Sacked (Gridiron #1)

by Jen Frederick

  “I guess…” I exhale again. “I know I want her, but that doesn’t mean I know how to get her.”

  Hammer snorts. “You’re saying you don’t have moves?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I have moves.” Then I give a sheepish look. “But for the sake of argument, let’s say I need to win over a chick, how do I go about it? How’d you get your last girlfriend, Hammer?”

  He shrugs. “She was some jock chaser who hung around all the time, and it got easier to say she was my girlfriend than argue about it.”

  “Lovely.” No wonder he cheated on her. I quickly turn to the rest of the group, hoping at least one of them isn’t a total moron in the boyfriend department. “Who here has a serious girlfriend? None of you?”

  “Jesse does.” Hammer points his phone at Jesse, who ducks his head sheepishly.

  “I don’t know. I’ve dated the same girl, Caitlyn, since ninth grade. We had the same advisory class, and sort of started dating. I didn’t have to win her over or anything.”

  Awesome. We’re a bunch of clueless men. We might know how to execute a blitz, stop the run, read a route, but with women, unless they are offering themselves on a silver platter, apparently our collective knowledge couldn’t fill a shoe. “We need some expert advice.”

  “My sister reads Cosmo a lot,” Hammer offers.

  “Isn't that the site that said girls should give donut blowjobs?” Jesse asks.

  “A donut blowjob?” Matty pipes up.

  “Yeah, like it goes over your dick, she sucks your dick, and eats the donut.”

  “But teeth?” Matty looks intrigued but scared.

  “But blowjobs,” Jesse replies. “And donuts,” he adds as an afterthought.

  “Sounds like the best goddamn site on the Internet. Fire it up,” Hammer orders.

  16

  Ellie

  Week 1: Warriors 0-0

  I wake up thirty minutes late with grit in my eyes. At least I don’t need to look good this morning. I have Jack’s two classes today, and I need to appear as inconspicuous as possible. I pull on a light gray hoodie, jam a hat over my head, and pull on a pair of ragged jean shorts. After brushing my teeth, I’m out the door.

  Riley is still sleeping when I run to class. She told me she was a night owl and tried to schedule her classes after lunch. Mine are scattershot, particularly after my schedule had to expand to include Jack’s classes. The sociology class takes place at eight in the morning, which is where I’m headed right now.

  It’s still hot, but I have my hood up, because the last thing I need is for Jack to spot me in the room and subject me to a number of uncomfortable questions. I thought about telling him that I’m taking the classes, but he’d get suspicious. As he should be. I’m working on a good excuse such as “looked interesting” or “are you in this class, too?”

  None of my reasons sound very good so I hope to avoid him. Unlike junior college, where most classes had under fifty students, nothing at Western is particularly small. Riley told me that unless it was an obscure major, most of the classes had at least a hundred people in them, sometimes more, which means I should easily hide in a back corner.

  I’m right on time and breathe a sigh of relief when I spot Jack halfway down the auditorium style seating chatting with a pretty blonde.

  The professor walks in, introduces her teacher’s assistant, and begins lecturing on whether movies reflect societal norms or challenge them. From the online course syllabus, I’ll be able to write the year end paper in my sleep. Frankly, I think Jack will be able to do it as well since one of the movies we’ll be discussing is The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Jack has seen it about twenty times.

  I reach inside my backpack to pull out a notebook so it looks like I’m paying attention and my hand brushes against Masters’ book. I pull it out. The reason I’m so late this morning is because I stayed up all night reading. It was every bit as good as I’d anticipated and I couldn’t put it down. I told myself one more page and then the clock flashed three in the morning.

  I finished, but the whole time I read, it occurred to me that Masters had made a big gesture. Had it been me first in the bookstore and Masters had shown up panting for it, I'd have told him to wait. I might have even demanded to see a book from his personal collection to see if he was even worthy of lending a book to. You never knew with people. Like Jack? I could never share books with him. He dog-ears pages, sticks shit inside his books. I once found a sock in one. It was clean, and he claimed it was the only thing available to use as a bookmark, but come on.

