by Lily Cahill
“You got it, sweetheart,” the second football player says. “Tell me something … are we going to be painting any nudes?”
A titter of uncomfortable laughter whisks around the room.
Beside Reggie, Riley shifts in his seat. “Reggie, stop being an asshole. Sit the fuck down,” he rumbles.
Reggie shrugs and drags a chair over to Riley’s table the collapses into it. Riley shoots me a look of chagrin, but doesn’t hesitate to make room for Reggie. Typical. Football players stick together, even when one of them is clearly a jerk.
That makes Riley a jerk too. Even if he is the hottest jerk I’ve ever seen.
I take a calming breath and turn to the rest of the class. “Now that we know each other, let’s get started,” I say, pointedly ignoring Riley and Reggie even though I didn’t give them a chance to share why they’re in the class. I’m pretty sure Reggie answered for both of them. I force a smile and say, “The first thing we are going to talk about is the different types of paint.”
Soon, I lose myself in the joy of discussing the different uses of oil paints, watercolors, and acrylics. It gives me a small thrill to see that several students are taking notes. I honestly can’t wait to tell Gamma about that. Despite my misgivings, I’m finding my first teaching experience surprisingly comfortable. As long as I keep my eyes off the hulking football players sitting in the back of the room.
I can’t ignore them completely, though. Oddly, Riley is one of the people taking notes, and I can feel the focus of his attention like a spotlight. Something about him gives me the impression that he approaches everything with the same intensity he’s now directing toward me. It makes unwelcome licks of awareness tickle my skin.
Some of that is discomfort having two reminders of Natalie’s rape right here in the room with me.
Some of that is shame. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve pre-judged him by the actions of his fellows, and that’s not right.
And most disconcerting of all, some of that is arousal. Because having this big, sexy man focused completely on me is making my libido go haywire.
“So now we’ve talked about the different types of paint and their purposes, but there’s really no way to understand how each one works until we try it. I want you to get a taste of each before we focus on them individually. Let’s start with the acrylics. I’ve got some primary colors set up in the back of the room, along with some paper plates and brushes. Go ahead and get a few squirts of each color and meet back at your easels.”
It is so weird to watch the entire class obey me. I can see why Marty likes teaching. It’s good for the ego.
My inflated sense of power is suddenly punctured when a scuffle breaks out at the back of the room.
“What the fuck, man?” Reggie says loudly. “I was just fucking around.”
Riley is standing in front of him, clearly furious. “Just keep your mouth shut, okay?”
“What? What did I say?”
Riley glances at me and lowers his voice, but I can still hear him say, “You know you can’t say shit like that, bro. Haven’t you learned anything from the gender sensitivity classes?”
“Dude, it would be insensitive not to state the fact that—”
Riley shoves Reggie before he has the chance to state his fact. Before I can even move, Reggie stumbles back, knocking over a huge bottle of red paint. But he doesn’t back down—in seconds, he’s facing off with Riley like two warring gorillas.
The rest of the students cower back from them, and I don’t blame them. Reggie is muscular and large, but Riley makes him look like a lightweight. His aggressive stance makes me suddenly very aware of the size of his hands, the strength of his arms. Some weak, female part of me pulses at the blatant display of masculine power.
But the rest of me isn’t having any of this shit.
“Get out. Both of you.”
Riley turns to me, his aggression replaced by shock. “What?”
“I don’t tolerate fighting in my class. Both of you, get out.”
Chapter Four
Riley
LILAH ALL BUT SLAMMED THE door behind me as I stumble behind Reggie into the hall.
“You fucking asshole,” I start. “I can’t believe you just got me kicked out of class.”
“Whatever, dude,” Reggie says. “I can’t believe you’re being such a dick about a couple of jokes.”
“A couple of—dude, what makes you think I want to hear your running commentary on which of the chicks in that class you would fuck?”
Reggie scoffs. “What? Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about the same thing,” he says with a shrug. “What else am I supposed to do? Listen to some boring-ass lecture about paint? I don’t need that shit.”
I grip my head in my hands and pace the hallway. Dammit. I’ve been looking forward to this class for months, and somehow I manage to fuck everything up on the first day. “I seriously can’t believe you can be such an idiot. You’re on academic probation, Reg.”
“So what else is new?”
“Don’t you care about getting an education?”
Reggie smirks. “I’m here to play football. Class is just to pass the time between practices.”
“Dude. That’s ridiculous.” I’ve known Reggie for years, and I know there’s no real malice in him. But he can be so dense. “So fine, whatever, you don’t care about your education. But you still can’t say shit like you were saying. Didn’t you learn anything from all these consent and sensitivity classes we’ve been taking?”
“I could be the most sensitive guy on earth and still notice the titties on that professor. Hot damn.”
I shake my head, embarrassed at how much his reaction echoes my own. “What if somebody heard you? Did you think of that? After all this shit in the media, don’t you think it might make the team look bad if someone knew you were talking that way?”
For the first time, Reggie looks worried. “Nobody heard, Lotto. I wasn’t talking that loud.”
