The Hook Up (Game On Book 1)

by Kristen Callihan

  “I’m simply being honest, you goober.”

  Another kiss lands on my skin. “You’re blind. Your ass. Jesus, your whole body...” He pauses, his mouth just touching the point where my back swoops up to meet my butt. “Nothing compares, Jones.”

  I’m struck breathless. He’s the one who is incomparable.

  “I’ve seen the girls you’ve been with, Baylor.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wince. It’s stupid to call them to mind. But I’ve said it, so I’ve got to finish. “You cannot claim that my body is…” I was wrong; I can’t say the rest.

  And by the way his hands tighten on my waist, I don’t think he wants me to either. When he speaks, it’s quiet but insistent. “The fact that I’m finding it hard to even recall another woman ought to tell you something.”

  “Yeah, well…Shit.”

  Slowly, he laughs. “You’re never going to win this argument.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. Because you’re begging the question.” His palm smoothes down my hip and then back up. “It is my opinion that your ass is perfect. Ergo, your ass is perfect to me.”

  I can’t help laughing. “I cannot believe you’re pulling out philosophical constructs now.”

  “Believe it, baby.” Happiness and a certain smugness lighten his voice. “I like debating with you.”

  I like it too. More than I should. I like him. “You realize I can use the same argument? Seeing as you’ve made the state of my ass a question of personal preference rather than a discussion of empirical facts.”

  He chuckles, the laugh muffled by his lips pressed to my skin.

  “And, anyway,” I add just a bit strangled, “you’re cheating.”

  “How?” But he sounds like he knows perfectly well how. He just doesn’t care.

  “You attack only after putting me in this weakened condition.”

  I’m proven correct when he grins. “I’m a competitor. What did you expect?”

  “Not your face in my butt,” I mutter. But his attention and care feel so damn good that I don’t want it to end. Ever. I want to lie here and let him do what he wants to me until I can’t remember my name. Or his. So of course, idiot that I am, I tense up further.

  “Relax, Jones,” he whispers, his fingers lightly tickling me as they drift along. “You can handle it.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not having your ass inspected at close range.”

  Another chuckle rumbles. “You can inspect my ass. I won’t mind.”

  “Baylor…” I warn.

  “Jones…” he mocks. And then his tongue licks the curve of my butt cheek.

  A pathetic whimper escapes me, and my head hits the mattress. But he simply laughs in that husky, satisfied way again. “If you can’t handle it, call this a boon,” he suggests before giving me a small nip.

  “A boon?” It comes out way too close to a squeak.

  “Yeah.” His breath is warm. “Like a reward for hauling my ass out here in the pouring rain for a booty call.”

  “Oh, I see.” My breath hitches as he hits a sensitive spot. “So it’s a chore now?”

  “Never said that.” He nuzzles, fucking nuzzles, my butt. “I said you could call it that if it makes you feel better. Me? I’d be here every day if you’d let me.”

  I’m not going to get into that. But I can’t help but smile against my forearm. “And what boon do I get the next time you’re the one to call?”

  He gives me another soft kiss. “Anything.”

  The quick, yet steady way he answers sends a little thrill through me. He might have backpedaled or given me conditions, but instead it’s a promise more than an answer. I press my lips harder into the flesh of my arm. “Careful, Baylor, you might regret that.”

  He makes a humming noise. Content. Amused. “Possibly. But something tells me I’ll enjoy it too.” Lightly, he traces his fingertips over my hips, raising gooseflesh in his wake.

  “What if it’s an hour-long foot rub?”

  “Maybe I have a secret foot fetish.” I know he’s smiling. I can feel it along my skin. “Maybe I get off on foot rubs.”

  I laugh just a bit. “If you think that’s going to scare me, you’re wrong.” He probably gives great foot rubs. Strong fingers. Intense concentration. I’m tempted to beg for one now.

  “Damn.” His sigh tickles my back. “Then what?” Another kiss. “Come on, hit me with it.”

  I tilt my head and snuggle down into the cradle of my arms. “Maybe I’ll have you edit my class paper.”

