Campus Player

by Jennifer Sucevic

  The waitress stops by our table. On closer inspection, I realize she’s not as old as I pegged her to be from a distance. It’s like this place has sucked the youth right out of her.

  “What can I get for you, hun?”

  I hold up a hand. “Nothing. I won’t be staying long.”

  She raises a brow in surprise before her gaze slides to my father. “Need a refill, sugar?” When her lips pull back, I notice that she’s missing a tooth.

  My father shakes his head and flashes her a tobacco-stained smile. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Just holler if you need anything,” she calls over her shoulder, already moving on to another table.

  “What did you want to talk about?” I’m done beating around the bush. “I already told you that I didn’t have a lot of time.”

  “And yet, here you are.” A glint of satisfaction enters his eyes. It’s as if he’s playing a game of cat and mouse. Little does he know I’ll never be the mouse again. “I’ve been away for ten long years. Is it so much to ask that we spend a little time together? I’ll be honest, kid, it hurts my feelings that you won’t even call me dad like the good old days.”

  It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes.

  Give me a damn break.

  “How about you get to the point, Dad,” I grit between clenched teeth. Acknowledging the piece of shit sitting across from me as anything more than a sperm donor feels like a slap in the face to any man who took the role seriously and helped shape their children into productive human beings.

  You know who had that kind of impact on me?

  Coach. Without him, I don’t know who I would be or what I would be doing. He gave me hope and showed me that life could be different. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay him for giving me a future to believe in.

  “See?” If not for the hardening of his eyes, I’d think the sarcasm had gone completely over his head. “Was that so hard?”

  Yeah, it was. The man has no idea how sick inside it makes me to know that I’m a biological product of him.

  He doesn’t bother to wait for a response. “Your mother tells me football is going well, and you’ll get drafted this spring.”

  My belly heaves, twisting painfully. Now it all makes sense. He heard I should be coming into money and wants his slice of the pie, whether he deserves it or not. If there’s a potential payday without having to lift a finger, my father will sniff it out. It might be his only true talent.

  I jerk my shoulders, wanting to downplay my prospects. Not that it’ll do me any good. He’s like a bloodhound who has picked up the scent. “Don’t know,” I mutter, wanting to shut down this line of questioning, “nothing is for certain.”

  His lips lift into a yellowed smile as if he knows exactly what I’m up to and isn’t fooled by my modesty. “Ever since I got home, that’s all your ma squawks about. How many teams are looking at you and the kind of money you’ll be raking in by next year.” He licks his lips as if he can already taste it.

  Fuck.

  Why hadn’t I kept my big trap shut?

  I’ll tell you why—I’d wanted my mother to be proud of me. She’s worked so damn hard to put food on the table, keep a roof over our heads, and pay for football. For the first time in her life, I’d wanted her to know someone would be taking care of her. She could finally stop stressing over the bills. Once I signed that contract, everything would get easier for the both of us. She wouldn’t have to work another day. I’d buy the damn restaurant where she’s been waitressing if that’s what she wanted.

  I press my lips together and shift uncomfortably before glancing out the window at my truck in the gravel parking lot. I want to wrap up this little reunion and take off.

  He tilts his head and digs for info. “You got an agent?”

  “Yup,” I say in a clipped tone, offering up nothing further. Where the hell is he going with this?

  It doesn’t take long to figure out.

  “Cause that’s something I could do for you.” When I stare blankly, he shifts on the bench and continues impatiently. “Negotiate your deal.”

  My eyes widen, and a gurgle of laughter rises in my throat before I choke it down. He’s not joking. The man is as serious as a ninety-nine percent blockage of the arteries.

  An image of Greg Abbot, my sports agent, pops into my head. I’ve never seen him dressed in anything less formal than a pricey suit with a flashy tie. There’s never one damn hair out of place. It’s pomaded into submission. When he smiles, the whiteness of his teeth almost blinds me. He reminds me of a glossy cardboard cutout.

  He’s not the type of guy I’d want to hang out with on a Saturday night or grab a beer with while watching a game, but he’s the best in the business and has promised to get me a six-figure signing bonus. I have zero doubts that he’ll deliver. He’s one tenacious motherfucker who knows the ins and outs of the sports world. I’m damn lucky Coach has a relationship with him. That’s the only reason a nobody like me ended up with such a well-known agent.

  I blink reluctantly back to the conversation. Dollar signs are practically dancing in my father’s beady eyes.

  He leans toward me, closing as much distance as the Formica table that separates us will allow. “Now that I’m back, I can manage your career. It’ll work out perfectly. I’ll have a job, and my probation officer will get off my ass.”

  The more he talks, the faster my heart races until it feels like it will jackhammer right out of my chest. I shake my head, wanting to stop this one-sided discussion in its tracks. “Sorry, I have an agent.”

  Like I’d let him anywhere near my career?

  Is he fucking crazy?

  “Fire him.” He raps his knuckles on the table as if the decision has already been made. “Let’s keep this in the family. There’s no reason to give your money away to strangers.”

