by Aubrey Irons
“And that’s why I just allowed that, okay?” She takes a shaky breath and then looks at me, forcing this smile to her face. “You really don’t have to worry, and you really don’t have to treat me any different than any of your other girls.”
My ‘other girls’. Jesus.
“Hailey, that’s-”
“I just wanted to see what the fuss was all about, alright?” She shrugs, tucking a stray lock of half-damp hair behind her ear. “Can we go inside now?”
I frown, “Uh, yeah, sure.”
She opens the car door and steps out. “Thanks for the ride.”
I watch as she runs from the garage to the house, holding her books above her head.
What. The. Fuck.
Part of me wants to high-five myself, or throw a fist in the air, or whatever to congratulate myself on another successful conquest. The untouchable, off-limits, ice-queen Hailey Garrison just came like a fucking hurricane on my fingers.
I should go up to my pad and crack a beer, or head out to a party or something to celebrate my victory.
But I frown, staring out at the rain trickling down the windshield of the dark Escalade.
So how come it doesn’t feel like a win at all?
Three days later though, I’m out on that field with the bright lights, the feel of the turf under my knee, and the crowd roaring.
It’s the first game of the season, and here I can fucking win.
I can taste the energy as we step out of that locker room, the adrenaline pounding through each of us like a diesel engine. We’re ready to own that field, own that glory, and to tear some other motherfuckers limb from limb.
Ain’t competitive sports grand?
That right there is energy you don’t get from anything else in the whole damn world. Well, maybe from fucking, but even that’s debatable.
And when we step foot out the gate onto the field, I’m the fucking king of that stadium. There’s forty-thousand people screaming my Goddamn name, with my damn face up on the jumbo-screens.
Forget what I said, this might definitely be better than any sex I’ve ever had.
Of course, out of all forty-thousand people here tonight, there’s really only one I want to hear screaming my name.
She’s not.
I catch Hailey’s eye sitting up right behind the bench when we trot out. Her mouth is pointedly shut, and she suddenly appears to be very interested the blank scoreboard when I glance back at her.
I frown, and I want to go over there, throw her over my damn shoulder, and take her somewhere where I can damn well guarantee she’ll be screaming my name. But I’ve gotta push that out of my mind. There’s no space in my head for anything but owning this moment right now. Not with what this first game means, not with the level of expectation it holds, and sure as shit not with forty-thousand people on their feet chanting my name.
We line up on the field of battle and glory, and the ball snaps into my hand. I fade back, my eyes on the prize as I wind back and just let go.
And the crowd goes fucking nuts.
“Hail to the motherfuckin’ King, baby!”
The room goes fucking bonkers as Evan and Jason hoist me up above the crowd.
“Cole! Cole! Cole!” The living room of the fraternity house pulses with my name as three-hundred red plastic solo cups sloshing beer rise up as one to cheers me.
Fuck yeah.
They drop me to the ground, ruffling my hair and slapping me on the back and a hundred sweaty frat dudes come up to tell me I’m the greatest thing since Jesus Christ.
Of course, behind them, there’s a hundred sorority girls, ready to worship me.
Coach pushes his way through the crowd and grabs my hand, raising it up in the air to another round of cheers like I’m the damn champion of the ring.
And let’s be real, I am.
I mean, sure, team effort and all that - and it damn well was. But if we’re being honest, that game was mine. I hit every pass, called every play, and dodged every fucking attempt to take me out.
And now I’m holding court, and I plan on reveling in it.
“Alright! Alright!” Coach is still wearing his windbreaker, and he holds his hands in the air as the rest of the team shushes the crowd.
“Y’all have fun tonight, because you damn well earned it.”
The crowd whoops again as Coach gives a thumbs up, before holding his hands up again. “But not too much fun, gentleman.” He points a finger around the room, grinning. “I’m lookin’ at you, players. Be good, boys, we got practice tomorrow.”
