Beauty and the Running Back

by Colleen Masters

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “And that means I can still be into you, even though you’re the coach’s daughter,” Dean says, taking a step toward me.

  “Are you saying you’re… into me?” I ask, my breath catching in my throat as Dean comes closer.

  “Absolutely,” he says, his voice riding low in his throat, “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since the other day.”

  “Oh…” I breathe, leaning back against the brick wall outside of the bar as Dean comes closer. There goes my ability to form sentences again.

  “So. Are you into me too?” Dean asks, planting one hand on the wall above my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I smile, “Yeah, I’d have to say that I am.”

  “So I’m into you, you’re into me…” he says, his brown eyes locked onto mine, “Seems like a pretty happy coincidence.”

  “Sure,” I allow, “But the whole coach’s daughter thing sort of puts a damper on things, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t see why,” Dean shrugs. The closeness of him is making my head spin. “You just said you don’t care what your dad thinks. And the last time I checked you and I were both adults. We don’t need anyone’s permission to do what we like.”

  “True…” I agree, “But I’ve made it a rule in the past not to get mixed up with my dad’s football players.”

  “Well…” Dean murmurs, lifting my chin toward his with a finger, “Rules can always be rewritten, can’t they?”

  “I suppose so,” I allow, aching to feel his lips against mine.

  He’s right. I’m still stuck in my high school ways of thinking, worrying about what my dad would think about me hooking up with one of his team members. I’ve been across the ocean on my own, lost my virginity to a gorgeous Spaniard, set off on a life that’s not dictated by my parents’ values. And besides, it’s not like Dean’s proposing marriage, here. He’s just down to have a little fun. No one would ever have to know…

  “I’d really like to kiss you, Jessa,” Dean says, letting his fingertips trail down along my throat, “Is that against the rules?”

  “Maybe,” I breathe, “But rules aren’t just meant to be rewritten. They’re also meant to be broken. Right?”

  “Right.”

  I bring my hands to Dean’s sculpted face as our lips meet. Warm satisfaction rolls down my spine as our mouths move together. I lace my fingers behind his neck as he presses me up against the brick wall, letting his tongue glide against mine. The taste of him intoxicates me, and I know I’ll be hooked from this moment on. A guy like Dean can become an addiction real quick if you’re not careful. But I’ve been careful my whole life. Maybe letting my guard down just a little wouldn’t be the end of the world?

  My back arches as Dean’s strong hands run down along my sides, learning the shape of me. His hands brush against the bare skin between my crop top and jeans, and a warm ache blossoms between my legs. I want to feel those hands everywhere. I catch Dean’s bottom lip in my teeth as he kisses me, and a low moan rises in his throat. I can feel him growing hard against me, growing hard for me. And suddenly it feels inevitable that we’ll get to have each other…

  Just not tonight.

  “I’d better get in there,” I whisper, looking up at Dean in the neon glow of the bar sign. “Or else Blaire’s gonna think you kidnapped me.”

  “Wouldn’t want that,” Dean chuckles, his voice hoarse with want. “When can I see you again, Jessa?”

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other plenty,” I tell him, running my hands through my hair as he takes a step back.

  “I’d like that,” he says firmly, letting his eyes trace down along my body.

  “Well. Until then, Crash,” I grin, already missing the feel of him against me.

  “Until then, Cahill,” he shoots back, turning to go.

  I take a deep breath as I turn toward the bar, trying to compose myself. The last thing I need is to walk in there all starry-eyed over a football player. Blaire would never let me hear the end of it. But the hot, enticing desire that’s been sparked in my core? That I’ll hold inside of me until I see Dean again.

  Something tells me I couldn’t put it out if I tried.

  Chapter Three

  Dean

  “Go get ‘em, Crash!”

  “You’re gonna kill those guys.”

  “RED BIRDS! RED BIRDS!”

  Cheers and slaps on the back rain down on me as I make my way through campus during the first couple weeks of classes. Our first home game is set for this Friday, and I’m ready to tear to it up. The team is looking awesome after our intense pre-season training. I may not be too fond of our new head coach as a person, but fuck if he can’t run a football team.

  It’s Wednesday morning before the big game, and I’m just walking into American Lit. This has by far become my favorite class of the semester, and not because I’m big on Hemingway or whatever. But because a certain gorgeous, brilliant, and totally off-limits girl happens to be taking it, as well. Walking into the small classroom, my eyes land on Jessa Cahill sitting at the corner of the seminar table. Her bright eyes flick up to mine and stick there as a slow, secretive smile spreads across her face.

  Jessa and I have been circling each other for weeks now. Ever since the night of the Greek Row party, when we shared that hot kiss outside the bar, we’ve been stealing time alone together whenever we can. That means sneaking off behind the campus greenhouse during one of her volunteer shifts, driving out to meet each other far away from campus, or stealing off into stairwells between classes… whatever we have to do to get a minute alone. And even though the sneaking around means that I can’t see as much of Jessa as I’d like to, I have to say it makes things pretty hot.

