Downed (Gridiron #3)

by Jen Frederick

  I am sleeping with him, I almost blurt out, but I curb the impulse at the last second. Ace is only the second man I’ve been with, after losing my virginity to Colt. If Kayla and my sisters knew that I’d been intimate with him, they’d be full of questions—and probably more than a few concerns. Everyone in this sorority knows I don’t have sex with the guys I’m trying to help. Or with anyone else, for that matter. When asked why, I usually answer with an airy “I’m really picky,” but truthfully, I never had the urge to hop into bed with another guy after Colt.

  Until Ace. I was attracted to him from the moment I met him. I went home with him without securing any promises he’d call the next day. I’ve been trying to reassure myself that it’s simply some sort of hormonal outbreak, my body craving release after such a long sexual drought, but what happened in the bathroom yesterday makes it hard to keep clinging to that excuse.

  He’d given me an orgasm. A toe-curling, body-melting orgasm. Cold as an ice cube, Kayla? She couldn’t be more wrong. Ace wasn’t frigid last night. If he’d been any hotter, he’d have had to scoop my ashes up and lay them on the front step of the AO house.

  “He’s not that way with me,” I confess.

  “Which is why you need to keep working with him.” She gives me a speculative look over the top of her mug. “I’ve never known you to give up on a project before.”

  “Well, I can admit when I’m wrong. I just picked wrong this time.” I don’t like how her perceptive eyes are boring holes into my head, so I busy myself with making a new pot of coffee.

  Kayla doesn’t let it go, though. “Why do you think picked wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?” asks someone new. In the mirrored cabinet, I see the reflection of Sadie Holcombe, another senior and the current AO president. Behind her is one of the new girls, Chryselle, who’s sweet but a few coins short of a full stack. I wouldn’t have given her an offer from AO, but she’s legacy and legacies get in unless there’s something horrendously wrong, like if she were caught sacrificing babies during rush. I have a mind to set her up with Kent. He’d like parading her doll-like beauty around on his arm, and she’d like being attached to a state senator’s son.

  “Whether Bryant’s new pet is the right one for her,” Kayla offers, ignoring my silent plea to drop it.

  “That new quarterback?” Sadie asks as she pours herself a cup of coffee. She holds up the pot to Chryselle, who looks puzzled. “Want a cup, honey?”

  The new pledge shakes her shiny brown hair. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  Sadie rolls her eyes. “For the umpteenth time, I’m not a ma’am.” She turns to me. “Why do you think this man isn’t right for your program?”

  “He’s pretty in tune with himself. Generally, folks who are self-aware either want to be terrible human beings, which makes them sociopaths, or they’ll stumble onto a recovery in their own time.”

  “But if they’re true sociopaths, you can’t save them,” Sadie points out. “As for the other type, if they take too long to get their heads out of their behinds, they could hurt a lot of girls in the intervening time.”

  Our president’s points are well spoken. There are some people out there who are unsalvageable. I place Ginny’s ex in that category. He was a monster, and even I know better than to try my hand at those types.

  He’d played with her emotions, stringing her along, flaunting his other girls in front of her. He’d go out with a girl and if she didn’t put out, he’d call Ginny who’d run right over. Next day, though, he’d pretend like he didn’t even know her.

  I know there are men beyond my reach and girls that will end up like Ginny regardless, but I do what I can. I shouldn’t be wasting time on a man like Ace if he’s already on his way to redemption.

  “You think about this anymore, and your head is going to start hurting,” Sadie declares.

  “She’s right. Trust your instincts,” Kayla agrees.

  “My instincts are saying that he’s a waste of my time.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on.” In her shorty nightgown, Chryselle looks more like twelve than eighteen. “What’s Bryant doing?”

  I don’t like to say it out loud because it sounds dumb, but Kayla doesn’t have the same reservations. “Every semester or so, Bryant takes on a project. She finds the worst possible guys and turns them into the best men they can be.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “She spends time with them. Teaches them how to treat women right. She’s like a…” Sadie pauses, “like a jerk whisperer.”

  “Like that they should open doors?” Chryselle asks in genuine confusion.

  I take pity on her. “I’m not teaching them manners, although if they learn a few, that’s wonderful. I’m trying to get them to view women as equals, deserving of their respect rather than disposable Pez dispensers of sex.”

  Her jaw drops. “You teach them how to be good in bed?”

  “No, it’s not like that Chryselle,” Sadie admonishes. “Bryant’s not screwing around with these guys.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” the three of us older girls chorus.

  Even as I say it, a prick of guilt stings my tummy. Not because I’m sleeping with Ace, but because I’m keeping it from my sisters. I usually tell them everything. But perhaps it’s better that I keep it to myself, judging by the way Chryselle’s eyes widened at the mere idea of me sleeping around. I get it, though—we live in the South, and the thought of having more than one partner sends some ladies onto the fainting couch. There’s a constant battle between the egalitarian ideal of a woman’s right to sleep with as many guys as she wants and our inner Bible Belts that quake at the talk of multiple partners.

  Chryselle looks relieved that my cure has nothing to do with my girl parts. “Well, okay, how is it, then?”

  I take a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee before answering. “Everyone has a deep need for affirmation, but on the flip side, we’re afraid of criticism. People act in certain ways because they don’t feel like anyone really understands them and because they don’t want anyone to see their soft underbelly. So I listen to them, and I try to understand what the source of their pain is. Once they see it, most folks make an effort to overcome it. No one wants to be an asshole.”

  “That’s your wrong-headed opinion,” Kayla corrects. “Most folks are fine with being assholes.”

  “Most people,” I forge ahead ignoring Kayla’s cynical worldview, “are kind and decent. Sometimes it’s buried underneath a mountain of hurt, that’s all. I’m helping to shovel all the dirt away.”

  “What happens when you’re done with them?” Chryselle asks. She’s eyeing me as if I’m some weird science project. My explanation probably does sound ridiculous, but it feels right. Like my sister’s death isn’t just a big ol’ waste.

  “One of us gets them,” Kayla pipes up. “Bryant’s exes make the best boyfriends. When Bryant’s finished, she figures out who is best suited and couples them up.”

  “Oh.” Chryselle clearly likes that idea. “Can I put my name in for Ace?”

  “You’ll have to fight Dawn for him,” Kayla teases. “Although after yesterday, she was on the fence about wanting to be with someone who, as she said, must find smiling a mortal offense. Still, he’s hot, and once he’s through the Bryant program, he’ll be as close to perfect as they come.”

  “I like football players.” Chryselle’s almost buzzing with excitement now. “When will you be done? Can I have him for our next date party?”

  Irritation curdles in my stomach. Can’t these girls wait a gosh darned second? They want to climb into his bed before the sheets are even cold. I dump my coffee out. After putting the mug in the dishwasher, I announce, “I’m going to get ready. Momma’s expecting me.”

  “Wait up, Bryant,” Kayla says, hurrying to catch up with me.

  I stop right outside the door in time to hear Chryselle say, “Bryant’s a little touc
hed in the head, right? Because her whole project thing is really strange.”

  “Of course she’s not.” Sadie’s sharp retort in my defense warms my heart. Then, in a gentler tone, she says, “Bryant’s sister died a few years ago. Some terrible boy broke Ginny’s heart, and since then, Bryant’s tried to find guys like Ginny’s boyfriend and correct their behavior so they don’t hurt anyone else.”

  “You can’t stop people from getting hurt,” Chryselle mutters.

  “Come on.” Kayla tugs on my arm. She doesn’t want me eavesdropping anymore.

  “There are hurts and then there are hurts,” I say defensively.

  “I know, honey. I think what you do is good and admirable. You kiss the frogs so we don’t have to.”

  We make our way up the steep, old stairs of the sorority house to the second floor where all the seniors live.

  “Not all the frogs,” I say glumly. “And I’m still not convinced Ace needs me. Maybe I’m wasting my time with him.”

  Kayla shrugs as she pushes her bedroom door open. “You just met him. Give it a month or so. If he’s not in bad shape, you can hand him off sooner.”

  I force myself not to grimace at the prospect, even though I feel that same nagging annoyance I felt in the car when Dawn was laying claim to him. “You’re right. I’ll know more as I get to know him. No sense rushing things.”

  Kayla gives me a little wave as she closes her door. Inside my room, I don’t immediately get dressed. Instead, I sit on the end of my bed and stare at the picture of Ginny’s face smiling back at me from inside the pink and gold picture frame. We’re standing on the field after Daddy just won his third National Championship. Her arms are around me, and her head is resting on my shoulder. It was her senior year of high school and my junior one. We look so happy. She died scarely a year after that, on Sunday night in the middle of October, at the start of her sophomore year here at Southern.

  I wanted to bury myself with Ginny. Daddy turned into a zombie. Momma couldn’t stop crying. I was supposed to attend a special AO event for legacies held at The Sanctuary in South Carolina—a grand place on Kiawah Island. The prospect of spending a week with a bunch of Momma’s sorority sisters who would pile on the platitudes was too oppressive to bear. Besides, tears were as infectious as mono after a middle school dance. I holed up in my daddy's office instead.

  There I found my own sanctuary. Those big, boisterous boys were uncomfortable around weeping, and, as a girl who’d been raised to extend hospitality in every aspect of her life, I learned to swallow my tears. What saved me was getting involved with their lives. Learning about their families, their struggles with classes, their hopes and dreams and fears and loves helped me focus on something other than my own tragedy, and somehow this team became my home away from home.

  I hadn’t planned on dating anyone right away, but one day I heard a conversation between Jeremiah Sterling, a brash, loud-mouthed running back, and Curly. Curly was asking Jeremiah about the girl who’d shown up at the door the other night, crying her heart out. Jeremiah declared he didn’t much care about her tears because women were nothing more than whipped cream on his sundae of life—without substance and totally unnecessary

  I’d marched out of Daddy’s office and told him that a woman would change his life. He scoffed. I challenged him to give me until the end of the semester and I’d have him singing a different tune.

  In actuality, I only needed a few weeks. Jeremiah confessed that his high school girlfriend had cheated on him with his best friend. His dark view on the opposite sex lightened up considerably after I dragged him to sorority event after sorority event. For Jeremiah, he just needed some loving. Not in the physical form—although I know Tattie Collins-Bell gives him plenty of that these days. No, Jeremiah’s heart needed loving more than his penis.

  After he fell hard for Tattie, Jeremiah quietly suggested that I take Cooper Smythe in hand and one thing led to another. I’ve had failures, most recently Tommy. He was more like Ginny’s ex than I’d realized. As soon as I discovered how abusive he could be, I cut things off and reported him to my father, who required the boy seek out counseling before he could continue playing on the team. He didn’t, and Daddy cut him.

  But for the most part, I’m batting above .500. It’s possible Ace belongs in the mistake column. If so, the wisest course of action would be to nip things in the bud before it all devolves into something messy and emotionally difficult.

  He doesn’t really need me, and I definitely don’t need him.

  10

  Ace

  I find myself at the Steak House at ten thirty. “BRUNCH TIME,” yell the chalked letters styled in wavy all caps. No wonder Bryant likes it here. Even the diner’s advertisements look like her—happy, curvy, and colorful. I hadn't seen her since Saturday night. Not since the bathroom where she came all over my hand and then fled like a scared rabbit.

  It bothers me. Was she mad she came? Was she mad I touched her? And why do I even care? I don’t have any answers. I don’t even have her number. I could probably ask her dad for it, but Sunday was his day off. Plus, despite him giving some kind of weird blessing over the whole thing, I’m still waiting for the trap to snap shut.

  So here I am, wandering around the twenty thousand-person campus on my day off, to make sure she’s all right.