  No, he would much prefer I give it all to him. There’s not a snowballs chance in hell of that coming to fruition.

  “I’ve already signed a contract. I’m locked in tight.” I slide to the edge of the booth, ready to bolt. “So, if that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’ve got to get moving.”

  Some of his nice guy veneer crumbles as he scowls, stabbing a finger at me. “Sit your ass down. I’m not finished yet.”

  I glare before begrudgingly dropping back to the seat.

  It takes a moment for him to regain his composure. He picks up his mug and takes a sip before grumbling, “Stone cold.”

  With a wave of his hand, he flags down our waitress and asks for a second cup. This takes a good five minutes. I drum my fingers impatiently on the chipped table as I simmer. What he’s doing right now is deliberate. He’s purposefully trying to rile me up. All I want is for him to get to the fucking point so I can shoot him down.

  Once he has a fresh cup of coffee, he points to me and says in an overly loud voice, “This here is my son, Rowan Michaels. Maybe you recognize him? He plays football for the Western Wildcats.”

  The waitress narrows eyes that have been made up with an overly heavy hand, inspecting me carefully. “I thought I recognized you.” She points to a decrepit TV mounted on the wall. “Hal has the game on every Saturday afternoon.”

  “Take off your hat, son,” Dad says mildly, “let the woman get a good look at you.”

  I grit my teeth, torn between refusing the directive and not wanting to appear like a total dick in front of this stranger. Manners win out as I drag the ball cap off my head before combing my fingers through my unruly hair. I give her a tight smile and hope I don’t come across half as pissed off as I feel.

  She whistles. “You sure are a handsome one.” Her gaze slides approvingly to my father before she winks at him. “Just like your daddy.”

  It takes everything I have inside not to throw up in my mouth.

  “Yup.” The man across from me grins like he’s the reason for my success. “You mark my words,” he jabs a finger at her, “he’s gonna make millions next year.”

 
; “Gracious.” Her hand flies to her narrow chest as if she had no idea something like that was even possible.

  He puffs up, clearly pleased by her reaction. “His mama and I couldn’t be any more proud.”

  “Well, then, I should get your autograph.” She shifts, searching her pockets for a pen before grabbing it from where it’s tucked in her hair. “Once you turn pro, we can hang it on our wall of fame.”

  Wall of fame?

  I don’t even want to know.

  “We should probably charge you for it,” my father chuckles, sounding lofty. When her wide gaze cuts to him in question, he waves a hand and sits back like he’s the Grand Poobah or something like that. “But we’ll let it slide this once.”

  Embarrassment stings my cheeks. If only it were possible to sink into the floorboards and escape from this nightmare.

  With that declaration, the waitress shoves a small pad of paper in front of me. I scribble out my name, hoping it’s somewhat illegible. Like I want anyone to know I ever stepped foot in this dump that masquerades as a no-tell motel?

  It’s a relief when another customer flags down the waitress, and she reluctantly takes off in his direction.

  “Well,” Dad leans against the booth before settling one arm along the torn-up top, “I think it’s safe to say you made her day.”

  Fucker.

  I drag a hand over my face and decide to pull the plug rather than allow this to continue a moment longer. “How much do you want?”

  He takes a sip of his fresh coffee. It’s still steaming. “That’s much better.” Instead of answering, he inspects the dirt caked under his fingernails. “How much can you spare?”

  “Not much,” I grunt out bitterly. “Football is my job during the year so I’m not able to work. I live off savings from the summer.”

  “What? They don’t pay you to play ball?” His brows snap together as if he’s personally offended on my behalf. “You’re practically a professional.”

  “That’s not how college athletics work. I have a scholarship that pays for my tuition.”

  He shakes his head as if I was stupid enough to get screwed over. I’ll tell you who I got fucked over by...

  “See? If I’d been around, I would have negotiated better terms for you. Get you paid under the table or something.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “That’s illegal. There are strict NCAA rules surrounding that kind of thing.”

  He waves a hand. “They’re all corrupt—”

  “How much, Dad?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. There is so much pressure building in my head. Any moment it’s going to explode, and then none of this will matter because I’ll be dead. “How much do you need?” How much will it take to make you go away and never come back? Drop a number.

  “A grand.”

  Well, fuck.

  Does he really think I have that kind of money laying around?

  I earn a couple thousand during the summer working for a friend’s landscaping company. I give Mom some and sock the rest away to carefully dole out through the year. A number of my teammates have beaucoup bucks. Money isn’t a concern for them. They’re able to go on epic spring break trips to the Bahamas, Mexico, and Costa Rica.

  But I can’t afford that. If I’m lucky and the weather is nice in March, I can work for the week.

  “I need a little something to tide me over until I can find a gig that pays well.” When I fail to react, he adds, “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. Although, after this year, you won’t need me to. You’ll be rolling around in the Benjamins.”

  “If I give you this money,” I pause, carefully contemplating my response, “you need to consider it a parting gift. I don’t want to see you again.” Surprise flares in his eyes before they narrow. “And I want you to leave Mom alone. She doesn’t need you messing up her life again.”