  I sit down at the opposite corner of the seminar table, pretending not to be incredibly turned on just by her presence. It’s crazy—we haven’t even had sex yet, but I already get more cranked up by her than any other girl I’ve ever been with. Don’t get me wrong, there’s been plenty of making out and shit going down at our meet-ups, but we also spend a lot of that time just talking and getting to know each other. I’ve told her all about my crazy competitive relationship with my big brother, our working class upbringing that puts all the more pressure on our pro-football aspirations. She’s told me about her wack-job conservative parents, her perfect big sister, the serious financial reasons why she’s even still hanging around these people at all. We come from pretty different backgrounds, but it’s crazy how much common ground there is between us.

  Glancing at her out of the corner of my eye, I marvel at how she can make a tee shirt and pair of jeans look sexier than three issues of the SI Swimsuit Edition combined. Her hair is pulled into a high, sleek ponytail, her face barely made-up. I’ve been with all kinds of girls in my life, but no one who’s seemed as comfortable in her skin as Jessa. It’s one of the things I like best about her—and that’s a long fucking list, let me tell you.

  When class starts, I can barely even make out the words coming from our professor’s mouth. I’m way too busy imagining what my next encounter with Jessa will hold. The campus is always in chaos after a big game, so sneaking away somewhere Friday night shouldn’t be a problem. But as happy as I am to keep things with Jessa on the DL, part of me wishes that we could hang out together in public. Around other people.

  This came up the other night, while we sat at a 24-hour diner a few towns over sharing cheese fries and a couple of beers. Jessa’s older sister was kind enough to give her an old driver’s license that works as a fake ID, so at least we can go out for a drink together now and then.

  “I don’t really see what the big deal would be,” I said to her, as the waitress set a fresh beer in front of me. “So what if people know we’re hanging out?”

  Jessa shot me a knowing look as she plucked another fry off the plate. “People complicate things,” she said simply.

  “Well that’s one hell of a non-answer,” I laughed.

&nbs
p; “I just mean… You’re a big deal at Rayburn,” she went on, “You sneeze and the gossip mill churns for a week. If people found out you were hanging out with the head coach’s daughter? We’d never hear the end of it.”

  “So, let people talk,” I shrugged.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” she said, shaking her head, “You’re untouchable around here. It’s not you people would talking shit about if they knew we were a thing. It’s me.”

  “How do you figure?” I asked.

  “I’m the girl,” she said, “It’s always the girl who gets talked about. Everybody on this campus either wants you or wants to be you. That means people will either resent me for getting to hang out with you or harass me because they want what you have.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered, “Being a girl sounds exhausting.”

  “You’re telling me,” she laughed, munching on her fries. “And all that’s to say nothing of what my dad would do if he knew his running back was getting friendly with his daughter. I just think it would make things a lot simpler if we kept this to ourselves. I’m having too good a time to risk ruining it with other people’s shitty opinions.”

  “As long as you’re good, I’m good,” I told her honestly.

  And I meant it. All I really want is to keep having a good time with Jessa. But maybe there’s a way for us to spend more time together around other people without anyone knowing what’s really going on between us? A way we could have our cake and eat it, too.

  “That’s all for today,” says our professor, Rachel Warren, a woman in her late thirties with black rimmed glasses and curly brown hair. “Your paper proposals are due at the end of next week, OK?”

  My classmates and I get up to go. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to reach out and wrap my arm around Jessa’s cinched waist as she passes. I’ve been memorizing the shape of her perfect curves for two weeks now, and I’m nowhere near close to getting enough. Her petite but womanly figure is the epitome of sexy, in my book. But honestly, I’m pretty sure that I’d think the same thing no matter what kind of body Jessa had.

  “Mr. Carter,” I hear Ms. Warren say as I head for the door, “Can I speak to you for a moment, please?”

  I turn back to face my teacher. She and I are the last ones in the room. She’s sitting on the edge of her desk, regarding me with a cordial if distant smile. I hike my backup up on my shoulder as I take a step toward her.

  “What’s up, Prof?” I ask, defaulting to the casual relationship I’ve had with most of my professors in my time here at Rayburn.

  “I just wanted to have a quick word with you, before the season really kicks into gear,” Ms. Warren says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “Sure thing,” I reply.

  “I know that Rayburn is a big football school,” she says, as if fighting to keep from rolling her eyes, “And I know that it’s common for football players to get somewhat special treatment from the faculty here.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I tell her, lying through my fucking teeth.

  To be honest, the educations us football players get here at Rayburn are pretty much a joke. We’re put into the easiest classes, let off the hook for late or missing assignments, basically spoon fed. School’s never been an issue for me. I got decent grades in high school and wouldn’t necessarily mind having to put in the work now that I’m in college. But hey, if they’re offering me a free pass here, I’m still gonna take it. The school makes a ton of money off football, and there’s a lot of pressure on our professors not to fuck up our ability to play come game day. It’s a crock, but what do I care? I’m here to get into the NFL, not to become a philosopher.

  “Well,” Ms. Warren says, “I just want you to know that I have complete faith in your abilities as a student in this class. I’m sure that you and I won’t have any problems down the line. But I thought it best to give you fair warning that I’m not going to dole out any special treatment to you just because you can run fast, Mr. Carter.”

