Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  She’s the “better than it all” type - the kind of girl that hides behind snark and witty little comebacks. She’s the type that hates football not because she actually gives a shit, but because everyone else likes it, and liking what “everyone else” likes is just so uncool.

  I roll my eyes as I take another swig of beer. I let my eyes wander over her, still standing there, still doing her damnedest not to let her eyes drop to my jockeys.

  Oh yeah, I’ve got Hailey Garrison figured out to a damn T.

  Except…

  I let my eyes move over her bare legs beneath the skirt, and up over her tight curves, even as hidden as they are with that awful top. I let them trace up over the slender curve of her neck, up to her pink cheeks, the freckles, the full, pouty pink lips, the gingery-red hair pulled back in a tight bun.

  Except there’s something about the way she blushes, or squirms, or adjusts her glasses and looks away when she realizes I’m shamelessly checking her out.

  And it’s something kinda weirdly sexy.

  I frown at the thought.

  What the fuck?

  This girl is nothing like the chicks I usually go after - blonde, big tits, the I’ll-say-yes-to-anything lips. The girls whose panties I don’t even have to try and get into, because they’ve already left them at home knowing they were after me.

  Girls who watch football, and cream themselves every time I throw a pass.

  Girls who are nothing like the red-haired, bookish, nerdy chick named Hailey Garrison standing in front of me.

  So why are you still staring at her?

  “Look, your mom asked me to come get you. Will you please just put some damn pants on and come to dinner?”

  “You want to help?”

  She rolls her eyes as I smirk at her. And for some reason, that damn sassy, utterly bored look of hers starts to get me hard as a rock in my jockeys.

  It’s a damn weird thought, because - well, yeah, her dad and my mom. Add onto that the fact that she’s basically the opposite of any girl a guy like me has any interest in, and it gets even more confusing. Plus she clearly wants nothing to do with me, or football.

  I frown - maybe that’s it?

  Maybe it’s the fact that she’s not gushing over me, or begging me to take a damn selfie with her, or throwing herself at me.

  Maybe it’s because she’s clearly just not interested.

  Maybe it’s because that feels like a challenge, and I love a good challenge.

  I love a surprise victory.

  A real come from behind win.

  My eyes dip over the curve of her hips and that tight little ass.

  I’d love to win HER from behind.

  “I think you can probably manage yourself.”

  “Yeah but where’s the fun in that?”

  She squirms under my gaze before I slowly stand from the couch, stretching and flexing my arms behind my head. She quickly looks away with that scandalized look on her face.

  “I’m leaving, see you in the house.”

  I watch her stomp out and down the stairs with a little huff, and the grin spreads wide across my face as my eyes dip over her ass.

  Oh yeah, I’m going to enjoy getting under her skin.

  I’m going to enjoy making her squirm.

  Hailey Garrison thinks she’s immune to my charms.

  She’s very, very wrong.

  4

  Hailey

  Well, it’s bigger than the room I’d have gotten at Columbia.

  It’s a debatable silver lining, and I frown as I stand in the doorway of my new dorm room. My new single room, at least, which is the second iffy silver lining there.

  There have to be some perks to my dad being the new star coach and my soon-to-be-stepmom being the freaking Dean.

  Just one semester, I tell myself for the one millionth time. One semester, and then I’ll nail my admittance interview, and then I’ll be off to New York.

  I drop my single suitcase and my box full of books onto the bed and look around the room. Most of my other things - like my computer and some furniture - are still being moved from our old house to Heather’s, but I’ve got my essentials for the first week or two of class.

  Out in the hall, the din of students and parents moving threadbare couches and IKEA dressers filters in, making me feel like some sort of refugee, alone with my two measly pieces of luggage.

  In my single room, without a roommate, at a school I didn’t even know I was coming to until a month ago.

  A month ago, before I found out about the marriage.

  A month ago, before Dalton Cole was anything more than a name I vaguely associated with the game of football.