  “Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Maybe you’ve forgotten that I’m your pops.” He stabs a finger at me as fury flashes across his face. “Don’t think you’re too old for me to beat some sense into. I should have known that your mother would fuck this up. She put ideas in your head.” The smile he gives me is bone-chilling. “I see the way you look at me. Like you’re so much better.” An ugly glint enters his eyes. “But you know what? We’re the same, son.”

  If I actually thought that was true, I’d shoot myself.

  I rise from the booth before glaring down at him. As I do, I feel nothing but anger and resentment. The first, because he’s no longer locked up, and the second, because he’ll never be anything more than a leech trying to suck me dry. “We are nothing alike.” Unable to stomach the sight of him, I walk away.

  “What about the money?” he snaps from the booth.

  I stop but don’t turn. “You’ll have it by the end of the week.”

  It takes thirty steps to reach the exit before I’m shoving through the door and into the fresh autumn air. I inhale a deep breath and hold it captive in my lungs before slowly exhaling. Nausea swirls in the pit of my gut before searching for a way out. Just as I make it to the truck, I puke near the driver’s side door, narrowly missing my shoes. Everything I wolfed down this morning makes an encore appearance. As soon as the contents of my belly are emptied, I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth. Only now do I realize it’s shaking.

  My entire body is shaking.

  I grab the keys from my front pocket and click the locks before slumping onto the seat and starting up the engine. Barely do I glance around before peeling out of the parking lot and hightailing it back to Western.

  32

  Demi

  I snuggle against Rowan’s chest on the couch in my apartment. His arm is around me, and we’re chilling out, watching Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates. Zac Efron does something, and a chuckle bursts from my lips. This movie is stupid funny. I’ve probably seen it a dozen times, and it never gets old. When I realize that I’m the only one laughing, I glance at him to see what’s going on. It becomes obvious that Rowan may be physically with me, but his mind is somewhere else. A distant look fills his eyes.

  It's one I’ve never seen before.

  Instantly forgetting the movie, I reach up and stroke my fingers across his cheek to capture his attention. “Hey, are you all right?”

  The strange expression dissolves as the corners of his lips hitch. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, guess I zoned out for a minute.”

  “You want to turn off the movie?” I sit up and hunt around for the remote. “We don’t have to watch it.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. It’s all good.”

  Even though he’s denying there’s a problem, I get the feeling he’s not being truthful with me, and I hate it. Hate that he might—for some reason—be lying. Rowan has never been anything but honest. The realization doesn’t sit well with me.

  Mike and Dave continue with their slapstick comedy, but I can’t get back into it. And I find myself unable to brush aside the suspicions that gnaw at me. “Are you worried about the game tomorrow?”

  He jerks his shoulders and shifts on the couch. There’s a slight tightening to his jaw. “Not really. Their defense is crap, so we’ll turn that to our advantage.”

  Okay...then what’s the problem?

  It can’t be stats. Rowan aced the last exam. Who would have thought a simple game of strip statistics could make such a huge impact?

  It goes to show that with the proper motivation, anything is possible.

  After five minutes of silence, I grab the remote and click off the television.

  Rowan shoots me a questioning look as his brows draw together. “I thought you wanted to finish the movie?”

  “I’m not into it.” Anymore. “We can watch it another time.”

  “All right.” Interest ignites in his eyes. “Got something else in mind?”

  A smile curves my lips as I twist in his arms before crawling onto his lap. “Hopefully it’s something that’ll hold your interest more than the movie.” I run
my fingers through his hair before pressing my lips against his. “What do you think?”

  “Umm, yeah.” His voice deepens. “I can say with a hundred percent assuredness that this will do the trick.”

  “Good.” I run my tongue across his top lip before giving the same attention to the lower one. Rowan has an amazing mouth. Soft and plump. Perfectly kissable.

  Why did it take so long to acknowledge my attraction to him?

  Now that I’ve given in to the need coursing through me, there’s no going back.

  He groans as I keep up the sweet torture. Whatever is going on in his mind, I want to banish it. His cock stiffens beneath his athletic shorts as I grind against him.

  “You’re killing me, Demi.”

  The funny thing is that I’m not just torturing him, I’m doing the same damn thing to myself. I’ve never felt this way before. Sure, I’ve always enjoyed sex. Most of the time it felt good. A couple of the guys I’ve been with made sure to prime the pump before diving straight in. But those encounters were always hit or miss. It hasn’t been that way with Rowan. He always takes his time to make sure I’m practically begging for it when he slides deep inside me.

  Sex has dominated my thoughts more in the last month than ever before. That has everything to do with Rowan and how he makes me feel. Not only physically, but emotionally. This relationship is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s on a whole different level. A deeper one. We have so much more in common than I allowed myself to believe.

  And I’m not going to lie—his smoking hot body doesn’t hurt either. I’m obsessed with running my hands over all those perfectly sculpted muscles. He’s turned me into a complete hornball. It’s almost embarrassing.