  Damn. This lady has some serious balls. Most of the other teachers are way too worried about getting flack from the administration to stand up to anyone on the football team. I’ve got to respect the professor here, even if her hard-ass attitude might make things harder for me down the line.

  “If you ever do feel like you’re struggling in this class,” she goes on, “I encourage you to seek me out during office hours. Or get some help from another student, if you’d prefer. A peer tutor can be very helpful in a class like this.”

  And just like that, a gigantic lightbulb goes off in my head. A peer tutor. In the very same class that Jessa happens to be taking. A way for us to hang out whenever we want, wherever we want, with a perfect alibi at the ready.

  “Yeah, that’s a great idea Prof,” I say to Ms. Warren, trying to keep from grinning like a mad man, “I think I might just look into that.”

  “Good,” the teacher replies, “I’m glad to hear it.”

  I turn and stride out of my American Lit classroom walking on fucking sunshine. As if this week weren’t already going to be epic enough with the first big game of the season, I may have just come up with the perfect plan to get as much Jessa Cahill in my life as possible.

  The next afternoon at practice, we’re just packing it in for the day when I decide to make my move. Putting on my best concerned-but-determined expression, I tuck my helmet under my arm and walk over to where Coach Cahill is talking some things over with Parker Royce. Cahill is all kinds of starry-eyed for Royce, who has become quite the coach’s pet these past few weeks. Me, I don’t play that game. I don’t care if my coaches like me or not, as long as they respect what I bring to the team. Which is quite a lot, I don’t mind saying.

  “Hey Coach,” I say, stepping up to him as Royce heads off for the locker room, “You got a sec?”

  “Sure,” Cahill says, planting his hands on his hips, “What’s on your mind, Crash?”

  “It’s probably nothing, Coach,” I lead in, “There’s just something that’s been weighing on my mind a little. I wanted to talk to you about it before the game.”

  “Well, what is it, son?” he asks, “We can’t have you stressed before the home opener.”

  “It’s just, I’m a little worried about my academics this semester,” I tell him, “I’ve got this one class that might give me some grief.”

  “From what I hear, the Rayburn professors are pretty understanding, when it comes to the guys on the football team,” Cahill says.

  “Not this professor,” I sigh, “I really need to make sure I do well in her class. I wouldn’t put it past her to come between me and my spot on the team.”

  Coach’s eyes widen in alarm at the thought of me not being able to play.

  “What class does this professor teach?” he asks me.

  “American Lit. Wednesday mornings,” I reply, laying out the bait.

  Cahill’s eyes light right up. “Well, I’ll be. What a happy coincidence!”

  “Sir?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

  “My daughter is taking that very same class,” Cahill crows, clapping me on the back. Hook, line, and sinker, I think to myself.

  “I didn’t even know you had a daughter,” I smile, arguably laying it on too thick.

  “Yessir,” Cahill goes on, “My youngest girl Jessa just started here.”

  “Oh. Jessa,” I say, nodding my head, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure we’re in the same class.”

  “Why don’t you let me if she’d be willing to tutor you a bit?” Coach Cahill goes on. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind helping out.”

  “Wow, Coach. That would be great,” I say enthusiastically, “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” he replies, “Gotta make sure my boys are taken care of.”

  And just like that, I’ve scored myself a place in Jessa’s life, courtesy of her crazy, overbearing father. I may not spend much time on my schoolwork, but goddamn if I can’t be a clever sonofabitch when I need to be.


  Jessa

  “You want to do what?” Blaire says, her mane of red hair flying every which way as her face snaps up in surprise.

  “We don’t have to stay for the whole game,” I tell her, sitting cross legged on my bed, “Just for the first half or so. Come on, it’s the home opener!”

  “Why do you want to spend any time at the football game?” Blaire demands. It’s Thursday afternoon before the first game of the season, and we’re hanging out at my place while we knock out some homework for the following week.

  “My dad is the head coach,” I remind her, “I should go and be supportive.”

  “Oh, please. You can’t stand your dad,” she shoots back, “You’re not fooling me for a second, telling me that’s the reason you want to go to that macho slug fest.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, glancing away guiltily.

  “Jessa,” Blaire sighs, “I know that we haven’t known each other for that long, but I consider you a friend by now. And as your friend, I feel obligated to tell you that you are fucking terrible liar.”

  I laugh, surprised by her blunt words. “Am I really that obvious?”

  “And then some,” she says, “I knew from the second Crash showed up at our garden wall that you two were smitten.”

  “Do you think anyone else knows?” I ask anxiously, “I’d really it rather not get out to the rest of the school.”

  “No, no,” Blaire assures me, “You guys are playing it cool. Just not quite cool enough to trick me, is all. So? What’s the situation with you two?”

  “I’m not really sure,” I tell her, relieved to finally have someone I can talk to about this. “We’ve been seeing each other a lot. Just talking, hooking up a little, nothing serious.”

  “Do you want it to be serious?” she asks.

  “I don’t really see how it can be,” I reply, “We can’t ever make this a public thing. My dad would lose his mind.”

  “Why does it matter what your dad thinks?” Blaire asks.