Tempted: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance

by Willow Winters

  It’ll be just like playing football, I think to myself. I'll show him I can have a mean defense when he tries something with me. What's that they say sometimes—stuff the ball carrier?

  “You did, and if you don't believe it yet, well you'd better, and you’d better start thinking about what you're going to wear tomorrow night. I won't have you dressing in those ugly mom jeans you like to put on,” Dani says with a grin and a soft squeeze of my arm. She seems genuinely happy for me, which surprises me, because Troy is one of the most desirable guys at Silver Lake. I thought for sure she'd be pissed off that he hadn't asked her out. "You're gonna look hot enough to melt those steely muscles of his and make him silly putty in your hands."

  She seems to be the only one happy for me, though. All the other girls seem pissed, and several of them have walked off to the side and are standing in a group, talking to each other and casting glances my way.

  Dani waves away my concern, noticing me looking at them. “Don't worry about those jealous bitches. They get mad over the littlest thing, like whose butt looks bigger on a given day or who gave the best head to the latest jock. So don't let a few glares bother you—let the haters hate.”

  “That's easy for you to say. You're friends with most of them. In case you haven't noticed, I've been the perpetual third wheel in your group of friends since . . . well, forever. It's easy for you.”

  “You're right. It is.” Dani gives me a devilish grin and I know she's planning something. “But you still shouldn't worry about any of them. Besides, they're about to be madder anyway.”

  I stare at her suspiciously. “Why's that?”

  “Because I'm looking at Silver Lake's newest cheerleader. Congrats.”

  “You're kidding me!”

  Dani shakes her head. “You earned it. Besides that little tumble, you did great. Shit, I even got a little jealous. I was never that good when I first started.”

  I pull Dani into a tight embrace.

  “Jesus, Whit, break my ribs, why don't you! You get superpowers along with those new tits?”

  I quickly let her go. “Sorry.”

  I can't believe my luck. A hot guy has just asked me out, and I've earned a spot on the cheerleading squad. Not bad for the first day of my senior year. And I have a feeling there will be more good things to come.

  They always say the last year is the best year, I think with giddy excitement. I know it isn't always true . . . but damn if I ain't getting off to a great start!

  “Don't be,” Dani says, nodding at the petulant cheerleaders who are still gossiping about me. She claps her hands and raises her voice, back in cheer captain mode. “All right, let's try that pyramid one more time before calling it a day . . . but try not to fall this time.”

  Chapter 4

  Troy

  Those hips. That ass. That smile. Most of all, the way she felt in my arms.

  I shake my head, getting my shit together. I may have a date with an uber-hot girl at seven thirty, but at four thirty, I have the scout team defense all staring at me, ready to prove to Coach Jackson that they deserve playing time with the varsity instead of dressing Thursday night with the JV squad.

  "All right, boys," I say, looking around the huddle. "Split left, motion 37 option flip boogie on two. Ready? BREAK!"

  I go up to the line, making sure my mouthpiece is in. I may be Superman on the football field, but even Superman's gotta have some receivers, and ours are . . . well, they suck. There's a reason that Coach Jackson decided to go with a single-wing option offense since I took over as starting QB back in my sophomore year. Silver Lake may produce track teams that go to region and state on a yearly basis, but that doesn't mean they can catch a football. In fact, the only time they can catch anything is on play-action passes like this, where I can use the running backs to sucker in the defensive backs and either take it myself or flip it to Charlie Watkins, who is playing that left side split end.

  "Ready! Down . . . Red fifty-eight, red fifty-eight . . .” I lift my right leg, expecting the wing back who lined up on the right side to come behind me on his motion, "HUT! Hut-hut!"

  Pete Barkovich, my center, snaps me the ball, and I pivot to my right, too late realizing that not only had I not given the wing back enough time to get across the line, but I'd turned the wrong direction to boot. I run straight into the him, stumbling and getting smacked by some freshman try-hard nose tackle who gets lucky, driving me into the ground. Shit.