  Masters blithely handed the book over. Granted, I had to give him my phone number, but he hadn’t used it. I waited all afternoon and into the evening, and the stupid phone stayed silent.

  I run a finger over the raised lettering on the cover. I haven’t given him many reasons to text or call me despite the fact he’s been nothing but good to me from the start. Yes, he didn’t come forward and tell me his name the first time we’d met, but looking back I see where he came from. Guys like him have to get inundated with people wanting things and it would get worse for him. So he’s gun-shy, which is perfectly reasonable.

  I haven’t been reasonable or completely honest. If I’m honest, I’ll admit that Knox Masters is exactly the type of guy I want to date. He dominates a sport I love. He’s confident but not arrogant. He’s funny, able to laugh at himself, and…shit, hot as the fires of Mordor. I mean, the One Ring could be forged in his hotness.

  I want him.

  Watching him in the bathroom with his hand wrapped around his dick—that was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. And when he said it was his best sexual experience, I nearly came on the spot.

  Knowing that he hasn’t had anyone else is nearly impossible to ignore. I could be the first one to have his tongue between my legs. I could be the first to watch his eyes roll back in his head as I swallow him as deeply as possible. I could be the first one to take him inside my body. Being the first is more potent a drug than I’d realized.

  My phone vibrates. I know who it is before I pick it up.

  How’s my book?

  My thumb hovers over the screen wanting to enter When can I see you. Jack’s given me the go ahead. And he’s right. I could use another person on my team. It’s not like I have dozens of friends here at Western. There’s Riley, of course, but I can’t plan every social activity around her. In the end, though, I chicken out and type out a different response.

  Me: She’s good. I have her in my backpack.

  Knox: You already done?!

  Me: Couldn’t stop. Plus, I wanted to get it back to you before you left for the Missouri game.

  Knox: Did you like it?

  Me: Yes. I stayed up all night and will be a mess today but it’s totally worth it.

  Knox: You in class?

  Me: Haven’t you got a copy of my schedule yet? I’m so disappointed.

  Knox: I figure you’ll give it to me eventually. Besides I do know your softball schedule. Did you pick your team based on the name?

  Me: The Horny Toads? That’s a real animal. And no. I was randomly assigned because I didn’t have a team last year.

  Knox: Google tells me there is no such animal named the horny toad. A horned toad, yes. Horny no.

  Me: Are you a biologist? I could have sworn your SI profile said International Relations major.

  Knox: I like that you have my bio memorized.

  If I meant to deter him I’m not doing a good job of it. At this point, I don’t know what I should do. I know what I want. That’s to jump into Knox’s brawny arms and let him carry me away. I’m not convinced that’s what I should do.

  Me: Maybe I’m hot for your brother.

  Knox: Nah. You already told me he’s weak with weird eyes. I shared that with him and he’s upset so you’ve got no chance. You’re stuck with me.

  Me: So you’re saying if I insult you, you’ll go away.

  Knox: Nope. Now I know it’s your strange way of flirting with me. I think t
hat’s called negging.

  Me: You think I’m negging you?!

  Knox: Negging—insulting someone to gain their attention. If the shoe fits…

  Me: The shoe does not fit! I am not negging you.

  Knox: Don’t worry, baby. I know I’m irresistible but you don’t want to appear overeager. I’ll see you at your softball game on Wednesday.

  Me: What? No!

  But he doesn’t respond.

  The rest of the morning passes in a blur until I hit my last class of the day—the second of Jack’s classes I’m auditing. Politics and Games turns out nothing like I expect. It’s not really about games, but game theory, which I don’t understand. From the moment that the professor opens her mouth to the minute that the TA hands out the assignments at the end of class, I’m worried. Jack sits rigidly in his chair, his pen poised, but no notes hit paper. Three girls managed to position themselves around him, but their chairs could be empty for all the attention he gives them.