  Before he was anything more than a devastatingly handsome, if not cocky-looking, face on a damn billboard, or in magazines.

  I roll my eyes at the blush that creeps into my cheeks at the thought of that first meeting - that first very shirtless, very revealing meeting.

  I mean, I get it, sort of. I’m only human, and I do get why girls - or at least certain types of girls - get all mushy about him. Girls who are into that alpha-macho thing, and the showiness, and the ego, and the eye-rolling bullshit that comes with it.

  I am not one of those girls.

  I know exactly the type of guy Dalton is, because I’ve seen a hundred versions of him over the years from my dad coaching. The cocky arrogance, the chest-thumping Neanderthal attitude, and the unbelievable entitlement of being God’s gift to women that comes along with it.

  Yeah, not my thing, sorry.

  I’m into guys who think, not plow into each other over a stupid ball. I’m interested in culture, and art, and intelligence, not seeing who can drink, or throw up the most, or get the most venereal diseases possible.

  I read books, not scoreboards. I dress sensibly, not suggestively. And even with my dad being who he is, I have zero interest in sports - or the man-children who play them.

  How about chiseled jawlines, and muscles carved out of marble, or dangerously alluring farm-boy smiles?

  I frown at the thought, quickly shaking my head and scowling as I start to unzip the suitcase and begin to unpack.

  “Hey, neighbor.”

  The girl at my door has short brown hair and a punk-rock tank-top.

  “I’m next door,” she sticks her hand out. “Roxie.”

  “Hey, Hailey.”

  She smiles as she looks around my bare room. “Damn, a single, huh?” She shakes her head. “I’m a sophomore and I had to beg for one of these.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, I guess it freed up, I was a late admit-”

  “You’re Coach Garrison’s daughter, right?”

  Yeah, I better get used to that.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

  Her voice instantly goes up a notch as her face goes wide with a smile. “Oh my God, you must be so excited for the season! Go Hawks!” She says, pumping her fist in the air.

  I clear my throat uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah, super excited,” I mumble, my voice basically the literal opposite of ‘super excited’.

  Roxie raises her brow. “Wait, are you not a football person?”

  I make a face. “Not really.”

  “Oh thank fucking God,” her voice drops to the more normal tone from before. “Same, and I’m not sure how much longer I could’ve kept that up.”

  I laugh, grinning at her.

  “So is it true though? About your dad and Dean Cole?”

  “Oh, yeah that one’s true.”

  Roxie nods, arching a brow. “Wow, so Dalton Cole, huh? What’s he actually like?”

  I raise a brow as I sit on the edge of my new bed. “I thought you weren’t into football?”

  “Oh, I’m not, or men actually, I’m just really fascinated by stardom.” She laughs, “You know there’s already a fucking list somewhere of girls who want to get in line to bang him? How fucking gross is that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, he’s pretty gross.”

  “I mean, he’s ho
t, I guess. Objectively speaking, and if you’re into guys. I know he did that famous ‘bulge’ underwear ad and everyth-”

  “Yeah, no, I know,” I say quickly, making a face. “Anyways, no, I am very much not into douchebags like Dalton Cole.”

  Roxie grins. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Avoid him?”

  She laughs. “Well, good luck with that. He’s the new king of campus, in case you haven’t heard. And classes haven’t even started yet.”

  “Oh believe me, I’ll do my best.”

  “Well, might want to put earplugs in then.”

  I frown, “Why?”

  “Because of the parade before the welcoming commencement stuff?”

  “Oh shit!” I jump off the bed as my eyes dart to the clock.

  Shit. The parade. The one I promised to go to, even if it is a dumb football thing. But I know it means a lot to my dad for me to be there for his first public appearance as head coach, not to mention for Heather’s commencement address to the school afterwards.

  The parade that starts in five minutes.

  I’m about to bolt from the room when I freeze and turn to Roxie, wincing even before I ask it.