“Yes, Coach!”
The cheers turn back to the general madness of a party as someone kicks the music back up.
Jim turns back to me and drops a hand on my shoulder. “You did real good tonight, son. Own this win, and celebrate it.” He eyes the beer in my hand and gives me a stern look. “I’m going to turn a blind eye to that in the spirit of celebration. Remember what we talked about though, alright?”
I grin. “You bet, Coach.”
He gives me another pat on the back before he heads out, shaking hands on his way to the front door.
I sip my beer as another couple of frat guys come up to tell me how cool I am. I spot Jen - the Kappa house girl - across the room, wearing the world’s all-time sluttiest tank-top that shows more cleavage than most bras. She smirks at me, pulling her shoulders back and pushing her tits out as if my eyes needed any extra encouragement to spot them.
She’s got one of the other blondes from the drinking game in the basement with her - Cassie or Sarah, or whoever - and some vampy-looking black-haired girl wearing a skirt the size of a washcloth. Jen smirks at me from across the room, nodding her head at the two girls with her and wagging her brows suggestively.
Jesus, tact and subtlety are not in this girl’s vocabulary.
I hold up a finger to her as a few more fraternity brothers swarm over me. I’m turning away as someone presses a fresh beer into my hand when suddenly my eyes lock on the front door.
And right there, I’m not thinking about the game, or the beer, or the slutty sorority sisters that want to triple-team me.
Because right then, the rest of the people, the music, and pretty much everything else fades away as the world tilts off its axis for a second.
Because Hailey-fucking-Garrison is at a football party at a damn frat house.
And she looks fucking good.
There’s a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You got that thousand bucks together for me yet, Cole?”
I narrow my eyes as I glance back at fucking Henderson. He’s looking right past me, his eyes locked on Hailey and this evil little grin on his face.
“Fuck off, Henderson.”
He laughs. “Hey man, I’m just sayin. You might be this big rock-star, but you ain’t gonna be hitting that and you damn well know it. Might as well let me break ‘er in, right?”
I want to destroy him.
Not fight him, or even beat the shit out of him - I want to destroy him. And for a moment, as the red rage rushes up inside of me like this unstoppable wave, I think I might, right there in the damn frat house.
Breathe, man. Fucking breathe.
My blood boils like molten steel, and my hands clench into rock-hard fists. But Coach’s words from the other day rattle through my head.
‘You’re gonna have a lot of eyes on you.’
He’s right, of course. I’m under the damn microscope right now, and the last thing I need is to be beating the hell out of teammates - even pieces of trash like Henderson, and even when they say crude shit about Hailey.
I take another solid breath before I force the smile to my face. I pat Henderson on the back, resisting the urge to throw him bodily through the closest window. “Dream on, buddy,” I say with a fake grin on my face, shrugging easily. “Besides, it was just a joke bet, man.”
“Not gonna be a joke bet when I come to collect, pal.”
I smile once more at Henderson and pat him on the back, walking aw
ay before I do lose the last hold on my temper. I scan the room, and my eyes catch Hailey again.
Damn, she does look good.
She looks too good.
19
Hailey
“This is stupid,” I yell, not even really hearing myself.
“WHAT?” Roxie screams back at me as we shoulder our way through the crowd towards the kitchen.
Aggressively loud rap music blares from the frat-house living-room stereo as a swath of sweaty, drunk college jocks and frat boys push, shove, and drunkenly cavort around us.
“THIS IS STUPID,” I yell again, this time directly into the ear of a girl I vaguely recall seeing in my government class. She winces at my yelling and gives me a stink-look.
“Sorry,” I mouth, as Roxie pulls on my arm and drags me through the crowd.
“I know, I know,” she says as we move out of the packed living room and into the somewhat quieter kitchen.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” I say with scowl.
Roxie makes a face. “Which one do you want? Because your dad just won his first college football game, and even though I don’t really get that, it seems like it’s a big deal?” She grins, “Or that your hot, soon-to-be stepbrother is the biggest name in college sports right now and was a big part of that win?”