  My instincts are spot-on, because Bryant’s sitting in the same booth, fork in one hand, phone in the other.

  Milly greets me. “Morning, sugar. Need a table?”

  “Nope. Joining Bryant for breakfast.”

  Milly winks. “It’s brunch. Same thing you had last time?”

  “That’d be great.” As Milly takes off to put my order in, I amble over to Bryant.

  “Reading about how great I am?” I say as I slide into the bench opposite of her.

  Her head pops up and there it is again—that flash of fear. She covers it quickly enough. “Why, JR, what brings you here this morning?”

  “It’s brunch time, isn’t it?” I gesture toward the other tables. “I feel like brunching.”

  A cute furrow appears on her forehead, but her southern-bred hospitality that had her handing out juice drinks to one scout from Dallas and a beer to his counterpart from Denver won’t allow her to tell me to get lost—even if it’s what she’d like to do.

  “Oh, well, of course.” She tucks her phone away and pastes a pretty, if fake, smile on her face. “Are you still feeling the post-win hangover or have you moved on? Daddy always treats himself to a contraband cigar after a win.”

  “Tucking away that first win is great but—” My answer is truncated by Milly’s arrival with my food. I lift my hands as she sets my plate of steak, eggs, and grits on the table. “Thanks, Milly.”

  “Anything else, champ?” she chirps.

  “Ah, how about we hold off on the champ stuff until January?” No sense in testing fate.

  “Gotcha.” Milly makes little guns with her fingers before walking off to help someone at a nearby table.

  “But what?” Bryant prods.

  “But my time is better spent examining film to see where I can improve rather than celebrating a win that’s already in my rearview mirror. What’s your dad do when he loses?” I take a bite of my steak.

  “Mopes in his office for about five minutes and then starts looking at tape for next week. He doesn’t lose often, though.”

  “Me either.” My win/loss record in college is stellar. I have six losses against thirty-seven wins, which was why getting replaced at my former college was such a fucking slap in the face. I’d given everything I had to that program, but one misstep and I was out on my ass.

  Which begs the question: What in the hell am I doing sitting here with Bryant? A surge of anger rises. “Why are you doing this? Playing these games with me?”

  Hurt flashes across her face, making me feel like a heel. “You came here,” she points out. “You dragged me into the bathroom Saturday night. This isn’t my game.” She wiggles a fing
er between us.

  Her insistence that she’s not playing me is like a red flag in front of my inner bull. “You latched on to me. You came up to me last week with your big brown eyes and couldn’t wait for me to take you home. You should’ve told me you were Coach Johnson’s daughter.”

  “Are we back to that again? It’s not my fault you couldn’t put two and two together. You’re a college-educated man. I wasn’t hiding a thing from you,” she snaps back.

  “All right, then what about you handing out cookies in the locker room, kissing up to me at the post-game party and then running out of the party last night like it was a haunted house and I was the surprise ghost at the end?”

  She flushes. “I was overwhelmed. I don’t do stuff like that.”

  “Are you saying I took advantage of you?” A sticky, uncomfortable heat creeps up my neck. No way. She was with me the entire time, panting out little cries of encouragement. Hell, I probably still have the nail marks she left on my arm while holding me in place as she came.

  “No,” she hisses, and looks around anxiously. “We shouldn’t be talking about this right here in front of our food and everything.”

  Her food? She thinks her food cares about why I touched her pussy? We glower at each other until Milly comes along. “Your food okay?” the waitress asks in concern.

  Bryant’s face grows horrified for a second that someone has caught her looking anything but perfectly happy. Then a smooth, practiced mask falls into place. “Yes, Milly. I’m trying to convince Ace here that grits are an essential element of every decent meal.”

  Milly’s eyes fall to the white mash on my plate that I’ve avoided eating so far. She gives a soft laugh, completely buying into Bryant’s bullshit. “You can lead a horse to water, Bryant, honey.” Milly walks away without finishing the old saying.