  Coach Jackson's whistle pierces the afternoon, and the freshman realizes he just signed his own death warrant. Even if we run a single-wing, and even if I’m the fucking starting strong side inside linebacker, you don't tackle the QB in practice. The freshman's face goes pasty, pimply white, and he gets off me, looking like he's waiting for someone to lop off his head.

  Instead, it’s me who earns the wrath of Coach Jackson. "What in the name of Franklin Delano Roosevelt were you doing, Troy?"

  Coach always starts yelling out famous dead men’s names when he's ticked off. Part of it is because the school district passed a zero tolerance policy on teachers using supposedly abusive or demeaning language toward students two years ago, putting old school coaches like him who grew up on Mike Ditka and Bill Parcells in a bind. The other part of it is that Coach is a history teacher during school hours, and the man knows more about old dead guys than I think is really healthy for him.

  Coming closer, Coach waits for me to get off the ground and leans in, where just he and I can hear each other. "Seriously, Troy, what the hell are you doing?"

  I shake my head, owning it. If Coach has taught me anything, it's to man up and take responsibility for my actions on the field. "You know what happened, Coach. I fucked up the play. I didn't mean to. I'll get it right."

  He gets in my face, his face turning a little red. "Dammit, boy, you tell me you want to run these plays but then you do piss-poor execution. In case you didn't realize, that little love tap from what's his name over there is nothing compared to what's gonna hit you Friday night if you don't unscrew your head from your ass."

  Damn, Coach is pretty pissed. Even with me—and he'd taken me under his wing for the past three years—he rarely cursed, even though he knew I'd never complain to the school about it. I feel like I've been slapped across the face, and I take a deep breath. "Sorry, Coach. I'll get it right."

  "Son," Coach says, sighing before putting his hand on my shoulder pads and leading me away. "Troy, you're one hell of a football player, maybe the best I've seen in fifteen years of being the head coach at this school. But you're not God. And despite the act you put on for the other boys, you're not Jesus Christ either. You need to put your head in the game and focus, or else those scouts from State that I hear might be coming by are going to cross you off their prospect list by the end of the first quarter. Tell me what's going on."

  I pull my helmet off, looking over his shoulder at the guys. Coach reads my eyes and turns around. "Coach Reed, take over. Roberts, run the first team offense for a few plays. You might as well get some reps in."

  We walk to the edge of the practice field behind the school, and I take a knee, picking up the hose that serves as our water fountain and take a gulp. "I don't know, Coach. Really. I was fine Sunday drawing them up at home, and walking through them in my mind, I was good, but now . . . all I can think about is this girl . . .”

  "A girl?" Coach Jackson says, surprised. "Troy, are you telling me that the past forty-five minutes of near-constant screw-ups I'm seeing today is because your mind is on a girl? What the hell?"

  "I know, I know," I reply, standing up. "You should’ve seen me in Spanish class. Mrs. Days tore into me. Like I said, I'm sorry."

  He shakes his head. "Sorry is right. Your QB play right now is sorry and tired. Maybe you should take a rest. Sit out the rest of the offensive first team work, and get your damn head right. If you think Blueridge has got a decent defense, their right guard on offense has got a hard on for you. You stole his girlfriend from him last year at
the track finals. Or so I've heard."

  I shake my head, pissed off at myself. I never get benched, and here I am, being talked to like I'm some sort of scrub. "Fine. I'll get my head right."

  Coach Jackson studies me, then nods. "Alright then. Stay here until I call for first team D."

  He turns back to the field and walks away, already hollering for Roberts, the backup QB who expects to get nothing but mop-up duty playing time. I stand and watch, trying with my entire will to get Whitney off my mind. At least I don’t have any classes with her. I don't think I could have focused at all if I did. It was bad enough fucking off in Spanish and getting yelled at after just seeing her in the hallway.

  "Obviously I have a bunch of . . . boys, water break!" Coach yells, jerking me out of my memory. "You keep going like this, and I'm playing the scout team Friday, because at least they'll play Blueridge HARD!"

  The guys grumble as they come over, giving me dirty looks, and I give them right back. I hadn't been the only one to fuck up. I'd just been the most noticeable. "Get your head off your dick," Russ whispers after he grabs some water. "I can't deal with this shit much longer."

