exhaustion weighs down my shoulders and my eyelids are gritty as we head back to my house. Normally, I wouldn’t agree to a party here. But it’s Gray’s birthday, and he deserves to have his fun. My house is safe from the public eye and events can be contained there. Because Gray has been adamant about one birthday request.

  With a suppressed sigh, I lean back against my living room wall and watch four half-naked women give Gray a lap dance. There are so many naked limbs, it looks like some demented female hydra writhing around him. Tits bounce in his face, an ass grinds on his crotch, hands run over his head and shoulders, and he’s loving it, as are our teammates. Hoots and catcalls ring out. Especially when the women fan out, each of them headed for a guy. Music thumps in time to writhing and sleek female flesh.

  I eye the clock on my DVR and grit my teeth. Yeah, I’m officially a grumpy old man. I just want to go to bed.

  Across from me, Dex leans against the kitchen counter nursing a bottled-water. With his bulky frame, shaggy brown hair, and full beard that he insists on wearing, women often call him Bear, something I’m fairly certain he gets off on.

  Ethan Dexter, or Dex as everyone calls him, plays center, my right hand, ultimate look out, and the last man standing between me being flattened by hungry linemen. I love this guy and am not ashamed to admit it.

  I make my way to him, stepping over the legs of the woman now kneeling before Gray, her head bobbing up and down in rhythmic fashion. Holy hell, I do not want to witness that. Some things can never be unseen.

  “Who the fuck arranged for a full service performance?” I ask Dex, as I stand next to him. “That was not part of the deal.”

  Dex crosses his beefy arms over his chest. “Simms. The little fucker.”

  Simms, who is a massive defensive end, is also getting some personalized service. I turn away and fish a water out of the fridge. “Let them finish off, and then the girls are out of here.” I take a long swallow and grimace. “I don’t give a shit if it’s Gray’s birthday, I don’t need to see all of that.” Never mind that if we get caught, we’re in deep shit. Not by the police. It’s a sad truth that we’re so revered by this town, this state, that we can get away with anything short of murder. And some days, I wonder about even that. No, I’m talking about Coach. Who doesn’t put up with any shit.

  Dex grunts. His face is flushed and his mouth pinched. If there’s one thing that I know about Dex, it’s his intense dislike of exhibitionism. He’s never gone for casual sex. For all I know, he might be pulling a Tebow and is still a virgin. “Why not stop them now?”

  “Seems cruel to stop a guy in mid…” I shrug, not wanting to finish that statement.

  But I’ve made Dex blush harder.

  “You can go if you want,” I offer. “I can clear them out on my own.”

  Dex shakes his head and grabs his own water, chugging it down in
two gulps. He slams the empty bottle down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Naw, I’m not doing that to you, man. Can you imagine any girlfriend being okay with this?”

  Despite my foul mood, a smile tugs at my mouth. Anna would probably go into a tirade about the objectification of women and how such paid services dehumanize both sexes. She’d be right, but then she’s never had to deal with a whiny Gray before.

  Pride. It washes over me with warm satisfaction when I think of Anna. And then it promptly flushes away, leaving me cold, because I want Anna to meet Dex and the rest of them. Which seems like it will never happen. She’d balk at the idea. Then again, she came to my practice today. She sought me out for basic comfort.

  The warmth returns. Strange how much satisfaction I got just from taking the hurt out of her eyes and replacing it with happiness. When I think of her asswad absentee father, who I’d personally like to pound into a stain on the turf, and of her mother’s roving hands boyfriend, Anna’s reluctance to make a deeper connection becomes clearer. Whereas I grew up seeing firsthand what a loving, committed relationship can be, she likely hasn’t got a clue.

  “You got a woman, Dex?”

  Dex studies the cabinets before him as though they hold the secret of life. “I was just thinking out loud.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.” I take a drink and try to hide my smile. “Sounds like you’re afraid of what a specific girl might think.” Which would make two of us.

  “There was a girl.” The corners of Dex’s eyes crease, like he’s caught between a smile and a grimace. “She didn’t like football. And what could I say to that?”

  I sympathize.

  “Said we were just boys in oversized bodies.”

  “Well, sometimes we are,” I mutter. “But, isn’t every guy at some point or another?”

  “You know it’s going to be worse when we go Prime Time. Take all of this,” Dex jerks his chin toward the living room, “add a shit-ton of money to it, and see what mess comes out.”

  Money. The way most of us are playing, we’ll be making bank by this time next year. It isn’t a pipe dream; it’s a fact. And it will come with the expectation of excellence. Against guys who are tougher, faster, stronger, and far more experienced.