  He goes so still, I can hear my own heartbeat, and then he rests his cheek on my butt. I want to squirm but he slips his arms under me and holds tight.

  “Edit it?” His voice is a vibration through my skin.

  Absently I nod. “Mmm. You know, point out all the flaws of logic like you do in class. Which I hate to admit, you’re right more than you’re wrong. Not surprising, smart as you are.”

  I’m basically babbling, but his hold on me clenches, and he takes a sharp breath.

  The sheets rustle when I crane my neck to look down at him. From my vantage point I can only see his profile from above, the gold streaks in his hair at the crown of his head and the darker brown along his temples, the high bridge of his nose, and the thick curve of his lashes against his cheeks. With his head resting on my ass, his body is half off the bed, he’s so damn long. Lean yet strong, muscular yet graceful. I could look at him forever. And his shoulders are so tight now that every sinew and curve stands out.

  “You don’t think you’re smart?” My voice is a rasp in the quiet.

  His answer is just as rough, but there’s a hint of bitter laughter in it. “Oh, I know I’m smart.” He glances up, and when our eyes meet, that familiar, sweet punch hits me straight in the heart. His eyes are dark and shining in the low light. “It’s just that, outside of my team, not many people give a shit if I am or not.”

  No, most care about that arm of his. The one now wrapped around my waist, giving me a little squeeze as if he needs to bring me closer. Or his hand, which is tenderly pressed into my lower belly, so warm and secure that contentment spreads over me.

  I want to keep this moment. Keep this part of him, like a secret. But he’s not mine to keep, and even though it might hurt him that people only see his surface, he still loves that life. And why shouldn’t he? His talent is immense, and he works his ass off. I don’t want to change that. It would change him.

  Watching me, his expression turns pinched and pained. “I caught one of my professors grading a test in my favor.” He almost chokes on the words, as if it’s killing him to admit this to me. “I don’t know how many times it’s happened without my knowledge, or if they’ve all done things like that.”

  He holds himself so tightly, the pain and humiliation he feels so evident that I see red. “Fuck him, Drew.” Never have I wanted to punch someone as much as I want to hit his professor. “Fuck anyone who does that.”

  Drew’s cheek presses harder into my flesh. “I know. I just don’t like thinking my academic career has been a lie.” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “It means something to me.”

  My fingers dig into my forearms as I glare at the herringbone-patterned bedspread. “You did the work, you have the intelligence. No one can take that away from you.” I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “And if you never even went to one class, you’d still be one of the smartest people I know. The most dedicated.”

  Silence follows my statement, and the soft caress of Drew’s breathing tickles my skin. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “You always make me feel better. Like myself again.”

  A pang shoots through my heart, sweet and aching. Drew doesn’t make me feel like myself. He makes me feel better than myself. As if there is a little broken part in me, rattling and loose, and whenever he’s near it falls into place and tightens. The thought has me withdrawing, sinking into that cold, thick place that chokes me. I’m beginning to need him too much.

&n
bsp; And because he is smart, and knows me now, knows my stupid fear, his hold suddenly shifts. One hand eases up to cup my breast while the other hand drifts down. Long, calloused fingers slide between my legs, and I close my eyes, my muscles clenching in that delicious way that makes me feel like an addict, wanting to beg for more and more. Always more.

  “Again?” I ask as if half-exasperated, but I’m not. I’m grateful, and my heart falls that much further into his keeping. Which terrifies me.

  I don’t get a chance to plummet into terror. Drew is turning me over, his lips following the path of his hand. “Just proving my earlier point of your irresistibility.” It’s a murmur against my skin.

  I close my eyes. Don’t think. Just feel. And he lets me, because we both are excellent liars now.

  AS QB, I lead my team. I set the tone of the game, lighting a fire under my guys’ asses or making them fall flat if I’m not on top of things. I never really felt the pressure of that responsibility because it isn’t in me to sit back and be subordinate in a game. I love leading my team. But it can get lonely.

  The backs and receivers, the linemen, both defensive and offensive, form their own close-knit groups. They can talk strategy and technique among themselves and often hang out together. Quarterbacks? I don’t hang out or commiserate with the backups. There’s only one QB who gets the job, while the others warm the bench and wait for a chance to take over.

