Head in the Game (Game Day #1)

by Lily Cahill

  We? Technically, it was my choice. “Dad, if I don’t make the NFL it will be my fault, not Coach Prescott’s.”

  I could almost hear my dad glowering. “We’ve worked so hard to get here. I’ve never been prouder than when the Mustangs won the Pac-12 Championship last year. And to have it all taken away from you over something you didn’t even do—”

  “Yeah, Dad, I know.”

  “I just want you to have the best possible chance in life, son. I came close to making the NFL, but you—you’ve got a real chance. You know we’re all counting on you, right, son?”

  In my room, I collapse onto the narrow bed. The springs squeak under my weight. “Yeah, I know, Dad.”

  “If you were to get drafted … hell, the town would probably throw a parade in your honor. You know we’re all watching you this year. This is your year.”

  I’m sure my dad means to bolster my spirit, but he’s just making me miserable. “Look, Dad, I’ve got to go. We’re throwing a party in the dorm tonight.”

  My father’s tone instantly brightens. “A kegger, huh? That’s just what you need. Hell, I remember your uncles and I had a couple of great parties at Taylor Hall back in my day.”

  “I know, Dad.” Everything I’ve done is like a reboot of my dad’s and uncle’s time here. I even live in the same football dorm they all did. It’s exhausting, sometimes, always being expected to be the bigger, better version of their generation.

  “But don’t drink too much, all right? If you’ve got two practices tomorrow, you need to be ready to show your best. I know you’re young, and you think hangovers don’t affect you—”

  “Okay, Dad. Look, I gotta go, okay?”

  “All right, son. Remember—stay focused. We’ve got a goal, and we’re going to achieve it.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

  “Love you too, son. And love from your mother.”

  I click the phone off and let it drop to the bed beside me. Talking to my father is exhausting.

  Reggie doesn’t bother to knock before coming into room. “Dude, Hawaiian theme. Get your ass up and help me decorate.”

  “I just remembered, I hate parties,” I say with my eyes closed.

  Through closed eyes, I hear Reggie rifling through some things on my shelf. I crack one eye open just as he’s plucking one of the wooden figurines from the back of the shelf. “Is this what I’m missing in art class?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Reggie frowns, staring at the piece. “Did you make this?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not big deal. I just whittle to keep my hands busy, you know?”

  Reggie peers at the figurine. It’s one of my more detailed pieces—a football cleat with the laces untied. “Can I have this?”

  “Huh? Uh, yeah, I guess.” I can always make another.

  “Cool. Reminds me of my lucky shoes,” he says, pocketing the figurine. “Anyway. Dude. Hawaiian theme. You know what that means? Bikinis. Lots of girls in bikinis.”

  My mind wonders how Lilah would look in a swim suit—all those gorgeous curves spilling out of stretchy fabric—and I have to sit up to hide my burgeoning erection. Shit. Even after hours of exercise and a determined effort to banish my attraction to her, she is still the first woman who comes to my mind.

  I won’t have anything to do with a football player.

  Maybe girls in bikinis will be a sufficient distraction. “It’s summer, Reg. Where are you going to find girls in bikinis?”

  Reggie smirks. “Oh, they’ll come. Don’t you worry.”

  I can’t argue with that. If anyone knows how to throw a party, it’s Reggie. “All right, all right. But keep it tame, okay? Coach wants us in the weight room tomorrow at nine.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now get dressed,” he says, throwing a plastic object at me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Hawaiian theme, bro,” he says as he goes to rouse the rest of the dorm.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lilah

  I DRESS WITHOUT MY USUAL flair. It’s hard to get fresh when you know you’re going to eat crow. I need to talk to Riley, and I need to do it now—before I lose my nerve, and definitely before class on Monday.

  I owe him an explanation for my behavior. I should never have let our encounter after class verge into personal territory. I’ll just explain to him that, for various reasons, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to pursue a relationship.

  Pedaling back to campus, I practice my little speech. I will be very mature. Very adult. And then we can just go back to being teacher and student, like none of this ever happened.

  But when I get to Taylor Hall, I hesitate. It’s the dorm in the center of campus where all the football players live. And while the rest of the campus is quiet and empty, Taylor Hall is practically pulsing. The front door is propped open, and music pours out of the open windows. Laughter and conversation seem to be coming from all three floors, and both men and women streaming in and out of the dorm are clutching red plastic cups.

  I can guess, from the inflatable palm tree and kiddie pool in the front yard, that they’re going for a tropical theme. As I stand there, unable to move, a group of giggling girls in bikinis and sarongs teeter up to the door.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised to have stumbled into a party here. I’ve been to my fair share of campus ragers—in fact, I’ve been to parties in this very dorm, usually with Natalie. But somehow, I thought these sort of parties, with too much booze and too little oversight, would have stopped after the scandal last year. It was just this sort of party where Natalie met the guys who would rape her.

  Can I do this? Just waltz into the very place where Natalie started that long, horrible descent? All to reason with some guy? A girl wading in the kiddie pool slips, and her friends just laugh as she falls ass-first into the water.

