"Word is he'll be entering the draft in January even though he could play here at Barnett for another year." Her eyes dance with unmitigated excitement as if she has a personal stake in that actually occurring. Then she sighs rather dreamily, "And just look at him, he's totally gorgeous."
My gaze slides to the eye candy currently being discussed. She’s right, he’s definitely gorgeous. But I'd also lay odds he's a cocky douchebag player as well. I mean, come on, he's a football player. Who looks like some kind of freaking Adonis.
"If you're interested," she gives me a look that conveys- and who wouldn't be, "there's a website solely devoted to all things Roan King. And there are some seriously hot pics of him up there to drool over."
Now that my Roan-King-haze has finally started to dissipate and my hormone levels are once again evening out, my brows snap together in total disbelief. "Are you telling me this guy created a website so he can promote himself?" Oh, that's going too far even for a gorgeous football playing god like him. I almost wince at my own unchecked thoughts.
Football playing god?
Did I seriously just think that?
Guilty.
So, so guilty.
She shakes her head. "Of course not. Roan King has a major following here at Barnett. Whoever created the sight allows people to track and post Roan King sightings and gossip. So, if you ever want to know what he's up to, just check out the website. I always look to see where he is throughout the night so maybe I can run into him."
Umm… right.
I think this girl wants to do more than just run into him. What she's describing is borderline stalking. I can't believe she's actually admitting it to a virtual stranger. How embarrassing. Of course, that thought naturally leads me to wonder if she's merely fucking with me because he's not a freaking celebrity.
He's just some college athlete.
Albeit a really hot college athlete.
With my eyes narrowed in skepticism, I ask, "And this is all because he plays football?" I'm actually having a really hard time wrapping my mind around this. And I certainly haven't ruled out the whole- I'm-being-fucked-with scenario either.
Giving me that- do-you-live-under-a-rock look again, she shakes her head, "No, he doesn't just play football, he is football here at Barnett. Like I said before, he's entering the draft in January. And well... just look at him." She flicks her hand in his direction. "He's the hottest guy on campus. Roan King is going places and everyone is interested in where those places are."
With that she swivels in her seat so that she’s fully turned towards the professor. And Roan King.
For the next thirty-five minutes I do my best to focus on what Dr. Paulson is discussing, but I would be lying if I didn't admit that my eyes keep straying across the room to rest on Barnett’s legendary football star. Every time I catch myself staring at those wide shoulders, bulging t-shirt clad biceps, and inky black hair, I have to mentally chastise myself before refocusing my distracted attention. After the seventh time, I'm more than a little irritated with myself for acting like the rest of these silly little twits who are practically drooling all over their desks.
Even though I was here for my freshman year, I don't recall hearing anything about Roan King. Instead of paying attention to Dr. Paulson as she outlines what we'll be learning this semester, I'm too busy racking my brain trying to remember any little tidbit of information about this guy.
But I keep drawing blanks.
Which shouldn't surprise me because I've never really cared for football. I know absolutely zero about it. And furthermore, I have no interest in learning anything about it either. When forced to attend high school homecoming games with Lexie, I distinctly remember being bored off my ass.
My eyes narrow as I continue contemplating him.
I'd hazard a guess to say there's not much going on beneath all that gorgeousness. And if our professor is any indication, he's probably been coasting through the last three years of college on his hotness and football playing skills.
That is if playing football can actually be considered a skill...
Because every time I've been forced to watch a game, the guys on the field don't seem to do anything more than run around throwing some oblong shaped ball to each other. And the game is constantly being stopped which only makes it even more mind numbing. Like they're deliberately trying to torture all the fans that have filled the stands.
Seriously, how much skill can something like that possibly take? It's not like executing a perfect pirouette or adage or ballonne pas, for goodness sake. That takes years of relentless practice and dedication.
So even though I don't know Roan King personally, he's obviously someone to steer clear of. And not that Mr. Football has any interest in me whatsoever, but after what happened with Finn last year, I have zero interest in getting tangled up with another jerk.
I mean jock.
Especially some football playing Neanderthal who obviously thinks he's god's gift to the female population of Barnett University.
Ugh.
Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll pass.
Chapter Three
A proposition of a sexual nature from the likes of Roan King… I accept! KingOfCampus.com
With my head bent forward, my caramel colored hair falls over my face like a thick curtain, shielding it from view. Tapping my foot nervously, I wait until Mr. Abs of Steel swaggers his way up front to speak with the professor. Just as I’m about to make a break for it, he saunters back over to his desk before picking up his backpack and strolling out the door like he has all the time in the world.
I have no idea how he was brought up to speed so quickly on what he missed. Regardless, I just want to put as much distance as I can between Roan King and myself. Once he’s gone, my whole body deflates.
I think as time goes by, he’ll forget about the whole iced-coffee-spilling-fiasco. Or, at the very least, he won’t remember me specifically as the one who caused it. That’s my hope. And I’m going to cling to it until proven wrong.