  I’m lucky in the fact that our team is close. Coach makes sure we are. But as I sit alone on the bus to Florida, surrounded by the deep rumble of my guys chatting it up, the gulf between them and me stretches wide. Which is fucking maudlin and stupid and annoys me. I have no reason to feel lonely. Any second now, Gray will be tossing his ass into the seat next to me to talk my ear off. And if not Gray, someone else will. I know this. Only it isn’t enough right now.

  Outside my window, the landscape blurs by in streaks of brown grass, blue sky, and gray road. All I want to do is turn the bus around. I want it so badly that my stomach hurts.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over the afflicted area.

  The seat next to me dips with a squeak. “You’re not my type, Baylor,” says Dex.

  I push myself out of my slouch. “Good thing,” I quip, “you’d snap me like a twig.”

  He chuckles. “You know it.”

  Three hundred pounds of pure muscle and quick speed, he really could snap me in two. But he’s the least aggressive guy I know.

  He offers me a stick of beef jerky out of the bag he’s demolishing, and I shake my head.

  “What’s doin’, Battle?” His gray eyes scan my face as if he’s seeing under my skin. “You seem…subdued.”

  Keen powers of observation and constant awareness of his surroundings are what make Dex an excellent center. But I’m not appreciating those skills now. I’m thinking of Anna, who kissed my bruises with a tenderness that made my heart flip over in my chest before she sucked my cock until I lost my mind. Anna who, with her plain speaking and fierce declarations, gave me back a piece of my pride. Anna, who still won’t kiss me on the mouth or let me kiss hers.

  I want to be with her so badly right now, to claim that mouth once and for all, it takes effort to respond with a calm voice. “As compared to who? Rolondo?” I glance at the man in question, who is currently showing off his new touchdown victory dance in the aisle. “Or maybe Lloyd?” I give a nod toward the massive defensive end sleeping in the seat across from us. A line of drool hangs from his lips, and Marshall—running back and all around knucklehead—is leaning over him, dangling a dirty shoelace before Lloyd’s nose. That won’t end well.

  Dex snorts at the antics but isn’t deterred. He turns his attention back to me. “I mean subdued for you.”

  During the games, it’s his job to watch over not only my ass but also every man on the field. He can read an impending blitz, call a play change if he senses a shift in defense. His instincts have been honed like a blade, which means he notices anomalies before, during, or after any game.

  “Headache,” I say with a shrug. This is a major concession, because no one wants to admit to physical pain. But I prefer that over the truth, which will lead to endless hounding.

  Dex takes a bite of jerky, his big teeth grinding down the toughened meat like it was a dinner roll. “So not chick problems, then?” His grin is knowing.

  Fucking. Gray. Fucking blabber-mouthed, soon to be dead, pain in my ass Gray.

  “Cuz I’ve heard you’ve got yourself a cute little redhead—”

  “You guys are worse than girls, you know that?” I mutter then slouch against the window. “A bunch of gossiping girls.”

  He just shrugs. “I ain’t the one staring all hangdog out the window. Like a love-struck girl. I thought we talked about this. Not smart, man. Especially for you.”

  It’s all I can do not to fist my hands, show any sort of reaction. After the fiasco that was known as Jenny, I suppose getting involved is a stupid idea for me. Dex’s dig is unfair, however, seeing as after the breakup, I was so focused on kicking ass, we won the National Championship. Again. Unfortunately, thanks to Jenny’s bitter lies, Dex’s job of keeping me healthy on the field was that much harder at the time. I might as well have had a “Pummel Baylor” sign on my chest after the dirt she slung about me got out.

  “You ask Battle about his new girl yet, big D?” Rolondo’s now hanging over my seat, his grin wide and fucking evil. He laughs, a low, easy chuckle, before giving my head a playful slap. “You think you’re hidin’ anything, man?”

  “Seriously?” I snap at the both of them. “You all haven’t got anything better to do?”