  I want to run up to them and make sure they’ll be safe: buddy up, don’t drink the punch, never leave a friend behind. I want to remind them about Natalie and all the thousands of girls like her who are sexually assaulted every year. Do they understand how much danger they are in? Horrible things happen when girls don’t look out for each other.

  Before I do anything, they haul her up and disappear into the dorm. This is such a mistake to be here. I’ll should come back tomorrow. Or maybe Sunday. Any time other than a beach-themed party. Between my black skinny jeans and gray tunic studded with metal grommets, I stick out like a black cloud. I will talk to Riley, apologize … but later.

  I unlock my bike and am swinging a leg over the seat when Riley comes running out the door.

  “Lilah, wait up,” he says, kicking his way through a plastic grass skirt. “I thought that was you. We need to talk.”

  Time seems to slow down as Riley jogs closer. He’s wearing nothing but that grass skirt and a pair of snug boxer briefs. A couple of flowered leis bounce against his chest. That hard, broad, heavily-muscled chest flexes with every movement. Oh, lord. I’m going faint just looking at him.

  I’ve spent all these weeks in class admiring the way his muscles move under his T-shirt. Now I realize my fantasies are nowhere close to reality. As he jogs toward me, his abs flex, his pecs clench, his biceps pulse. Below that, the strips of green plastic cling to his powerful thighs, getting trapped around the heavy bulge in his shorts.

  God, this boy is built! Saliva pools in my mouth, and my hands fairly itch with the need to touch all that masculine perfection.

  “Hey,” he says when he gets close. “I saw you from the window. Are you here for me?”

  It takes all of my concentration to nod. I can’t stop looking at him. His angled collarbone … the trail of hair running down from his navel … his thick forearms, corded with muscle.

  “Thank god,” he says with a grin. “I forgot how much I hate parties. And since I agreed to this one because I was mad at you, it’s your duty to get me out of here.”

  I’m still poleaxed from the sight of his body. And now he’s close enough for me to cat
ch his shower-fresh scent, which makes me want to bury my face in his skin. It takes a minute for the words to penetrate. “You’re mad at me?”

  “I was mad at you. Still am, I guess. But I’d rather talk to you than be all resentful and weird.”

  “You don’t want to stay at this party?”

  “God, no.”

  “You live here. All your friends are here. There are a hundred girls in tiny outfits in there.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “it’s funny. For some reason, not one of those half-naked girls interests me as much as you do.”

  I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. “Riley ….”

  “Look, just keep me company. It’s still too early for me to escape to my room and watch Netflix.”

  I stare at him for a moment. “You really aren’t what I expected.”

  His smile widens. “I’m enjoying destroying your prejudices. Do you know the diner over on Third?”

  “Duke’s?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I could go for some hash browns.” He smiles at me as if there is nothing impossible between us.

  For a moment, I want desperately to believe it’s true. “Okay,” I say. “But you should probably put on some clothes.”

  He looks down at himself, as if he’s forgotten that ninety percent of his glorious body is on display. “I guess I should,” he says. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay? Don’t leave.”

  I should leave. But the sight of his muscular ass as he jogs back across the lawn strikes me dumb.

  “It’s fine,” I say to myself. “We’ll go get something to eat, and I’ll explain. It’ll be fine. It’ll be over.”

  Which is what I want. Right?

  By the time we get to the diner, I feel more solid. He is wearing a shirt, for one thing. Also, he orders milk to drink, which is so silly that it puts me at ease.

  Of course, he is still obscenely sexy, sitting across from me in a vinyl booth. But I can handle it. I can control this conversation.

  “Riley, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what happened this morning.”

  A flicker of surprise runs over his face. “You don’t want to make meaningless small talk before you reject me?”

  I feel my lips twitch into a smile. “No, I think it’s better if we just dive right in.”

  “Okay,” he says, sitting back in the booth. “Dive.”

  “It was enjoyable, but it shouldn’t have happened,” I say, my practiced speech coming out in a rush. “I am your teacher, and it’s unprofessional. Additionally, I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship with you, so I shouldn’t have …,” kissed you senseless, I think. “It would be better if we forgot about it and moved on.”

  He stares at me for a moment. “Yeah … that’s not going to work for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Trying to forget that I kissed you,” he says, settling his elbows on the table and leaning in. “I’ve been thinking about it for hours. Honestly, I’ve been wanting to do it for weeks, so I’m pretty sure I’m not going to stop wanting you. Do you want me too?”

  He is so big, that’s the problem—no matter where I look, I’m looking at him. That’s why I feel so hot, so buzzy. And now I’m close enough to him to see that his hair is dark underneath the streaks of gold, and that his eyes are a deep, sober brown to counteract that devious dimple.

  “Lilah, do you want me too?”

  “That’s … beside the point,” I say breathlessly.

  “No, I think that’s precisely the point. I want you. I’ve had three weeks to fantasize about all the ways I want you, and the list just keeps getting longer and longer.” He licks his lips, and it’s as if the hot images running through his mind flicker in my head too. “The teacher thing is nothing—it’ll be a moot point in a few weeks anyway when the class is over. So that just leaves the fact that you have an irrational hatred of football players.”