Other than the professor who is reading through some papers at the front of the classroom, I’m the last lingering student. I think it’s safe to say I’ve dawdled long enough. He has to be gone by this point which means it’s completely safe for me to finally get out of here. Gathering up my bag, I jog down the two flights of stairs, mentally running through my schedule for the rest of the day.
I have a French and dance class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And I was lucky enough to snag a job at the local dance studio in town teaching ballet and tap to four and five year olds. The less money I have to grovel to my father for, the better off I’ll be.
Plus, its dance which I live and breathe. So, teaching for about ten hours a week works out perfectly for me. And it’s only about a mile from the apartment. Which is totally walkable if I can’t bum a ride from Lexie.
Lost in my thoughts, I push through the double doors leading outside before walking down the wide cement stairs. As I do so, I slide my sunglasses over my eyes. Today is a bright and gorgeous August day. With autumn on its way, I know this kind of weather won’t stick around forever. It needs to be soaked up and thoroughly enjoyed before the chill of September sets in.
“Hey, coffee girl!”
Since my name is most definitely not coffee girl, I don’t even bother glancing around. I just keep on moving. Unfortunately I forgot to pick up a supplemental reading guide so I need to head back to the bookstore for-
“Hey, coffee girl!”
This time, the words are nearly shouted. People are craning their heads to see what’s going on. I feel bad for whoever this poor coffee girl is. How embarrassing to be spoken to like that. She’s probably some unfortunate barista who works at one of the coffee shops on campus. Seriously. Some people are just so damn rude. Which is exactly why I turn glaring eyes on the A-hole shouting it.
Imagine my shock and dismay when I see freaking Roan King smirking at me just as our eyes collide. Great. That’s when it o
ccurs to me that I’m the poor and unfortunate coffee girl. Unconsciously, because- damn it, he seems to have that god awful effect on me, my feet grind to a sudden halt and I can’t help but stop and stare at him like some kind of idiotic fangirl.
Thankfully I’ve gotten a little more used to his dazzling good looks and don’t feel so completely gob smacked. Plus, he’s once again wearing a shirt. No gorgeous chest to lose my mind over.
In my best haughty tone, I yell back, “Are you talking to me?”
The smile grows, which has me gnashing my teeth together painfully because that was so not the response I was going for. “Ah, she speaks.”
This has my face coloring. “My name isn’t coffee girl,” I finally ground out.
Revealing bright white teeth, he leisurely pushes away from the brick wall he was leaning against. That’s when I notice him turn towards the thick crowd surrounding him.
How did I not notice the huge group he’s standing in the midst of? And it’s not just girls who make up his fan club either, but guys as well. This dude definitely has the strangest effect on me. I don’t like it at all. I’m not used to feeling so tongue tied and awkward.
I’m really not.
What he says to them, I have no idea. I see his lips moving and then the crowd reluctantly disperses before he closes the distance separating us. The way he carries his powerful body has all the saliva in my mouth instantly drying. He’s just so big and muscular. So unexpectedly graceful. I wish I didn’t appreciate the beautiful lines of his sharply defined body but I can’t seem to help myself. As he jogs towards me, shards of inky colored hair fall over those brightly sparkling eyes. When he’s about two feet from me, he finally slows to a stop before flicking a jet black chunk of hair out of the way.
The look he aims in my direction is so well honed I nearly gasp.
Oh… this guy is completely dangerous. And he’s clearly aware of the effect he has on the opposite sex.
That’s for damn sure.
Thankfully it’s enough of a slap in the face to have me straightening my spine all the while trying to wrestle my traitorous hormones into submission. Which is no easy task when faced with…well… him.
His gaze holds mine for a long silent moment. It’s almost as if his eyes are caressing mine. Which is completely ridiculous, I know. But still, that’s exactly the way it feels. My heart stutters in response to all that sexiness packaged up so prettily right in front of me.
Cocking his head to the side, it’s as if he’s waiting for me to give him an answer. But I don’t think he’s asked a question. God, I hope he hasn’t asked a question and I’ve been too busy drooling to realize it.
“So what’s your name if it’s not coffee girl?”
I glance pointedly at the growing group of girls who are avidly watching our exchange before my gaze arrows right back to his. For just a moment, I feel like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole. My belly even dips as if I’m truly falling.
How is that even possible?
“Does it really matter?” Okay. Good. That came out just cool enough to sound unaffected. Even though I am totally and unequivocally affected.
Following my gaze, another devastating smile slides its way across his handsome face before he shrugs those powerful shoulders basically telling me that- no, it really doesn’t. Instead he steps just a bit closer, invading my personal space until my heart is slamming almost painfully against my chest.
Those beautiful eyes of his continue holding mine, ensnaring them really. Like he’s capable of some kind of crazy voodoo magic. “I have two hours to kill until my next class, why don’t we head back to your place for a bit.”
Head back to my place?
Two hours to kill?
Wait just a minute…
Because that sounds suspiciously like he’s asking me to-
My spine stiffens so quickly it’s as if someone has just rammed a massive pole up my ass.
I’m pretty sure my eyes flare open to the point of popping right out of my head. “Are you actually suggesting we go back to my place for a few hours and have,” I pause as my voice lowers, because there are after all, about a dozen people watching our exchange, “sex?”
