Head in the Game (Game Day #1)

by Lily Cahill

  “Jesus Christ, Reggie. We just talked about this. You can’t say shit like that.”

  “Like what? ‘Get your dick wet?’” Reggie claps me on the shoulder with a mock serious look on his face. “She really should be wet and ready, Lotto. Didn’t you learn anything from the sensitivity training?”

  I shove off his hand and then motion down the empty hallway. “I’m going to wait here. I want to apologize to the teacher.”

  Reggie raises one eyebrow and snorts. “Sure, dude, whatever. I’ll see you at practice later.”

  Since it’s summer, the new coaching staff has to keep full-contact practice limited, and training camp isn’t for another month, but that doesn’t stop us from getting together a couple evenings a week to run some informal drills. “All right, see you then.”

  He saunters off down the hall and leaves me alone with my thoughts. It’s a two hour class, which means I have almost ninety minutes to wait. Well, that’s what the Internet is for. I sit with my back against the wall, pull out my phone, and start to google.

  An hour and a half later, the door opens and the class files out. From their excited chatter, I guess I missed a good class. A couple of them cut me dirty looks, but I pointedly ignore them. I don’t care about convincing them to like me.

  Lilah is surveying a row of drying canvases propped against the wall. The canvases aren’t much, just early experiments in mixing color, but Lilah is looking at them with stark emotion on her face.

  Up until this moment, I realize, I’ve been caught up by her bright clothes and bold hair. But now I’m catching a glimpse of the woman within, and she’s even more fascinating than the one I’ve already met.

  She whirls around suddenly as if she senses me. Our eyes meet, and I can see hers are damp. But then she blinks, and the tender woman is encased in armor.

  “Are you here to drop this class?”

  “No.” I square off, digging my feet into the wood floor. “I want to apologize for my behavior today.”

  “Do you think an apology is enough for fighting in my class? You spilled half a gallon of red paint.”

  “I’ll clean it up.”

  “It’s already done,” she says tartly. “I was planning on teaching cleaning techniques at the end of class, but you and your friend changed that.”

  Ah. That explains some of the dirty looks I got. “I would have cleaned it up.”

  “I wasn’t going to let paint sit on the floor for an hour.”

  Shit. “How can I make it up to you?”

  Her eyes flicker over me and I wonder, for one glorious second, if she’s thinking of making me work for her affection in the most personal of ways. Then she meets my eyes. “I’m not sure you can.”

  “Give me a chance. I really want to take this class.”

  “Why?”

  I rough my hands through my hair, trying to find the words I’ve never said to anyone. “I grew up on a farm, and I’ve been playing football my entire life. There’s not much room in my life for … beauty. I might not have another chance to study art. I might not be any good at it, but I’d like to try.”

  Her face is still closed. “What about your friend?”

  I can’t hide my wince. “Not so much. But he’s on his own.”

  “I thought football players stick together.”

  I point at her and walk closer. “There it is. That’s your problem. You are determined to hate me because I’m a football player.”

  “You’ve given me plenty of reason to dislike you all on your own.”

  “What? Spilling the paint?” I shrug. “That was Reggie. I just gave him a little nudge to get him to shut up about … to make him pay attention.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  I take another long step closer to her. She answers by taking three quick steps back until her butt hits her desk.

  Her movement makes shock flare in my stomach. “Are you afraid of me?”

  Her mouth trembles open, then closes again. “I’m not sure.”

  “Because of what happened last December? I had nothing to do with that.”

  “So you say.”

  I have to look away. My desire for her is at war with my frustration. “This is bullshit. I am nothing like those guys. I would never, ever hurt a woman.”

  She shakes her head, crossing her arms across her delectable chest. “It’s not just you. It’s the whole culture of football. Nothing matters except winning, and if you are winning nothing else matters. You guys think you can get away with anything. Like your friend. Waltzing into class late, talking during my lecture. It’s so arrogant and entitled.”