  “Yeah.” Rolondo’s grin is still in place, shining brighter than the diamond in his ear. “Doesn’t beat seeing you cringe in your seat. Damn, boy, you blushing?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and pray for a bus crash.

  “He’s got it bad,” observes Diaz from behind me. Which is when I realize that they’re all fucking looking at me. The whole goddamn bus. I am going to kill Gray, who is conspicuously quiet in his seat at the front, trying to appear innocent as he flips through Sports Illustrated.

  “Who is it, yo?” asks Marshall from across the way.

  “I heard she’s the girl from that lacrosse team party about a month back,” Dex says. “The redhead wearing that killer black tank top.”

  At this, all the guys who were there instantly nod in understanding. Hell, Anna’s top obviously made an impression.

  Dex looks around at his now captive audience. “The way Baylor was watching her, you’d think she was the championship trophy.”

  “Naw, Dex,” says Diaz. “You can’t eat no trophy. And Battle most definitely looked hungry.”

  Snickers break out. Jesus, was everyone watching me make a fool of myself at that party?

  Rolondo whistles low. “Must be one fine girl to get Battle worked up.”

  “She looks like Christina Hendricks,” Dex adds helpfully.

  Rolondo shakes his head. “Man, ain’t no one on campus got tits that big. Believe me, I’d know.”

  “Watch your mouths,” I snap. I don’t care if I have to take down the whole bus. No one is discussing Anna that way. Even if Rolondo is technically correct, Anna is nowhere near that big… Shit. I officially hate these guys.

  Rolondo holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean no disrespect.” Because if there is one golden rule among men, it’s that you do not talk smack about a guy’s girl or his mom. “I’m just sayin,’ you mention Christina Hendricks, and I’m thinking about one thing.”

  “And I didn’t say anything about your girl’s ti—breasts,” Dex insists, flushing. “I said she kind of looked like the lady. As in has a noticeable resemblance. Facial resemblance.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose is clearly useless against this burgeoning headache.

  “Yo, don’t you think she looks more like the Black Widow in The Avengers?”

  A round of apprec
iative agreement rumbles through the bus.

  “That movie was tight,” Simms interjects. “Remember when The Hulk smashed the shit out of Loki like he was some rag doll? Damn, I’d kill to do that on the field. Take some running back and bam, bam, bam!”

  “Bet you sorry you ain’t green too.” Rolondo throws an empty Pringles can at the Hulk-loving defensive end, which he bats away with a scowl before retaliating with a half-full water bottle.

  “Whatever she looks like, our boy Drew is whipped.” That from Marshall.

  Bastards. All of them.

  “Why don’t you just call her, man?” someone shouts from behind. Jenkins. I compile a mental list for revenge purposes.

  “Oh, honey,” intones Thomson—another smart ass, “I miss you soo muuuch!”

  When they start making kissing noises, I do the only thing I can. “Marshall’s girl gave him a pink teddy bear, and he carries it around in his bag,” I shout.

  “Betraying bastard!” bellows poor Marshall. But it’s too late for him. He goes down in a tackle of guys as he tries to defend his backpack.

  Chaos ensues until the assistant defensive teams coach stands up at the front of the bus and settles everyone down with the threat of extra drills. Yeah, I love these guys. I’m smug and satisfied until Dex leans in, speaking only to me. “If you’re really into this girl, lock that shit up. Lock it up tight and concentrate on your game.”

  And like that, my bubble bursts. What the fuck am I doing with Anna?

  HE’S NOT HERE. He’s at an away game. Florida. This is how far I’ve sunk. I know his schedule. And I’m sitting in my room at ten o’clock on a Saturday night instead of going out with Iris and George. I’d begged off, using a need-to-read excuse. I love curling up with a good book. Except tonight it was a lie. My eReader is off and sits on the end of my bed where I tossed it earlier in a huff of irritation. A girl can only read the same line so many times before giving up the ghost.

  I’m so restless my legs twitch, which only adds to my annoyance when my bare legs slide over the comforter and little zings of feeling run along my sensitized skin. Thoughts of the things Drew has done to me on this very bed invade my mind and make me flop back with a groan. Shit.