  “Uh, you don’t have any…” I roll my eyes and make a face. “Do you have any football stuff?”

  She raises a brow.

  “I mean something I could wear with the- the…what the hell is the team animal?”

  Roxie laughs. “Holy shit, you really don’t do football. I think I’m going to like being your neighbor.” She grins, “The ‘team animal’ of the Hawks is…drumroll please.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically. “Yeah, never mind. I just wanted to do something to show a little effort for my dad.”

  Roxie grins. “I, uh- I do actually.”

  I shoot her a dubious look. “Seriously?”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah, there’s this chick on the cheer squad I, uh, know.”

  I frown, glancing at the time again. “Okay, does she live on this floor or som-”

  “No, dude, I mean that I know - like, she’s left clothes in my room.”

  Oh.

  Roxie laughs as I go red. “You and me, Garrison, I think we’re gonna get along great. C’mon next door, she’s about your size.”

  5

  Dalton

  Well hell, I could get used to this.

  I’ve got a beer in my hand, two sorority girls on my lap, and a third at my feet, all draped across me as the crowds cheer.

  Oh, and I’m sitting on a throne - a literal throne - with an honest-to-God crown on my head.

  I’m the fucking king of the damn University, and I’ve gotta say, it feels fucking fantastic.

  The commencement parade the last weekend before the semester starts is an annual tradition, apparently. And like every year, they’ve got the marching band out, the crowds going nuts, and the whole damn team out hyping people up for the season.

  …I’m not sure the big float with the throne and the new Freshman quarterback and this harem of sorority girls is an every year thing though.

  I mean, people love it, but I can also look around and see the jealousy in the eyes of some of the other players walking alongside my streamer-festooned float. I see the scornful looks of resentment at the underclassman that’s stealing all their thunder - not to mention their girls.

  Fuck ‘em.

  I know they’ve all watched the tapes of my games all over ESPN, but wait until they get me on the field. Wait until I win them games, get them laid, and get them glory and limelight.

  Yeah, welcome to my world, fellas.

  Wait until I win them championship rings, then we’ll see who’s jealous and resentful.

  One of the girls in my lap lets out a whooping scream to the crowd that has me wincing before she snatches the beer out of my hand with a grin and takes a sip.

  “Boy, they let you football guys get away with anything, don’t they?” she says with a wink, taking another sip of my beer. The girl on my other knee laughs and takes the cup from the first girl, slugging it back as the marching band blares around us.

  A lot of big schools courted me, obviously. I mean the records I smashed back in school had so many college recruiters coming to my games that they filled half the damn seats. But after the ESPN interview? Forget it. After that, I was the hottest acquisition in the damn country. After that, every school wanted me. And after the interview came the marketing guys and the national underwear ad. Yeah, after that every chick in America wanted a taste of yours truly.

  And I hate to disappoint my fans.

  Of course, the posturing about that damn ad sure didn’t hurt - all the internet and media speculation about “stuffing” the front of the jockeys for the shoot.

  Yeah, nope.

  That shoot and the “stuffing” was all me, baby. And all it took was a couple of gossipy models who’d had some first-hand experience with it blabbing to the magazines, before my cock was maybe more famous than me.

  So, yeah, you think football guys get away with a lot of shit? Darlin, I want to say to the girl on my lap holding my beer. I’m Dalton “Ten” Cole, my mom is the damn Dean and my stepdad’s the head football coach.

  I’m going to get away with fucking murder here.

  “Hey! Dalton!” There’s a crowd of reporters and camera guys from ESPN and a handful of other stations surging up towards my float, shoving microphones and cameras in my face.

  “Dalton, my man!” A guy I’ve never met beams at me with a big-ass camera in his hands. “How about a picture with you and your girlfriend?”

  I grin at him - that half-cocked, arrogant smile that’s landed me on half a dozen magazine covers in the last few months.

  “Girlfriend?” I shrug exaggeratedly for the cameras. “You know, they’re all so great, I’m not sure I could pick just one!”