  “I see. So I guess you’re the kind of person who judges whole groups by the actions of a few.”

  “That’s not ….” She trails off, unable to argue the point.

  “Besides, that’s Reggie, that’s not me.” The shock has given way to anger burning inside me, fed by all that hot attraction I feel for her. “You’re an artist, right? Well, all the artists I’ve heard of are drug addicts or insane. Which are you?”

  She fixes me with a furious look. “Neither.”

  “So what does that leave? One-trick pony? Has-been?” She flinches, and I can’t help but cruelly home in on it. “You’re awfully young to have peaked already.”

  I probably shouldn’t take so much pleasure in her gasp of shock, but hey, I’m not perfect. As evidenced by the fact that my cock actually stirs when her eyes glitter as she stalks toward me.

  “You would know at all about peaking, wouldn’t you? Playing college football … this is probably the best your life will ever be.”

  That shaft hits home. I’m good at football. There’s no one out there that’ll disagree with me on that. But one bad injury, and my career will be over before it ever really starts. Then what? Is it back to the family farm and a life of looking backward? But I’m not about to admit that to Lilah.

  “You’re making some major assumptions about a guy you just met.”

  “I’ve seen enough,” she hurls back at me. “You come in here, expecting me to fall all over myself because you’re a football player. Like I’m supposed to be impressed that you’re good at throwing a ball.”

  I cock my head. “Actually, my specialty is knocking people down.”

  Her gaze drops to my broad chest and shoulders, down my muscular arms. I know I’m built—I work my ass off to stay that way. I can’t help but flex a little for her, and I’m rewarded with a flush in her cheeks before her eyes skitter back up to meet mine. “Yes. Um … yes, I imagine you are quite good at that. But that sort of skill isn’t going to be necessary in this class.”

  “How do you know what kind of skills I have?” Her reaction has turned my anger to arousal. I know she’s hot for me. I can see it in her eyes, her face. “Maybe I can give you a demonstration.”

  All it takes is one long stride, and my body is brushing hers.

  This time she doesn’t back down. My gaze flicks down to her slick red lips. A woman has never instantly hated me before. It stirs my competitive instincts. Her lips are parted, her skin flushed, her spicy scent swirling around me. Some wild, hungry part of me wants to take that plush mouth with mine, whether she wants it or not.

  That thought has me stepping abruptly back from the desk. “I’m sorry if I … I’m sorry. If you felt threatened or disrespected. I never intended to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re … sorry?”

  Worried that she’ll take this as another reason to kick me out of the class, I shift into conciliatory mode. “Look, I really want to take this class. I’m happy to do some extra credit, or make up this class—whatever you want.”

  She stares at me for a long moment. “No matter what your friend said, this isn’t going to be an easy class. I’m not going to give you an A just to keep you eligible.”

  “Oh, believe me. I don’t expect it to be easy. And I’m willing to work for it.”

  I hadn’t meant it as an innuendo, but he
at flushes her cheeks again. “And no more of that. I’m your teacher. We can’t keep ….” She waves her hands between us—probably trying to waft away the sexual tension. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but … stop playing it.”

  A deep breath fills my lungs. Along with the rest of the Mustangs, I’ve been taking consent and sensitivity classes for months. I’ve always admired and respected women, but these classes have really opened my eyes to the sort of struggles women have on a daily basis. I have never, could never, will never, force myself on a woman. I’m not about to start now.

  “Okay.” I allow myself one last look—one searing moment when I allow myself to think about all the ways I want her, all the ways I can take her and be taken—and then I shut it down. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  For a moment, she looks bereft, but then her chin hardens. “Fine. Then you can continue in this class. But I want to see an essay from you by Wednesday about the benefits and drawbacks of using acrylic paint, as well as a survey of one masterwork in acrylic.”

  “No problem,” I say, though it’s going to be a lot of work. “Thank you.”

  She gathers her bags. “I will also expect you to keep your friend Reggie in line.”

  That sounds quite a bit harder than her first assignment, but I nod. “I’m not sure how often he’s planning on coming to class.”

  I catch the roll of her eyes before she slips on sunglasses. “When he’s here, then. I won’t have him disturbing the class again.”

  “Understood.”

  “Okay. Well, then, I suppose you can stay.”

  A smile breaks over my face. “You won’t regret this.”

  She sighs as she ushers me out of the classroom so she can lock the door behind us. “I hope not.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Riley

  I BLINK SWEAT OUT OF my eyes, feeling my face twist into a grimace of effort. My biceps are shaking, my pecs quivering. My body is screaming at me to give up, back down, tap out.

  “C’mon, Lotto,” Weston Sawyer says, his serious face suspended over mine. “You can do this, man.”

  I look up at West and think, Can I?

  As if he can hear my thoughts, West starts stamping his feet in a quick one-two beat, like the clop of a horse. Even through the strain, that’s enough to make me smile.

  Everyone in the weight room knows what that means. We’re the Mountain State Mustangs, and that sound has echoed through our stadium for generations. It takes only a few seconds to have nearly every guy in the weight room stamping his feet so loud it sounds like a stampede.

  I haven’t heard that sound in months. Despite everything that has happened with the scandal and the team, it has never failed to pump me up. Yet still, my arms shake. I’ve managed to lower the weight bar to my chest, but my biceps won’t obey the command to press, press, press.

  Weston’s fingertips hover under the bar. West’s our new quarterback since Jeremy Hudson was suspended and disgraced, and he’s just the kind of guy we need leading our team. Honorable, selfless, loyal. So what if he totally blew the BCS National Championship game last year? I like him anyway.

  Through the cacophony, I hear him say, “One time, Lotto. One more.”

  An image flashes in my mind of my father, spotting me the same way West is doing now. “One more, Riley,” he would say. “You have to earn it.”

  I wasn’t going to let my father down. Or West. Or my team.

  With every ounce of strength I have left, I force my biceps into motion. My muscles tremble with effort, my arms and chest scream. I can’t help the sounds coming from my throat. Grunts and growls seem to have taken the place of breathing. Finally—finally—I extend my arms all the way, holding 345 pounds of raw weight in the air.

  “Fuck, yes!” West shouts, gripping the bar tight and helping me guide it into the hooks.

  Triumph shoots through me. I just bench-pressed the equivalent of the old sow on my family farm. Not bad for a country boy.

  “I knew you could do it, man,” West says as he pulls me up to sitting. “That’s a new team record.”

  I can barely hear him over the cheers and shouts from the guys in the weight room. A smile spreads over my face. For the first time in a long while, with all my teammates around me, it feels like it used to, playing for the Mustangs. Encouraging, satisfying … even fun. It feels good to celebrate something together, even if it’s as small as a successful bench press.

  For a few minutes I’m surrounded by smiling faces as the guys on the team congratulate me. There are a lot of new faces, guys who I’ve never worked out with before. Technically, it’s the off-season, but Coach MoFo always said that great football players never stop hitting the gym. He was wrong about a lot of things, but he was right about that. We’re all working out harder than ever to make sure we’re in great shape for the start of training camp and the first game.

  That’s the first step to rebuilding our shattered reputation.

  “Hell yeah, Lotto. You’re gonna be the biggest guy on the field this year,” Reggie says, slapping me on the back.

  “Big isn’t everything,” Ben Mayhew calls out, his breath short as he pushes through a punishing set of burpees. He’s a wide receiver, one of the new players Coach Prescott has had to scrounge up since half the expected recruits chose other colleges after the scandal. He’s British and apparently was a star rugby player at his university. He’s also apparently from some famously upper-crust family, but all that breeding didn’t give him any manners.

  Ben stands up and stretches before he eyes me. “Fast is just as important as big.”