  "First team D! Scout team O! Let's get fired up, gentlemen! Get those war bonnets on!"

  Coach Jordan, the linebacker coach and our school's defensive coordinator, looks around the huddle as we gather together. "All right, Troy, lead your men. I want thirty-four reads."

  He steps away and I look at the defense, seeing doubt in some of their eyes. Shit. I'm the fucking boss, I don't get doubts. "It's cool, guys. Thirty-four Fireman Sam slant."

  Russ, who as the free safety is to call the defensive backs, gives me a hopeful smile and nods. "Cover three tight."

  "Break!"

  I settle in, reading the lineup of the scout team. As I half-squat, getting ready, my mind suddenly goes into left fucking field again, and all I can see in my mind is Whitney's legs in those jeans this morning, and I'm caught off guard again as the scout team snaps the ball.

  I'm a half-step slow and I know it, so I just say fuck it, running straight in to jam the line for a running play. Too late, I see that it's a pass, and in fact, I just blew my assignment, as the scout team tight end catches the little dump pass over the middle, right where I was supposed to cover if I'd stuck to the cover three I was supposed to. I should have lit that kid up like a damn firework. Instead, he catches and gets an eight-yard gain, just what I'm supposed to not let happen.

  Coach Jackson blows his whistle, shooting me a dirty look. "All right, let's try again."

  It's the end of practice now, and Coach is pissed. My piss-poor play has led to even more issues, and he finally blows his whistle in the three long blasts that signify the end of practice at only five thirty, a good forty-five minutes before he normally calls practice early in the season. "I'm done. Maybe tomorrow we can get some work done, when you sorry sacks of shit figure out if you want to play or not."

  Coach storms off, leaving all of us shocked, when some jokester speaks up. "Hey, you can get reprimanded for talking to us like that!"

  Coach turns back, and I take a deep breath. Now I've got more issues on my plate, as now I need to ride herd on a smart mouth as well as get my own head right. I expect Coach to go on an epic rant, but he just shakes his head.

  He walks off, his shoulders slumping, and Cory yanks his helmet off, looking around. "The fuck is his problem? Just because Golden Boy here didn't perform, he gets pissy. He usually kisses his ass over everything."

  "We all did terrible,” I say, taking off my helmet. I stand up and raise my voice. "Foxes! To me!"

  As team captain, it’s my privilege to do this, and I gather the team. I want to go off on the rant that Coach should have. I want to blame them, but it doesn't come out of my mouth. Instead, Coach's lessons flash through my mind, and I decide to do something else. Time to own it.

  "I fucked up today," I start, looking around at my teammates and friends. "But dammit, that doesn't mean the rest of you get to fuck off too! You know, I hear your complaining, and for three years I've heard it. I put up with it, and yeah, I'm a glory-hounding asshole, or as Cory here just said, Golden Boy. But you and I all know that we need eleven out there to play the game. What happens if I snap my leg in the first quarter Friday, and Roberts ends up having to lead the team this season? What, you're all going to roll over and let everyone ass fuck you?"

  "You should know about ass fucking," someone gripes, and I understand why Coach just walked off. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. My anger evaporates, and instead, I feel something else.

  "Guys, like I said, I'm sorry. I . . . I fucked up today. Listen, let's just go in, get changed, and tomorrow . . . we do it right. Me included, okay?"

  I’m surprised by the reaction of my teammates. I expected bitching and grumbling. Instead, Russ comes over and slaps me on the shoulder pads. "You're right. All right, let's get changed. Tomorrow though, scout team . . . I’m coming for your heads. You boys had better be ready."

  A grumbling cheer greets Russ's words, and he and I watch as the rest of the Foxes go into the locker room. Russ turns to me and looks me in the eyes. "She ain't worth it, Holmes. Epic tits and ass or not, she ain't worth you fucking up out here. You got your date tonight, right?"

  "Yeah," I say, realizing Russ had been reading my mind all practice. "Seven thirty."

  "Get your rocks off, and get her out of your head—I'll see you tomorrow." Russ turns and jogs inside, and I walk in, following him. Maybe that’s all I need, to get my rocks off. Maybe.