Those lovely bow shaped lips of his lift into a knowing smile. “Yeah, babe, I am.” Then his eyes meander their way down my body. I can all but feel them licking over every single inch of me. On their slow perusal back up to my face, they stop at my chest.
My incredibly flat chest.
I think my nipples just tightened under the intense scrutiny of those turquoise hued eyes. I’m seriously cursing myself for not bothering with a padded bra this morning. Instead, I’m wearing a sports bra because it’s so damn comfortable.
Thankfully he hasn’t made any noises that would lead me to believe I have the dreaded headlight effect going on, so maybe it’s not as bad as I’m imagining it to be. And there’s certainly no way I can glance down and see for myself because that would only draw attention to my nips. Instead I keep my eyes focused steadily on his face.
Again he tilts his head just a bit to the side before admitting, “I usually like a girl with a little more going on upstairs, but you’ll do.”
Outrage slams through me, making me gasp.
I have never, and I do mean never, had anyone talk to me like this before.
With my nails digging into my clenched fists, I take a step closer to him. My narrowed eyes feel as if they’re blazing fire, as if they could burn him alive with one single look. Unable to control myself, I stab a finger at that gorgeous, rock solid chest of his.
Gritting my teeth, I hiss, “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. But don’t you ever talk to me like that again! You’ve apparently mistaken me for one of the groupie sluts you’re used to screwing anytime you please. Make no mistake, asshole, that’s not me.”
If he’s at all surprised by my unexpected outburst, he doesn’t say one damn word. Instead, his bright blue-green colored eyes continue holding mine, almost as if they’re assessing me with a bit more interest.
My breath continues to come out in short choppy pants. Like I’ve just run a marathon. Still frothing at the mouth, I give him one last frosty glare that will hopefully shrivel his balls before stalking away.
The nerve of some people!
“See you around, coffee girl.”
Even though I can’t help the growl that seethes from my lips, I don’t bother dignifying that last parting shot with a comment. Mr. Abs of Steel can go screw himself for all I care.
Chapter Four
There’s a ton of back-to-school parties happening tonight. Will Roan King be making an appearance at any of them? Stay tuned in to find out! KingOfCampus.com
Sticking my brand new brass key in the lock, I push open the door to our apartment. It’s well after seven and I’ve just come home from my first day of teaching dance at On Pointe. Spending two hours with all those little cuties was just enough balm to soothe away my run in with a certain douchebag jock earlier in the day. It literally kills me that we have a class together and I’m going to have to endure his presence three days a week for the entire semester.
Ugh.
Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
That’s the plan henceforth.
“Lexie-Lou,” I sing-song loudly from the front hall. God, it feels so good to be home again. My ass is seriously dragging. All I can imagine is taking a long hot shower, curling up in bed, and reading a book or watching a little mindless TV before crashing.
Hmmm. That’s strange. No answer. But I don’t exactly wait for one either. Even thinking about that obnoxious asshole has everything within me prickling with irritation.
I toss my keys in a little ceramic bowl since I am notorious for losing them. Apparently the colorful little dish set right next to the door in our entryway is supposed to cure that little affliction.
We’ll see.
I’m not holding out too much hope.
> I repel keys in much the same way I apparently repel nice guys.
One of the first things I did today was get two copies of the apartment key made. My plan is to give one to Dylan since he oh-so-conveniently lives right next door to us. Hopefully his roommates aren’t total creepers that will have me reassessing that decision.
Glancing through the mail stacked neatly besides the key bowl, I yell, “I had the distinguished honor of meeting the campus douchebag today.”
I really could have sworn that when I came through the door, I heard the TV. I just assumed she was in the living room watching it. When I still don’t receive a response, I continue in a louder voice wondering if maybe she’s in her bedroom. “Talk about a total asshole! Roan fucking King! Seriously, that’s his name. I’ve been informed that he’s Barnett’s very own golden boy.”
Except he’s dark as sin and sexy as hell.
Damn it.
Where the heck did that thought come from?
Unwrapping the sweater I had thrown over my black leotard after teaching ballet class, I pad down the hall before stepping into the living room. Just as I do, my feet grind to a halt as three sets of eyes fall on me.
And not one damn set belongs to my roommate either.
How embarrassing.
They’re all male, too.
Figures…
This freaking day has been nothing more than one humiliation after another. I’d seriously give just about anything to be back in Paris right now. Stuffing my mouth with a yummy pastry. Instead I’m suffering through yet another mortifying moment.
The first guy my eyes collide with is Dylan. For some strange reason I notice he’s paused the x-box game he’s in the middle of playing. Which is odd. Because I know enough about guys and video games to realize this is highly unprecedented behavior. The sinking sensation in the pit of my gut continues to grow. Then my gaze slides to-
Oh.
Hell.
No.
What the hell is he doing here?
“What the hell are you doing here?” I practically spit the words at him as my temper instantly ignites. Why is this guy sitting on my couch? In my apartment?
King of Campus Page 3