  “Oh, yeah?” says Reggie. He hasn’t come to art class since the first day, and we’ve made a tacit agreement not to mention it to the rest of the guys. They would be on his case about risking his eligibility, and they would be on my case about taking an art class. Neither one of us wants to make it a big deal.

  Reggie watches as Ben drops down into a push-up position. In a flash, Reggie grabs hold of Ben’s shorts and the back of his shirt and hoists him into the air. “Is fast helping you now?”

  Ben thrashes in the air like a swimmer while the guys laugh.

  “Put him down,” I say, stepping toward them. Reggie’s funny, but he can be a jerk without knowing it. The whole incident in class is a shining example of that.

  “Aw, Lotto, I’m just having fun with my new roomie.” For the past six months, ever since Jeremy Hudson was kicked off the team and out of school, Reggie had been living roommate-free in a double room where all the players live. I guess Coach Prescott finally assigned him a roommate. I feel bad for the guy, being forced to figure out how to live with someone new. But not that bad.

  Idly, I pinwheel my long arms to stretch my aching muscles. “You don’t start working out and quit fucking around, you’re going to have a real fun time this season.”

  “What do you mean?” Reggie asks, lifting and lowering Ben as the Brit curses and kicks. “This is a workout.”

  “Enough,” I say, over the laughter of my teammates. Ben hasn’t been around long, but he hasn’t exactly been making friends. Dammit if he isn’t as fast as he boasts on the field, though.

  “I don’t need your help, you big bastard,” Ben says, as furious as a spitting cat.

  I raise an eyebrow. At my size, there aren’t a lot of guys who will insult me to my face. Especially when I’m trying to help them out.

  “Put him down,” I repeat mildly, not interested in a fight.

  Reggie sighs theatrically and lowers Ben to the ground. But his voice is suddenly serious when he eyes Ben. “When someone breaks a team record, show some respect.”

  Ben scrambles to his feet. His face is red and his eyes flare with anger as he shoves Reggie back a step. “Don’t touch me again. I don’t need this shite.”

  Just like that, the celebratory mood shatters. The weight room falls into a wary silence as Reggie steps toward Ben, his hands curling into fists. I push myself between them,
West right there with me.

  “Guys, simmer down,” the quarterback says, his tone forced into calm.

  Muscles in Ben’s arms quiver. “Then make that dumb oaf fuck off and leave me alone.”

  “You think acting like this is going to make me stop making fun of you? Dude, you’re hilarious. I’m gonna love pissing you off.” Reggie gives Ben a shit-eating grin that would make pretty much anyone want to take him out. Ben is no exception. He tries to shove West aside so he can get at Reggie.

  Oh yeah, these guys are going to get along great.

  I step forward, all trace of a smile wiped from my face. “Cut that shit out, both of you. You could be kicked off the team for fighting with each other. That’s the last thing we need right now.”

  “Lotto’s right,” West says, laying a hand on both of their shoulders. “We have to work together. This sort of petty infighting isn’t going to win us a championship.”

  Ben shakes West’s hand off. “There’s no way this team can win a championship,” he scoffs, then stalks out of the gym.

  In his wake, all the buoyancy drains out of the room. It’s obvious: Everyone wonders if Ben is right. It used to be that if you were a Mustang, you could count on at least being competitive for a Bowl game, being ranked in the top three in the conference. But this year … some of our best players have left for other schools, we have a brand new coach who is a stranger to all of us, and our quarterback has only played one Pac-12 game and it was a brutal loss. Our upcoming season will be the toughest we’ve ever played, and we’re hardly ready to play it.

  “Well, that went well,” I say to West, who just sighs.

  “Let’s get back to work,” he says shortly, “and prove that asshole wrong.”

  I work through my ab routine and my cool-down while the team continues working out around me. Gradually, the relaxed atmosphere returns, but I can tell from the way that some of the guys are looking at West that they’re still thinking about what Ben said.

  Can we win a championship? Hell … can we even win a single game?