Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  Weston’s fingertips hover under the bar. West’s our new quarterback since Jeremy Hudson was suspended and disgraced, and he’s just the kind of guy we need leading our team. Honorable, selfless, loyal. So what if he totally blew the BCS National Championship game last year? I like him anyway.

  Through the cacophony, I hear him say, “One time, Lotto. One more.”

  An image flashes in my mind of my father, spotting me the same way West is doing now. “One more, Riley,” he would say. “You have to earn it.”

  I wasn’t going to let my father down. Or West. Or my team.

  With every ounce of strength I have left, I force my biceps into motion. My muscles tremble with effort, my arms and chest scream. I can’t help the sounds coming from my throat. Grunts and growls seem to have taken the place of breathing. Finally—finally—I extend my arms all the way, holding 345 pounds of raw weight in the air.

  “Fuck, yes!” West shouts, gripping the bar tight and helping me guide it into the hooks.

  Triumph shoots through me. I just bench-pressed the equivalent of the old sow on my family farm. Not bad for a country boy.

  “I knew you could do it, man,” West says as he pulls me up to sitting. “That’s a new team record.”

  I can barely hear him over the cheers and shouts from the guys in the weight room. A smile spreads over my face. For the first time in a long while, with all my teammates around me, it feels like it used to, playing for the Mustangs. Encouraging, satisfying … even fun. It feels good to celebrate something together, even if it’s as small as a successful bench press.

  For a few minutes I’m surrounded by smiling faces as the guys on the team congratulate me. There are a lot of new faces, guys who I’ve never worked out with before. Technically, it’s the off-season, but Coach MoFo always said that great football players never stop hitting the gym. He was wrong about a lot of things, but he was right about that. We’re all working out harder than ever to make sure we’re in great shape for the start of training camp and the first game.

  That’s the first step to rebuilding our shattered reputation.

  “Hell yeah, Lotto. You’re gonna be the biggest guy on the field this year,” