Campus Player

by Jennifer Sucevic

  “Thanks for stopping by on such short notice.” He shuffles around a few documents on a desk exploding with paperwork. He tells me there is a method to his madness. I think he’s full of crap. He grabs the remote from a drawer and clicks off the game film he’s been watching. The man must pour over a hundred hours of film each week. He’s obsessed. It’s what makes him one of the best coaches in Division I football. It’s also what makes him a terrible husband, which is precisely why he’s still single after being divorced for five years. Mom is now happily married to a man who caters to her every whim.

  “It wasn’t a problem. I’ve got a couple of hours before the game.”

  “Yup,” he sits back on his swivel chair and folds his hands behind his head, “I’ll be there. Should be a good one.”

  A fresh wave of nerves slide through me. I always get ramped up before a match, especially when we’re playing UNC. They are a Division I powerhouse who have had a number of players turn pro. Playing for a professional women’s team has been my goal since I was a little girl. With scouts in the stands, there’s a lot riding on today’s game. As soon as that thought enters my mind, I shove it away. If I focus on it, I’ll end up psyching myself out. And I can’t allow the pressure to get to me.

  “You’ll be great,” Dad says, voice filled with conviction as if sensing my sudden burst of anxiety.

  “Thanks.” I’ve done everything possible to prepare myself for this evening’s match. Now I just have to get out there and let instinct take over. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “Right!” He drops his arms and sits forward, closing the distance between us as he sifts through a small mountain of paper before opening up a manilla folder and glancing at the top sheet. “I know you’ve got a lot going on this semester, but would you have time to work with one of the players?”

  “For which class?” In the three years I’ve been at Western, I’ve tutored half a dozen guys. I’m a four-point student, academics have always come easy to me.

  “Statistics.”

  A prickle of unease flares to life in the pit of my belly as I push away from the door and slide onto the chair parked in front of his desk before dropping my backpack to the linoleum tiled floor.

  Before I can respond, he quickly adds, “It would only be a couple hours a week for about a month or so. Just enough time to make sure he is over the hump. And you’re so good at math...”

  Dad wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary. While I don’t have a ton of extra time, carving out a few hours a week shouldn’t be a hassle. “Sure, I can probably work something out.”

  “Great!” A relieved smile breaks out across his face. “You know what it’s like trying to find someone who is actually interested in tutoring rather than talking football.”

  It’s not the talking football that turns out to be the problem. It’s the girls who are interested in hooking up with a football player and then trying to turn it into a bona fide relationship. It’s an occupational hazard that comes with being an athlete at a school obsessed with everything football. And that certainly won’t help with eligibility requirements.

  I grab my backpack from the floor and rise to my feet, ready to take off.

  “Hey,” he says, “I really enjoyed meeting Jackson last night.”

  I narrow my eyes and wonder if the name slip is purposeful. “It’s Justin.”

  “Right.” He points a finger at me. “Justin. Anyway, I really enjoyed meeting him. Seemed like a nice guy. You should bring him around more often.”

  “Really?” My forehead furrows. This...isn’t what I was expecting to hear from him. Normally, when I introduce Dad to a potential boyfriend, he nitpicks, finding something not to like about the guy.

  I’m not going to lie, I’m a little thrown off by his easy-going demeanor.

  With a grin, he lounges back in his chair again. “Yup. I really enjoyed our chat in the study.”

  “You did?” With a frown, I drop my chin and search his face for any indication that he’s messing with me.

  “Sure.” Innocence enters his dark eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Hmmm. Something feels off about this conversation. “I don’t know. Normally you don’t like the guys I introduce you to.” Which is precisely why I don’t do it unless I’m certain they’ll be around long-term. Most of the time, it’s not worth the hassle.

  Last night’s dinner went well enough. On the surface, everyone got along fine. It was the undercurrents that almost suffocated me. Specifically, with Rowan. Even though I refused to make eye contact after what transpired in the kitchen, I could feel his gaze crawling over me the entire evening. It was a relief when eight o’clock rolled around, and we got the hell out of there.

  “Will Jasper be at the game tonight?”

  “Justin,” I correct automatically, blinking out of those thoughts and shifting my weight. “I don’t think so. He has a mandatory study hall for baseball.”

  Dad shrugs before adding pleasantly, “That’s too bad. But don’t worry, Rowan and I will be there to cheer you on. On the off-chance Justin shows up, he can sit with us, and we can pick up where we left off last night.”

  All right, it’s official. The man is seriously frightening me. As I stare, trying to figure out what game he’s playing at, a grin stretches across his face. Yup, he’s definitely enjoying this.

  “What? Is it a crime to want to get to know the guy my daughter is dating?”

  Possibly.

  Ugh. I should probably give him a status update so he can knockoff this weird behavior. It’s a little freaky. I’d thought it would be better to have that discussion with Justin before I tell my father. And since I didn’t want to slide into the car and have that uncomfortable convo on the way back to campus last night, I kept my mouth shut. It’s also not something I’m going to delve into before my game. So...tomorrow. I’m going to end it with Justin tomorrow. There’s no point in letting this relationship limp along when my feelings aren’t there.

  “You can stop pretending to be so nice,” I finally grumble. “I don’t think it’s going to work out with Justin.”

  He straightens in the chair as his lips tug down at the corners. “What? Are you serious?” Before I can verify the information, the frown disappears, and he’s throwing his arms in the air. “Oh well, that’s a shame.”

  Please...I am totally on to him. “Uh-huh. You seem heartbroken by the news.”

  “Trust me, I am.” He taps his chest. “On the inside, where you can’t see it.”

  With a shake of my head, I readjust the strap of my backpack on my shoulder and head to the office door. As I reach for the handle, it occurs to me that Dad never mentioned which player is in need of tutoring. I pause and glance over my shoulder. “Who needs help with stats?”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  “Rowan.”

  And just like that, my belly goes into freefall, dropping to my toes where it settles.

  When I remain silent, he continues, “Row mentioned that you two are in the same class. I figured that would make it easier.”

  Easier for who?

  Certainly not me.

  FML.

  6

  Rowan

  From the corner of my eye, I watch Coach’s closed office door. Barely do I hear the guy next to me yapping my ear off. Every once in a while, I grunt to let him know I’m paying attention even though I have no idea what he’s talking about. More than that, I don’t care.

  What the hell is Demi doing sauntering into the locker room? She doesn’t belong in here with a bunch of half-naked guys. Anger slides through me as I take in the scene. Some of them are full-on naked, standing around with their junk hanging out for all to see.

  For fuck’s sake, she doesn’t need to be looking at that.

  “Dude, are you even listening to me?”

  The question snaps me out of my Demi-filled thoughts, and I reluctantly drag my gaze to Brayden Hendricks. This is our fourth year playing together.
He’s the best wide receiver the Wildcats have. Like me, he’s a senior who will enter the draft come the spring. He’ll leave a huge gaping hole in the program when he graduates.

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  He crosses his arms against his chest and jerks a brow. “Really? What did I say?”

  Busted.

  I drag a hand through my hair in annoyance and jerk my shoulders. “Dunno.”

  He flicks a glance toward Coach’s office. “Does your distractibility have anything to do with a certain dark-haired soccer player?”

  Fuck.

  I don’t make a habit of talking about my feelings for Demi. It’s something I avoid at all costs. Although, I shouldn’t be too surprised that Bray has figured me out. He’s an astute dude. It’s what makes him so damn good at his position.

  Well, there’s two ways I can tackle this situation. I can man up and come clean or—

  “Nope.”

  Deny.

  Deny.

  Deny.

  He snorts before grabbing a T-shirt from his locker and dragging it over his head. “Whatever you say, man.”

  The door to the inner sanctum opens and out walks the girl we’ve been discussing.

  “Speak of the devil,” he murmurs, smile simmering in his voice.

  If it were possible to force my attention away from her, I’d shoot him a death stare.

  “Hey, Demi,” Brayden yells in order to be heard over the raucous noise inside the locker room. When she glances in his direction, he adds, “Good luck with your game tonight.”

  Her expression softens as she smiles. “Thanks.”

  When I remain silent, Brayden clears his throat. “Is there anything you want to say, Rowan?” A shit-eating grin spreads across his face. Barely is he able to suppress the laughter attempting to break loose.

  Her gaze skitters to mine, and I feel the intensity of her dark depths like a punch to the gut. Getting sacked by a defensive tackle doesn’t addle my brain nearly as much as being in her presence. It’s as if everything around us falls away before she rips her gaze from mine and hastens her pace, silently disappearing from sight.

  “Wow, that was a super smooth move, Casanova. Your rep as a player has clearly been well earned.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I grunt before scowling.

  “You might have a thing for her, but she definitely wants nothing to do with you.”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  “You have to admit, it’s an ironic situation.” My glower doesn’t stop him from continuing to share his thoughts. “You can have any girl you want on campus with the exception of that one.” He spears a finger at the spot where Demi last stood.

  Again...tell me something I don’t know.

  “Plus, I can’t imagine Coach would be cool with you sniffing anywhere around her.”

  Precisely the reason I haven’t made a move in her direction.

  “Damn, but that girl is fine!” a freshman yells, interrupting our one-sided conversation.

  “Yeah, I’d sure love to get my hands on that,” another bonehead chimes in from the other side of the wide space.

  “When the hell did she grow up so nice?” Arron McKinley shouts.

  Unable to listen to another word, I snap, “Shut the fuck up!” Silence descends. “That’s Coach’s daughter you’re talking about!”

  Arron grins before holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “What? I’m just stating the obvious.” He glances around as if expecting the others to chime in and agree with him. Most are smart enough to keep their traps shut. “We’re all thinking the same thing.”

  “Well, don’t,” I growl. “Have a little fucking respect.”

  I’m about to lay into a couple of the younger guys when Coach opens the door to his office and hollers, “Michaels, see me before you leave.”

  With one last glare around the room, I grab a T-shirt from inside my locker and yank it on. The blood rushes through my veins and pounds in my ears. I don’t like these guys looking in Demi’s direction, much less talking about her. The whole thing pisses me off. They better not let me hear them spouting off like that again, or I’ll be cracking some skulls together. I don’t care if we’re on the same team or not.