Reggie only had one speaking volume. And it sure as shit wasn’t quiet. I force myself to take a breath and stare at my teammate.
“I heard. And I say that’s bullshit. I don’t want to hear you talking that way about Lilah.”
Reggie raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, dude. My bad. I didn’t know you had a thing for her.”
“I don’t—that’s not—it’s not about that. She’s a human being, you know? She deserves to be treated as more than a sex object.”
“All right, Riley, calm down.” Reggie’s use of my real name is my first clue that he’s taking me seriously. “I won’t talk about her again.”
He’s taking me seriously, but still not really getting it. “It’s not about her. You shouldn’t be saying that shit about any girl.”
Reggie’s usual goofy attitude returns. “If I ever stop pointing out gorgeous titties, you’ll know something is wrong with me.”
I can only shake my head again. Sometimes Reggie is impossible. “What are we going to do about this?”
“About what?” He frowns like he honestly doesn’t know what’s wrong.
“We got kicked out of class.”
“Eh, whatever. I usually ditch most of the semester anyway. Hey, man, college is for fun and girls and football,” Reggie argues when I shoot him an incredulous look. “You ought to relax more, Lotto. Get your dick wet.”
“Jesus Christ, Reggie. We just talked about this. You can’t say shit like that.”
“Like what? ‘Get your dick wet?’” Reggie claps me on the shoulder with a mock serious look on his face. “She really should be wet and ready, Lotto. Didn’t you learn anything from the sensitivity training?”
I shove off his hand and then motion down the empty hallway. “I’m going to wait here. I want to apologize to the teacher.”
Reggie raises one eyebrow and snorts. “Sure, dude, whatever. I’ll see you at practice later.”
Since it’s summer, the new coaching staff has to keep full-contact practice limited,
and training camp isn’t for another month, but that doesn’t stop us from getting together a couple evenings a week to run some informal drills. “All right, see you then.”
He saunters off down the hall and leaves me alone with my thoughts. It’s a two hour class, which means I have almost ninety minutes to wait. Well, that’s what the Internet is for. I sit with my back against the wall, pull out my phone, and start to google.
An hour and a half later, the door opens and the class files out. From their excited chatter, I guess I missed a good class. A couple of them cut me dirty looks, but I pointedly ignore them. I don’t care about convincing them to like me.
Lilah is surveying a row of drying canvases propped against the wall. The canvases aren’t much, just early experiments in mixing color, but Lilah is looking at them with stark emotion on her face.
Up until this moment, I realize, I’ve been caught up by her bright clothes and bold hair. But now I’m catching a glimpse of the woman within, and she’s even more fascinating than the one I’ve already met.
She whirls around suddenly as if she senses me. Our eyes meet, and I can see hers are damp. But then she blinks, and the tender woman is encased in armor.
“Are you here to drop this class?”
“No.” I square off, digging my feet into the wood floor. “I want to apologize for my behavior today.”
“Do you think an apology is enough for fighting in my class? You spilled half a gallon of red paint.”
“I’ll clean it up.”
“It’s already done,” she says tartly. “I was planning on teaching cleaning techniques at the end of class, but you and your friend changed that.”
Ah. That explains some of the dirty looks I got. “I would have cleaned it up.”
“I wasn’t going to let paint sit on the floor for an hour.”
Shit. “How can I make it up to you?”
Her eyes flicker over me and I wonder, for one glorious second, if she’s thinking of making me work for her affection in the most personal of ways. Then she meets my eyes. “I’m not sure you can.”
“Give me a chance. I really want to take this class.”
“Why?”
I rough my hands through my hair, trying to find the words I’ve never said to anyone. “I grew up on a farm, and I’ve been playing football my entire life. There’s not much room in my life for … beauty. I might not have another chance to study art. I might not be any good at it, but I’d like to try.”
Her face is still closed. “What about your friend?”
I can’t hide my wince. “Not so much. But he’s on his own.”
“I thought football players stick together.”
I point at her and walk closer. “There it is. That’s your problem. You are determined to hate me because I’m a football player.”
“You’ve given me plenty of reason to dislike you all on your own.”
“What? Spilling the paint?” I shrug. “That was Reggie. I just gave him a little nudge to get him to shut up about … to make him pay attention.”
“It’s not just that.”
I take another long step closer to her. She answers by taking three quick steps back until her butt hits her desk.
Her movement makes shock flare in my stomach. “Are you afraid of me?”
Her mouth trembles open, then closes again. “I’m not sure.”
“Because of what happened last December? I had nothing to do with that.”
“So you say.”
I have to look away. My desire for her is at war with my frustration. “This is bullshit. I am nothing like those guys. I would never, ever hurt a woman.”
She shakes her head, crossing her arms across her delectable chest. “It’s not just you. It’s the whole culture of football. Nothing matters except winning, and if you are winning nothing else matters. You guys think you can get away with anything. Like your friend. Waltzing into class late, talking during my lecture. It’s so arrogant and entitled.”
“I see. So I guess you’re the kind of person who judges whole groups by the actions of a few.”
“That’s not ….” She trails off, unable to argue the point.