  Five minutes before class is over, I start to pack up. I need to get out of there before Jack turns around. If the theoretical class is difficult for me to get, it’s a hundred times harder for Jack. He should drop it, but I don’t even know how I’d bring that up. Oh by the way, Jack, I passed by your political science class and it seems like a mind fuck. Maybe you should drop.

  After the way he responded to my mere suggestion of visiting the learning center, I’m sure that this proposal would be met with the same disinterest.

  •••

  “Left field okay with you, Eliot?” Ryan Schneider asks. Ryan’s the team captain. About an inch under six feet, he’s trim, attractive almost to the point of prettiness, and a damn good pitcher.

  “No, problem.” I slap my hand into my new glove. It feels stiff and weird. I’ve never played softball before, but Ryan assured me that The Horny Toads only care about having fun, unlike some of the other teams.

  Megan Billings, a biology major who’s tamed her wild hair into two bushy ponytails, points to the bleachers behind home plate. “Wow, look who showed up to watch the game today!”

  I don’t even have to look. I feel Masters’ eyes boring into my back. Ryan’s head pops up and his eyes widen. “Is that Knox Masters?”

  “Yeah, and I think the other guys must be on the team too. Look at the guns on those guys.”

  “You’re drooling, Megs.” Ryan points a finger at her face.

  Her dark eyes sparkle. “I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t drooling a little. Right, Eliot?”

  “Call me Ellie,” I respond automatically. As to whether she should be drooling over Masters? I have no comment on that.

  “Good thing we’re fielding first,” Megan gloats as she grabs my wrist and leads me to the outfield. She’s playing center. “That way we can ogle the manflesh.”

  I figure I better confess to her that I know the team, or at least part of them. “The guy with the brown hair sitting on the left side is my brother Jack. He’s a tight end for the Warriors.”

  “Ohhh.” She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Is it okay that I’m objectifying your brother?”

  “Sure, have at it.” I laugh.

  “So they’re here to support a teammate’s sister. Cool. I wonder if we should try to win now.”

  “Let’s not ruin a good thing because some football players have nothing better to do with their Wednesday night,” I reason, and then move away to left field.

  As the night wears on, we wind up winning despite Ryan’s assertion that the Horny Toads aren’t interested in keeping score.

  “Nice fielding tonight, Campbell,” Ryan gives me a high five and then slaps his glove against my butt in what I guess is a victory slap. He gives it to the rest of the eight players. “Any one up for The Gas Station?”

  Half the team raises their hands. The other half shakes their head.

  “How about you, Eliot?” Ryan asks.

  “Think I could get that book back from you, Ellie?” Masters’ voice interrupts before I can answer Ryan’s invitation. “I’d like to read it on the plane ride to Missouri this weekend.”

  Only an asshole would say no, I tell myself. Otherwise, I would turn Masters down in a heartbeat. “Sure.”

  Masters turns to Ryan. “Nice team you have there.”

  “I didn’t realize we added a gunner to the team,” he jokes and points to me. “She said she hasn’t ever played before.”

  Masters gives me an appraising look. “She’s got good hand/eye coordination. I think it runs in her family.”

  A faint smile dances around the edges of his mouth. I shake my head.

  “Let’s go, Masters.” I grab him and half pull/half push him away from the dugout.

  “Nice to meet you, Knox,” Ryan calls out. “Good luck this weekend!”

  “Thanks, man,” Masters calls. He places a hand on the low of my back. “See how your friend called me Knox.”

  “Because it’s your name,” I answer.

  “Yet you call me Masters.”

  “Also your name.” I quicken the pace to put some daylight between his tempting hand and my weak back.

  “Hmmm,” he murmurs. He lets his hand drop between us and I allow myself two seconds to throw myself a pity party that he’s not touching me anymore before I march forward to the apartment.