  The three sorority girls erupt into giggles in my lap and at my feet, the crowd around us whoops and hollers while the cameras flash. The girls shriek as I stand, lifting two of them up in my arms while the third kneels at my feet, her hands right at the waistband of my shorts and her lips pressed to my happy trail for the pictures that’ll be all over every sports publication in the country by tomorrow.

  I’m sure her parents will be real proud.

  The float moves on, and I drop back to my seat, taking a big slug of my beer as the girls laugh and pose for more pictures draped across my lap.

  Yeah, a guy could get very used to this.

  I’m grinning as I sit back and drink my beer, reveling in my moment when the float comes to a stop. There’s a grandstand set up in front of the athletics center where my mom’s going to be giving her welcome speech, and I groan and begrudgingly get up from my pile of girls.

  Time to be the face of the team.

  I’m still laughing with the girls, pushing hands away from me and promising to call them when I turn and immediately lock eyes with Hailey.

  I’ve got a beer in my hand, a goofy fucking smirk on my face, and three half-naked, half-drunk coeds literally hanging off of me.

  Shit - not exactly the impression I was looking to make.

  But then I frown at the thought. What the fuck do I care? What the hell do I care about what little Miss stuck-up, too-cool-for-football thinks of me and my antics? I can see that bored look, like I’m such the cliché in her eyes.

  Whatever.

  My mom is hand-in-hand with Coach Garrison as she waves at the crowd and steps forward for her address. And I’m happy for her. Jim Garrison is a great guy, and I’m pumped to be playing for him.

  But his daughter? Shit, I don’t need book-nerd Hailey Garrison’s approval. Hell, I don’t even need her to like me.

  I’m Dalton fucking Cole. I’m the damn king of this campus, and I don’t need a damn thing from her.

  Except, there’s that little look of hers again. That look that says quite clearly that she thinks she’s “above” all this. As if being anti-sports an
d wearing “anti-cool” black-rimmed glasses and that fucking hipster beanie, and not a single stitch of Hawks blue-and-white despite this being a Hawks football event makes her “better” than all this - more “evolved”.

  It doesn’t.

  And I decide right there - with the sorority girls clinging to my arms, the beer in my hand, and the crown on my head - that I’m going to make it my damn job to make sure she gets that.

  I grin right at her, ignoring the eye-roll she shoots my way as I raise my cup to her.

  Cheers, darlin.

  * * *

  “Thought you weren’t into football.”

  Hailey jumps a little as I lean down and whisper the words in her ear. My mom is going on about something to do with the “promise of a strong future” and “eager young minds”, but I’m not really paying attention. I mean, I’m half-buzzed and I’m still half-cocked from the pile of sorority girls that up until recently were squirming all over my dick.

  But they’re not here, and I’m fresh out of beer, which means uptight Hailey Garrison is now the object of my attention.

  She turns and shoots me a glare, like it’s the worst thing in the world for me to have just interrupted this meaningless speech.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, c’mon,” I whisper again. “No one’s actually listening to this.”

  “I’m listening, actually,” she hisses at me before turning back around. “Besides,” she tosses back over her shoulder. “I’m here supporting my dad.”

  I grin. “And your star quarterback?”

  “Uh, no, not so much,” she says with another thin, withering smile before she rolls her eyes and turns away again.

  I scowl at the back of her head, her hair tucked up under her beanie and those dark-rimmed glasses perched on her ears. She’s wearing this baggy hoodie which makes me frown because holier-than-thou “boo-sports” attitude aside, little Miss prude at least had a pretty bangin body on her the other night at dinner.

  She perplexes me, because it’s perfectly clear that she’s not playing any sort of game with me. I mean, I’ve had plenty of girls play “hard to get” - models, cheerleaders, that one actress from that T.V. show - but they’ve all done it in that utterly bullshit way. It’s that teasing, “make him work for it” Cosmo magazine shit, and I can see right through it anyways.