  “It’s not irra—”

  “Thanks,” Riley says, talking over me and smiling at the waitress delivering our food. She has a slice of pie for me, and everything else in the kitchen for him. An enormous plate of eggs and hash browns is accompanied by bacon, sausage, pancakes, a biscuit covered with gravy, and a bowl of fresh fruit.

  “Seriously?” I say as a second waitress arrives with a plate of fries.

  “I’m a growing boy,” he says. “Literally. I’m bulking up right now, trying to get as big as I can for the season.”

  I’ve been known to put down a big meal, but I marvel at the number of plates on his side of the table. “There’s no way you can eat all that.”

  He grins. “Watch me. So, where did you go to art school?”

  “Huh?”

  “Art school. You can’t be that much older than I am, so you must be some sort of prodigy, right?”

  He’s trying to distract me. And it’s working. “No—I mean, yes, kind of, but—no. I didn’t go to art school.”

  “Really? You seem to know so much about this stuff.”

  “Ahh ….” He’s already taken down all of the eggs, three pieces of bacon, and half the pancakes. I pick up my fork and take the first bite of my blueberry pie. “I was planning on going to school, eventually. But then my grandmother had a heart attack. We’re managing it, but … it’s a struggle.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They’re not around.” There is no way I’m going to tell him about that. Instead, I return to the reason we’re here. “I don’t have an irrational hatred of football players.”

  He swallows the last of his pancakes. “What would you call it then?”

  “I would call it a learned intolerance for the football lifestyle.”

  He purses his lips. “Those sure are some fancy words. What do they mean?”

  The way he exaggerates his drawl makes me feel both sheepish and defensive. “You know what I mean. Football players think they can get away with anything. Look at your friend Reggie. He expects me to just pass him because he’s a football player.”

  Riley tilts his head. “It’s worked for him so far.”

  “That’s my point. He’s getting a college degree for nothing. And it doesn’t stop there,” I say, warming up to my subject. “Football players get away with all kinds of things. I grew up in this town, and I’ve seen Mustangs get away with drunk driving, vandalism, starting fights in bars. Nobody wants to punish them because everybody wants them playing football on Saturday. It’s ridiculous.”

  “You don’t think good kids should get a chance to make mistakes?” He has stopped eating, although there is still food on his plates.

  “These aren’t all ‘good kids.’ They get told over and over that there aren’t any consequences for their actions. They start to think that they’re supposed to get whatever they want. And they don’t care who they hurt in the process; they don’t care what kind of destruction they leave behind.”

  He’s frowning at me now. “Don’t you think that’s a broad generalization?”

  “Not when football is the excuse for a crime,” I say, not able to hide my anger. “Not when four star players think their status should make it okay for them to rape someone.”

  He points his fork at me. “See, there it is. This is about the scandal last year.”

  “Of course it is,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I can’t believe that any woman would trust football players after that. I can’t believe that you’re still allowed to have drunken parties with vulnerable girls.”

  “Everybody has to show ID,” Riley says quickly. “All the underclassmen have to stay sober, and the girls mix their own drinks.”

  “And you think that’s enough?” My hands are shaking too much for me to eat. “You think that makes up for what happened to Natalie?”

  “Natalie?”

  I can feel the blood draining from my face. “You don’t even know the name of the girl who your teammates raped?”

  He shakes his head. “No, no of course I know her name. Everybody
knows—”

  “Right. Everybody knew she had been raped while she was blackout drunk. Everybody could see her naked on the Internet. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for her?”

  “It sounds like you have some idea.” Riley’s brown eyes have become so sympathetic it nearly undoes me. “Did you know her?”

  I press my lips together. I’m tired of crying, and I’m perilously close to breaking down again. It takes a long moment before I can get the words out. “She was my best friend.”

  Riley sits back with a sigh. “So that’s why. That’s why you hate football players.”

  I could argue the semantics, but I don’t think I can go through it again. “Yes. That’s why.”

  He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I’m so sorry about what happened to her.”

  My face crumples, and I look away.

  “But you know I didn’t do that,” he continues. “I would never do what those guys did. And if I had known at the time, I would have done everything I could to stop it.”

  “Would you?” I say, peering up at him. “No one else did.”

  His mouth twists. “Look, maybe you have a point. I’m not stupid, I know that football players have a certain reputation. But it seems really unfair that you assume we’re all the same. I’m more than just a football player.”

  He’s right, I’m being unfair. That doesn’t mean I can change how I feel. “It doesn’t matter. You’re my student. We can be friendly, but that’s it.”

  “You didn’t answer my question before,” he says, waiting until I met his eyes. “If we take away everything else. If it’s just you and me … do you want me?”

  The answer, of course, is yes. But I feel like my heart is being torn in half. No matter how much I want him, my guilt over Natalie won’t allow it. “I’m telling you I don’t want to be in a relationship with you. Please don’t push it any further.”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he removes his hand from mine. I almost reach for him. “Okay. We can leave it at that.”

  My tight shoulders relax. Is it relief or regret coursing through me? “Thank you.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not sure I can take it.”