Roxie smiles at me, wagging her eyebrows. “Or that we get to drink free beer all night? Pick one, but whichever one it is, keep in mind that I’m a pretty awesome friend for coming along to this debacle.”
I make a face. “Thanks for that, actually.”
She shrugs as she grins at me. “Eh, not totally altruistic. I’m on the prowl, so let me know if you see any confused and dissatisfied-looking straight girls.”
I snort. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled. This does suck though.”
“Oh, agreed, but it’s a football party, and like it or not, your family is football around here.” Roxie wrinkles her nose and nods in the general direction of some guys wearing shirts with no sleeves. They’re drinking beer out of holes punched in the bottom of cans as their friends make vaguely masturbatory hand motions around them.
“Dude, sports people are fucking weird,” she says with a shake of her head. She pushes her way past some frat guys and sticks her hands in the tub of ice sitting on the kitchen table. “Anyways, shitty beer?” She winks, offering me a freezing can.
“Thanks,” I push every ‘good girl, follow the rules’ thought from my head as I crack the top and take a sip like a normal person. Hey, this is college - I’m allowed to do stuff like this.
Stuff like letting Dalton finger you in the football team weight room?
I’m blushing bright red when Roxie nudges me and we both turn to watch as a group of meatheads across the room start slapping each other on the ass over their ability to drink from a can unconventionally.
She frowns. “So…yeah, I’m gonna go mingle. Come find me when you want to steal some beers and leave.”
I quickly sip from the can to cover my guilty look as she moves off into the crowd, leaving me to wonder for the tenth time what the hell I’m doing here.
I turn and start to make my way out of the kitchen and away from the cluster of meatheads when my eyes suddenly land on King Manwhore himself, surrounded by his harem of groupies, on a couch in the living room. It’s eye-roll worthy, really. It’s nauseating seeing all these vapid little sorority girls draping themselves all over him and giggling at every little thing he says. It’s as if the chance of being able to touch him or taste him or sleep with him or just generally be near his greatness is the highest form of relationship status they could ever hope to achieve.
I’m about to keep ragging on them in my head when I remember that three nights ago, I was that girl.
I drown that particular thought in beer and turn to find another way out of the kitchen.
“Well hey there cutie.”
I whirl and look up at the guy who’s just bumped into me from behind - no sleeves, sweaty red face, and what I imagine is beer all down the front of his shirt.
“Heeeeey yourself” I say, smiling thinly. “Nice meeting you,” I roll my eyes and turn away to find Roxie.
Suddenly, there’s a firm grip on my arm tugging me back hard.
“Awww c’mon now, honey! You don’t remember me? We’ve met before.” Beer shirt is holding my arm, hard, and leering down at me like yanking on girls’ arms is his smoothest move.
It probably is.
“Henderson,” he says it like his name should mean something. “I helped you move with your brother.”
Oh, right. The football meathead.
I shake my arm loose of his grip. “Oh, yeah. Great, thanks.”
His eyes slip down my body in a way that has me shifting uncomfortably. “Um, you do know whose daughter I am, right?”
Henderson leers at me, beer breath washing nauseatingly across me. “Oh I’m a fan of all daughters, actually,” he says with a wink like he’s being extra suave.
I roll my eyes. “Well, that’s…gross, but I’m going to save you the headache. Bye.” I jerk my arm out of his grasp.
“Bitch,” he hurls back as I walk away. I roll my eyes.
I need to get out of here.
I’ve made my appearance - I’ve done my familial duty to my dad and Dalton. But this scene is awful, and it’s time to find Roxie and go home.
“Well, well, as I live and breathe.”
I feel the grin on my face in spite of myself at the voice behind me. That voice I recognize.
