Hate the Game
Page 1
Hate the Game
Winter Renshaw
Contents
Copyright
Important
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
SAMPLE - The Marriage Pact
About the Author
Copyright
COPYRIGHT 2019 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio, LM Book Creations
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Description
Talon Gold is a lot of things: good at football, bad at love. Obsessed with scoring, refuses to play by the rules. Cruel. Relentless. Brilliant. Intoxicatingly attractive.
Despite his demanding reputation and propensity for being the most arrogant a-hole ever to strut Pacific Valley University’s seaside campus, everyone wants a piece of him: coaches, scouts, and pretty little fangirls with pouty lips and perfect top knots.
But Talon … he only wants a piece of me.
And four straight years of infuriating rejection means I’m almost positive he’d take a night with me over a national championship trophy. But I’m no fool—he only wants me because he can’t have me. And with graduation approaching, time is running out. He’s more desperate than ever, pulling out all the stops and doing everything in his power to get in my good graces.
They say, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
But to that I say, “Why not both?”
I have my reasons …
Sorry, BMOC. This victory? Not going to happen.
Take this shirt over these shoulders, throw it against the wall.
I want to hear the sound when it falls to the floor.
Take those wild hands and let them loose,
let them roam and find freedom where they wish.
I am here, right here, destroy me with passion.
—Tyler Knott Gregson
Chapter 1
Irie
“I heard he’s a total dick. Is it weird that I’m turned on by that?” A freshman girl nibbles on the tip of her pen as she chats up her friend. Her long leg is crossed over the other, foot bouncing.
“Is it weird that you’re turned on by that?” her friend spits her question back at her with a side of sass. “No. I saw the guys you hooked up with last fall. You have a type and that type is shameless asshole.”
Amused, I fight a smirk and turn away, attempting to tune them out.
It wasn’t all that long ago that I was in their position; a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed freshman surrounded by a plethora of hot co-eds. But I made the decision after the first month (and after being propositioned repeatedly by horny drunks and pursued by an impressively persistent quarterback with an oversized … ego), that I’d remain focused on my studies.
Sure I’ve had a boyfriend or two along the way, but hooking up for the sake of hooking up isn’t my style. But more power to the girls who can rock that walk of shame like no one’s business, racoon eyes and sex hair and a satisfied flush on their rosy cheeks.
Yanking my pristine rose-gold notebook from my messenger bag, I flip to the first page before readying my favorite gel pen with the bronze-colored ink. Drowning in an ocean of open MacBook Airs with gleaming retina displays, I prefer to take notes the old-fashioned way. Swimming away from the current is kind of my thing.
I scan the room of baby-faced Pacific Valley University freshmen and check the clock. Three more minutes until class starts. Last semester, my advisor informed me I needed one more general elective to satisfy my graduation requirements and she gave me the choice between Anthro 101 … and Philosophy of Logic.
It was a no-brainer for me.
People have always fascinated me, especially when observed from a distance. And in this case, you can’t get more distant than a couple hundred centuries or tens of thousands of years.
In the front of the lecture hall, a silver-haired professor in a kitschy Hawaiian shirt and wrinkled cargo shorts messes with a finicky projector, and to my left, two girls discuss weekend party plans as their overpowering perfumes compete for the oxygen I’m attempting to breathe.
Two rows up, a couple of scrawny guys are hitting on a lilac-haired wallflower who clearly wants nothing to do with them. She has my full sympathies, and I’d intervene if I were closer.
Oh, freshmen.
Out of nowhere a second later, a crumpled paper soars through the air, landing at my feet. I kick it away before glancing over and spotting a couple of guys at the end of the row hiding their snickering faces.
Four more months and I’ll be out of here forever.
“Holy shit,” one of the girls beside me whispers, nudging her friend. “Isn’t that Tal
on Gold?”
The other girl gasps, fanning herself and bouncing in her seat as she leans in and mumbles “dibs.”
I’m midway through jotting today’s date on the upper righthand corner of my paper when I glance up to find none other than Pacific Valley University’s star quarterback and ladies’ man extraordinaire climbing the steps two at a time … making a beeline to the back row—to my row.
The girls beside me are giggling now, whispering about all the dirty things they want to do with him. The brunette on the left tightens and fluffs her top knot and the sandy blonde next to her casually dips her hand into her bag to retrieve a rollerball of pink lip gloss.
“Um, I’m sorry. Would you mind scooting down one spot?” The girl with the top knot leans across her friend’s lap, tapping me on the knee.
“Oh my God, Kaitlynnnn, don’t be rude,” her friend scoffs at her before massaging her juicy-wet lips together. She turns to me. “Ignore her. She thinks she actually has a chance with Talon Gold.”
I want to tell them to stop acting like he’s some demigod, to stop referring to him by his entire name like he’s some iconic celebrity, because he’s just a guy.
A mere mortal.
An arrogant asshole well aware of his disgustingly unfair good looks and propensity for scoring touchdowns—and hot chicks—in record-shattering numbers.
A man with zero shame and zero fucks to give.
Though I guess if the one girl prefers guys who are “dicks” it would make sense that she’d be fawning over this one.
Talon Gold is the King of Dicks.
“I can’t believe this,” Kaitlyn grabs her phone, firing off a text. “Monica is going to freak when I tell her he’s in my class.”
Her friend sits stunned and speechless as he gets closer. I don’t even know that she’s blinked since she spotted him.
“God, he’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Kaitlyn releases the dreamiest of sighs. “The bleached hair, the dark roots. I just want to run my hands through it, mess it up a little more. And that bronze skin. What do you think he tastes like?”