  “Uh-oh, looks like someone caught wind of the little crush you got going on,” Brayden snickers like the asswipe he is.

  I certainly hope not. Coach wouldn’t be pleased about my interest in his daughter.

  Instead of responding to the taunt, I give him the finger. Brayden flashes me a grin before hauling the athletic shorts up his thighs and snapping the elastic band around his waist.

  A knot of tension settles in the pit of my gut as I make the walk to the office. I hesitate outside the door for a moment before rapping my knuckles against the frosted glass and popping my head inside. “Hey Coach, you wanted to see me?”

  Air gets trapped in my lungs as the older man glances up from the shit pile of paperwork on his metal desk. He waves me in, pointing to the chair on the opposite side of him. “Yeah, have a seat. This’ll only take a moment.”

  Well, fuck.

  Maybe Brayden was right, and Coach has finally figured me out. Since the very beginning, I’ve done my best to cover up my feelings when the three of us are together. I can’t imagine what Demi’s father would do if he discovered my dirty little secret. Probably boot my ass right off the team. He would stop inviting me over for Wednesday night dinners and letting me hang around like I’m part of the family. I don’t think I could stand that. It’s not only about my need to be close to Demi but because of Nick Richards. The man is like a father figure to me. More so than the sperm donor who spawned me.

  “Yeah, Coach?” I slide tentatively onto the chair.

  He glances up after studying the manilla folder in his hand. “Your statistics grade is slipping. I spoke with Professor Peters this afternoon, and you’re clinging to a C-.”

  My shoulders loosen in relief. I should have realized that was the issue. Stats is a massive pain in my ass. I have no problem wrapping my head around most of my classes. That one, for whatever reason, evades me. All Professor P has to do is lecture about quantitative data, inferential statistics, and parameters, and I go a little lightheaded. It’s like he’s talking in a foreign tongue. If I could avoid the damn class altogether, I would gladly do so.

  Unfortunately, it’s a requirement for my major. Some guys in my position might skip it and not bother to finish out their degree but I’ve come this far; I’m sure as shit not going to let a statistics class stand in the way of being the first in my family to graduate from college. I’ll need something solid to fall back on if the NFL doesn’t work out long-term.

  I’m sure that Demi’s presence in the same section doesn’t help matters either. I have a difficult time concentrating on Professor Peters and his monotone lectures when she’s seated next to me. Especially when the scent of her floral shampoo teases my senses. It’s all I can do to stop myself from scooting closer and inhaling a giant lungful of her. If I weren’t so masochistic, I’d sit my ass elsewhere. But that isn’t going to happen.

  I’ve seen the way some of the other guys eye her up in class like she’s a juicy steak they want to sink their teeth into. Sitting next to her every class period is my way of staking my claim. Maybe she doesn’t realize what I’m doing, but yeah...that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’ll be damned if some other dude hits on her right in front of my face.

  I can’t imagine Demi would be overly thrilled if she realized my intentions.

  From what I can tell, I rub her the wrong way. It’s been like that ever since I met her the summer before freshman year of high school. I’ve never seen any girl go to such great lengths to avoid coming in contact with me. It would be funny if it weren’t so damn sad. She’s friendly enough with most the other guys on the team, but with me, she’s always careful to maintain a distance. Like I’m a leper fresh from the colony. I can’t get most of the girls on this campus to leave me al
one and yet, like Brayden said, she won’t give me the time of day.

  As much as I hate talking about stats, I’d rather discuss that than the hard-on I sport anytime his daughter is near. I drag a hand through my damp hair and shove it out of my eyes before shifting on the chair. Even thinking about her is enough to give me wood. “Yeah, I need to put a little more time into that class. The last quiz didn’t go so well.”

  That’s an understatement.

  Homework is the only thing saving my ass right now.

  And it’s not by much.

  Coach shakes his head and points to my hair. “You got a real mop going on there, Michaels. Maybe you should consider cutting it.” A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “I got a razor around here somewhere. I’d be more than happy to buzz it off right now. All you have to do is say the word.”

  The familiar conversation settles something inside me, and I smile. “Nah. If I cut the hair, I’ll lose all my power. You really want to be responsible for that?”

  He snorts and pulls off his ball cap, plowing his fingers through his thinning strands. “Must be what happened to me.” He clears his throat and shuffles the papers in front of him. “If you can’t get this grade up, you won’t have to worry about your power. You’ll spend part of the season riding the bench.” He raises a brow. “I can’t imagine you want that to happen.”

  “Nope.” The thought is enough to have my blood curdling in my veins. With the upcoming draft, all eyes will be on me this season. I need to be stacking up those passing yards and lead the conference in touchdowns which will help me win a Heisman.

  “Good. Let’s nip this in the bud before it gets any further out of hand.”

  I tilt my head. “How are we going to do that?”

  With a grin, he stabs a finger at me from across the desk. “I’m glad you asked.”

  Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.

  “I found a tutor for you.”

  Great. The last thing I want is to work with some starstruck fan who is more interested in riding my dick than improving my stats grade. Been there, done that. Not interested in a repeat performance.