“Besides, that’s Reggie, that’s not me.” The shock has given way to anger burning inside me, fed by all that hot attraction I feel for her. “You’re an artist, right? Well, all the artists I’ve heard of are drug addicts or insane. Which are you?”
She fixes me with a furious look. “Neither.”
“So what does that leave? One-trick pony? Has-been?” She flinches, and I can’t help but cruelly home in on it. “You’re awfully young to have peaked already.”
I probably shouldn’t take so much pleasure in her gasp of shock, but hey, I’m not perfect. As evidenced by the fact that my cock actually stirs when her eyes glitter as she stalks toward me.
“You would know at all about peaking, wouldn’t you? Playing college football … this is probably the best your life will ever be.”
That shaft hits home. I’m good at football. There’s no one out there that’ll disagree with me on that. But one bad injury, and my career will be over before it ever really starts. Then what? Is it back to the family farm and a life of looking backward? But I’m not about to admit that to Lilah.
“You’re making some major assumptions about a guy you just met.”
“I’ve seen enough,” she hurls back at me. “You come in here, expecting me to fall all over myself because you’re a football player. Like I’m supposed to be impressed that you’re good at throwing a ball.”
I cock my head. “Actually, my specialty is knocking people down.”
Her gaze drops to my broad chest and shoulders, down my muscular arms. I know I’m built—I work my ass off to stay that way. I can’t help but flex a little for her, and I’m rewarded with a flush in her cheeks before her eyes skitter back up to meet mine. “Yes. Um … yes, I imagine you are quite good at that. But that sort of skill isn’t going to be necessary in this class.”
“How do you know what kind of skills I have?” Her reaction has turned my anger to arousal. I know she’s hot for me. I can see it in her eyes, her face. “Maybe I can give you a demonstration.”
All it takes is one long stride, and my body is brushing hers.
This time she doesn’t back down. My gaze flicks down to her slick red lips. A woman has never instantly hated me before. It stirs my competitive instincts. Her lips are parted, her skin flushed, her spicy scent swirling around me. Some wild, hungry part of me wants to take that plush mouth with mine, whether she wants it or not.
That thought has me stepping abruptly back from the desk. “I’m sorry if I … I’m sorry. If you felt threatened or disrespected. I never intended to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
“You’re … sorry?”
Worried that she’ll take this as another reason to kick me out of the class, I shift into conciliatory mode. “Look, I really want to take this class. I’m happy to do some extra credit, or make up this class—whatever you want.”
She stares at me for a long moment. “No matter what your friend said, this isn’t going to be an easy class. I’m not going to give you an A just to keep you eligible.”
“Oh, believe me. I don’t expect it to be easy. And I’m willing to work for it.”
I hadn’t meant it as an innuendo, but heat flushes her cheeks again. “And no more of that. I’m your teacher. We can’t keep ….” She waves her hands between us—probably trying to waft away the sexual tension. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but … stop playing it.”
A deep breath fills my lungs. Along with the rest of the Mustangs, I’ve been taking consent and sensitivity classes for months. I’ve always admired and respected women, but these classes have really opened my eyes to the sort of struggles women have on a daily basis. I have never, could never, will never, force myself on a woman. I’m not about to start now.
“Okay.” I allow myself one last look—one searing moment
when I allow myself to think about all the ways I want her, all the ways I can take her and be taken—and then I shut it down. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
For a moment, she looks bereft, but then her chin hardens. “Fine. Then you can continue in this class. But I want to see an essay from you by Wednesday about the benefits and drawbacks of using acrylic paint, as well as a survey of one masterwork in acrylic.”
“No problem,” I say, though it’s going to be a lot of work. “Thank you.”
She gathers her bags. “I will also expect you to keep your friend Reggie in line.”
That sounds quite a bit harder than her first assignment, but I nod. “I’m not sure how often he’s planning on coming to class.”
I catch the roll of her eyes before she slips on sunglasses. “When he’s here, then. I won’t have him disturbing the class again.”
“Understood.”
“Okay. Well, then, I suppose you can stay.”
A smile breaks over my face. “You won’t regret this.”
She sighs as she ushers me out of the classroom so she can lock the door behind us. “I hope not.”
Chapter Five
Riley
I BLINK SWEAT OUT OF my eyes, feeling my face twist into a grimace of effort. My biceps are shaking, my pecs quivering. My body is screaming at me to give up, back down, tap out.
“C’mon, Lotto,” Weston Sawyer says, his serious face suspended over mine. “You can do this, man.”
I look up at West and think, Can I?
As if he can hear my thoughts, West starts stamping his feet in a quick one-two beat, like the clop of a horse. Even through the strain, that’s enough to make me smile.
Everyone in the weight room knows what that means. We’re the Mountain State Mustangs, and that sound has echoed through our stadium for generations. It takes only a few seconds to have nearly every guy in the weight room stamping his feet so loud it sounds like a stampede.
I haven’t heard that sound in months. Despite everything that has happened with the scandal and the team, it has never failed to pump me up. Yet still, my arms shake. I’ve managed to lower the weight bar to my chest, but my biceps won’t obey the command to press, press, press.