  I walk into the house and shut the door. I'm early still, but all I plan on doing is taking a shower and leaving. The less I'm inside before my date, the better. If I'd had my damn head together, I could’ve taken care of everything this morning and gone straight from the locker room to pick up Whitney, but of course, I was halfway to school before I realized I didn't have any money on me. I'm good at cheap dates, but free firsties is pushing it, even for me.

  "Where you been, boy?" a slurred voice calls from the living room, and I roll my eyes. A little fucking early, isn't it?

  "Coming home from practice. Where does it look like I've been?"

  I go into the living room and see my father already half wasted on the couch, Fox News on the TV and Bill O'Reilly ranting about something with the sound off. Dad loves his Fox News. "Don't get smart with me, boy, or else I'm going to come off this couch and teach you some fucking manners."

  Dad belches, and I wave my hand in front of my face as the grain alcohol smell fills the room like a toxic cloud. "Jesus Christ, it's only six in the evening and you're already drinking hard. What is it this time, the Seagram's or the Popov?"

  "You little bastard, it's my house and I can do whatever the fuck I want!" Dad yells at me. "I pay the bills. I take care of you! You're nothing, Mr. Big Shot High School boy! Your mother left because of you!"

  It's a longstanding line he uses, and even though it's about as correct as wearing your underpants on your head, it still stings. I hit back with what I know hurts most, the truth. "Mom left because you were a raggedy piece of shit that wouldn't stop drinking and beating her, you alcoholic asshole! You don't even have a job, just your welfare and unemployment in between those jobs you keep getting fired from! By the way, Dad, you’d better clean up enough to go down to Day Labor, because we're coming up on the end of your unemployment again, and my pay won't cover the rent this month."

  He surges from the seat but drops back before he can get all the way up. He waves at me, disgusted. "You know what, you ungrateful shit? Get the fuck out of my house. Go, get out!"

  I turn to leave the living room and toss words back over my shoulder. "I'll be glad to. After I take a shower."

  There’s no way I’m going to show up smelling like I do. Even after a light practice, I still smell like ten pounds of wet leather, foam padding, and plastic football armor . . . and that does not work for dates. I strip down and grab the bar of Irish Spring off the soap dish, glad that it�
��s both cheap and works super-quick at covering up football smells. I can shower in three minutes if I want, and I do, walking naked down the hallway to my room, where I pull on a fresh set of khakis and a button down shirt. Yeah, I can get dressed up, too. I make sure my pits are sublime and grab twenty dollars out of the little cigar box that I use. I should keep all my cash on me. I know Dad steals from me, but if I do that, he’ll just shake me down. If I keep some of it in the box, he filches from me, but I actually end up keeping more of it.

  I'm distracted as I tuck the twenty bucks into my front pocket, surprised I still have that much. Dad must have gotten a sale on his cheap booze this week. I'm so distracted that I don't notice that Dad has gotten himself to his feet, only to catch me with a sucker punch to my left eye as I come back past the living room. "That's what you get, you little bastard."

  I grab at my eye, not so much hurt as surprised. Dad's half drunk, and I've got fifteen pounds on him, and a lot of my body is muscle while his is . . . sloppy shit. Still, it hurts, and I'm shocked, an involuntary tear coming to my eye because his alcohol-covered knuckle nailed me literally directly in my eye, and that shit burns! I push him back into the living room, where by some miracle of luck, he falls back onto the couch instead of onto his ass in the middle of the room. "You . . .”

  Fuck it. I don't need a fight with the old man tonight. I walk out, ignoring his half-understood screams, and go out to my car, rubbing at my eye the entire way as I drive. I stop a little bit up the block from Whitney's house, knowing I'm way early but not knowing what else to do. Getting out of my car, I wonder how to break the ice, and what I know about her. Not a damn thing, really, except that she's hot as hell, and there is something about her . . .

  "Flowers, maybe?" I say to myself, then look around. I see one of those planters that people use by a mailbox a few houses away, and inside are some flowers that remind me of the way her hair gleamed in the sun when she was trying out yesterday. They're almost the same dark, nearly blackish brown red. I run over and grab them. What the hell.