“Hailey Garrison, at a frat party? For a football game?” I turn to see Dalton making a comically shocked face. He fans himself dramatically. “Well I do declare, this is quite out of character.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Oh shush, I’m here for appearances, for my dad.” I shrug. “Oh, congrats by the way.”
“Thanks.” He grins at me, “You know, that almost sounded sincere.”
“It might be the best I’m going to manage.”
He laughs, “I’ll take it then. Actually, I’m pretty impressed to see you here.”
I shoot him a look. “You’re the one who told me to get out more.”
Dalton grins. “Makes me wonder what else you’d do if I asked.”
I can feel my cheeks burn as I force myself to meet his eye. “I could leave. Actually, I was about to anyways.”
“Aww, so soon?” He flashes that stupid damn charming farm boy smile at me. “I’ll be good if you stay.”
His eyes suddenly drop to the can of beer in my hand and he raises a brow.
“What?”
“‘What?’ is that I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.”
I very purposefully take a swig of the beer. “My dad put you up to that?”
“What do you think?”
His eyes drop to the front of my tank-top, and then down to the skirt. But it’s not at all like the once-over I just got from his teammate. This look isn’t creepy, or leering.
It’s fierce, and hungry.
‘Makes me wonder what else you’d do if I asked.’
His jaw tightening in that way sends a charge through me as he lowers his gaze slowly going up and down my body.
God, what am I? FLATTERED that manwhore Dalton is checking me out? Hardly makes you a special little snowflake, girl.
“You know, maybe you should go.”
I frown. “Oh yeah? Why’s that? Afraid I’m going to mess up the game you’re running on those three hussies on the couch?”
He grins, “You know, you’re pretty damn cute when you’re jealous like that. Brings out the color in your face or something.”
I flash him a fake, phony smile.
“And in any case, no, I’m not at all worried about ‘my game’, thanks. But you’re dressed like that,” he nods with his chin at my outfit.
I scowl. “And what’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”
He suddenly leans into me, and I gasp as I feel his breath across my neck. “Fucking nothi
ng is wrong with how you’re dressed, darlin, trust me,” he growls into my ear, sending a shiver down my back.
“Problem is, I’m not the only one that notices.”
I laugh. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means frat houses are fucking meat markets, and there’s a lots of guys here on the hunt. And you?” His eyes run up and down me again in that way that sends illicit, inappropriate flashes of heat through my body.
“Darlin, you look like prey.”
I blush furiously, but I force myself to roll my eyes. “Oh, jealous, Dalton? Can’t stand it when a girl dresses up and it’s not for you?”
He snorts. “Cute, but I’m just looking out for dear Paul.”
My eyes quickly dart down to my beer thinking of the other day at the gym and my imaginary infidelity with my imaginary boyfriend. “Well, thank you for keeping an eye on me, but I’m fine.”
“Hailey-”
We’re interrupted by this little blonde girl rushing up and throwing her arms around Dalton as her friends crowd in and start snapping selfies.
“Oh my God, you were sooooo good tonight, Dalton!”
I raise my eyebrows and shake my head at him over their heads as he glares at me. “I told your dad-”
“Dalton, will you sign my tits?” A fourth girl runs up, a beer slopping in her hands as she yanks her shirt up as everyone around us cheers.
I meet his eye. “Congrats on the win, Dalton.”
He shouts my name again, but I’m already headed out of the room.
20
Hailey
Oh, yes.
I sigh, yanking my panties back up as I reach back and flush. This is why I shouldn’t drink, apparently. It’s not because I get drunk or silly, it’s because I can’t even get drunk or tipsy because even one beer makes me have to use the bathroom every nine minutes. Thankfully, the bathroom on the second floor of the frat house was free of the line the one downstairs had.
I catch my face in the mirror as I’m washing my hands and grin in spite of myself. Okay, I’m not having as terrible a time tonight as I thought I would. Because like it or not, I always seem to have this little glowy feeling inside every time Dalton and I have one of our little banters.