Southern California is practically a factory that mass produces guys exactly like him—the silver spooned, privileged kind whose multi-millionaire daddies write fat checks to the best athletic trainers in the world so their kids can become star college athletes and have all-you-can-eat buffets of college pussy while professors grade them on favorable curves so their report cards reflect the kind of grades they should be getting.
“Down girl,” her friend says before swatting at her. “Okay, shut up now. He’s almost here. Be cool.”
I don’t have to look up to feel his gaze pointed in my direction as he makes his way to the center of our row. A second later, he takes the lone empty chair next to mine.
“Irie, right?” Talon’s long legs stretch wide, pushing into my space, his expensive sneaker stopping two inches from my knock-off Golden Goose sneakers.
Cute.
He’s pretending like he might not know my name. He’s pretending like he hasn’t been trying to hook up with me since the fall semester of our freshmen year when I got roped into attending a party at some beer-scented three-story on frat house row and he cornered me the way a mountain lion corners prey, carefully stalking me first from all angles then making smooth and deliberate moves until he positions himself to go in for the kill.
Fortunately for me, his hunting skills were still in need of some fine-tuning back then.
I got away.
And I’ve gotten away every time since.
The auditorium hums with small talk. My body hums with electric amusement. Over the years, this has become a sort of game between us. Cat and mouse. Offense and defense. He’s tried every strategy in the book, but I’ve managed to stick to the one that always works—cold, coy, aloof, and uninterested.
“All right, dudes and dudettes,” the professor rests his hands on his hips, rocking back and forth on his heels as he scans the room. “I’m Dr. Longmire, but you can call me Rich if you want.”
The girl to my left giggles to her friend. “He’s not a regular professor, he’s a cool professor.”
“Welcome to Anthro 101.” Dr. Longmire—Rich—twists the shark tooth necklace that hangs on a leather cord down his tanned chest as he paces the room. “We meet Mondays and Wednesdays from eight to nine with recitation on Fridays with my TA. You should have received your syllabus in your email over the weekend. If you need a paper copy, I’ve got a few on the desk up here. That said, I’ve been asked to remind you all that PVU is striving to become a paperless university. Please only print things when absolutely necessary.”
One student gathers his things in a hurry and dashes out the side door. He’s probably in the wrong classroom. It happens and it’s no big deal, but it doesn’t stop a group of meatheads in the corner from finding it hilarious and yelling out, “Loser!” just before the door swings shut.
Talon exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Professor Longmire cracks a joke about how he doesn’t usually scare people off until after he goes through his entire pitch.
No one laughs.
“You have a good winter break?” Talon asks me, leaning close and keeping his voice low. He’s trying to feign intimacy, trying to act like we’re more than the acquaintances we’ve only ever been. Smooth. But I see through it.
“The best,” I lie, sparing him the details before pointing at the front of the room. “If you don’t mind …”
His heavy stare weighs on me, and a blanket of heat covers my skin in the seconds before the steady trot of my heart turns into an all-out gallop.
This happens every time—the ongoing war between my mind and body every time he comes around.
I’d be lying if I said his attention didn’t flatter the hell out of me. I mean, come on. I’m only human—a mere mortal myself. I just happen to have a hell of a lot more self-control than the average SoCal blondie strutting PVU’s seaside campus. I appreciate the attention, but by no means am I naïve enough to think there’s anything special about it.
Talon wants to screw me.
And he only wants to screw me because he can’t.
Nothing more, nothing less.
“Hey. You have a spare pen?” Talon asks with zero shame, his cinnamon-scented whisper tickling my eardrum.
Dipping down into my bag, I retrieve a hot pink gel pen—color choice unintentional—and hand it over without so much as making eye contact.
From my periphery, I watch as he examines it for a second before his full lips mouth a quick thank you. The garish color doesn’t seem to faze him, doesn’t so much as threaten his jock itch masculinity.
He flips to a clean page in his notebook—which is interesting since I’ve always taken him for a laptop kind of guy—and concentrates on the screen ahead.
“Now, I’ve been teaching here for over thirty years,” Professor Longmire prattles on as he paces the front of the room. “I’ve been around long enough to know that these eight AM Monday classes are a pain in the you-know-what. I know not everyone is going to go to every single class. I know that there’ll be times you’re hung over or you over-sleep or what have you. Don’t email me. Don’t send me your sob story or made up excuses. I don’t want to hear it. Now some of the younger professors, they post lecture notes on the class website. But I don’t have time for that. So here’s what you’re going to do. Everyone’s going to have an accountability buddy.”
“A what?” someone asks from the row before me.
“How old are we again?” one of the girls scoffs.
“I want you each to turn to someone next to you,” he says. “That person is going to be your go-to when you need a copy of lecture notes. That person is also going to be your study partner. Their success is your success and vice-versa. Just because this is Anthro 101 doesn’t mean it’s an easy class. In fact, a quarter of you will drop out before the end of the semester, and the majority of you probably won’t walk out of here with A’s.
”
Two people—a guy and a girl from opposite ends of the room—gather their bags and show themselves out, heads tucked.
“Aaaand there we go. That’s when I usually scare them away.” Longmire laughs at his own joke before scanning the audience. “Anyway, I’ll give you all a moment to find your partner. Don’t make a big deal of it, don’t overthink it. Just pick someone—anyone—close by.”
I gather a sea-salted lungful of air and take in my surroundings. The two girls beside me have suddenly replaced their disdain and are now clasping their hands together like a couple of junior high besties. The guys in the row ahead are already exchanging phone numbers, as are the guy and girl to their right. Within seconds, I surmise that everyone else around me seems to be spoken for—everyone, that is, except Talon.
Straightening my shoulders, I angle my body toward his and maintain a neutral expression.
The moment our eyes catch, he bites his lower lip and flashes a cockeyed smirk. “Guess it’s us.”