  Somewhere along the way, though, I find my gait synchs with his. Our arms move in unison and there’s a heavy tension that builds with each step. I can hear his even breaths, smell his spicy skin.

  My skin prickles and I almost feel him touching me even though there’s at least a hand span between us. His field of magnetism is that large. I can’t stand this close to him without wanting to feel him against me.

  I’m a basketful of nerves by the time we get to the apartment complex.

  “It’s the third floor,” I inform him when we stop at the front door. “Do you want to wait here?”

  He looks at me incredulously. “I think I can walk three floors, Ellie.”

  I try to shrug nonchalantly as if it doesn’t matter at all to me if he’s inside my apartment, when in reality I’m wondering how long it takes before I attack him.

  We climb the steps side by side, and this time, our arms brush. Even that slight sensation sends a tingle throughout my body. I’m practically dizzy with sensation. At the top of the third floor, he grabs me and pushes me into an alcove.

  He bends forward and kisses me, sweetly and softly. Apparently my grungy attire or slightly sweaty skin don’t matter to him. He keeps his hands on either side of the doorframe of the alcove, holding himself slightly away. I don’t like that space between us so I twine my arms around his neck and tug him closer. He makes a noise—not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, but more of a sigh of happiness. It fills pockets in my heart I didn’t know were empty. As he draws back, I follow him because I’m not done with that kiss.

  “What was that for?” I ask hoarsely. His fingers are the tiniest bit shaky as they smooth a few strands of hair away from my forehead.

  “I hadn’t kissed you since the bookstore. That’s a long time.”

  My lips part at the sincerity of his words. They aren’t a line—at least not to him.

  He captures those parted lips between his again. This time his tongue delves deep into my mouth, finding places that have me moaning in longing. He lifts me with ease, using his football player strength, and pushes me against the wall. I wend my fingers into his short straw colored hair and wrap my legs around his waist.

  All sense of preservation lies somewhere between the softball field and the apartment. He’s wrecking me, in long licks and tiny bites, one tender and scorching hot kiss at a time.

  I want to suspend time and remain in this moment forever with his big frame blotting out the light and his mouth memorizing every curve and plane of my face. I feel weightless, protected and cherished.

  Under my fingers, his shoulder muscles bunch as he reaches down to stroke a firm palm along the outside of my thigh. His kisse
s are making me wet and hungry. He makes low sounds of appreciation and I rock against him in growing desperation.

  After what seems like both an eternity and not long enough, he allows my legs to slide to the ground. His head drops on my shoulder and I can feel his entire body heave as he tries to gain his breath and his control.

  After three shuddering breaths, he pushes away from me.

  “I need to wear longer T-shirts when you’re around.” He tugs out his shirt and tries to pull it down over the erection tenting his shorts. We exit the alcove and walk past four doors to stop at my apartment.

  “Do you want to come in?”

  He gives me a rueful smile. “I better not. I need to get home, get some beauty sleep, and prepare for the game.”

  I try not to let my disappointment show. “You worried about the game this weekend?”

  He shakes his head. “Not worried. Eager. I’ve waited since last December to get back on the field. I want to make grown-ass men cry. I want to imprint the paint from the yard markers and grind it into their skin. I want them to go home and have nightmares about meeting me on the turf.” He looks down at me. “But I’m not taking it for granted. They’re a weaker team but it’s their home field. Anything could happen.”

  Right. The odds in Vegas are probably fifty to one that the Warriors lose.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  He pauses for a moment. “Yeah. Anything could happen. Ace could go down. He could throw a half dozen interceptions. We could fumble on every kickoff and punt return. We could forget how to tackle. Do I think those things will happen? No, but I can’t go into the game thinking it’s won before the last whistle blows.”

  “When’s your charter bus leave for the airport?”

  “Around eleven.” He leans an arm against the door and it takes real effort not to swoon at the sight of the bulging muscle in my periphery vision. “How’s Jack doing?”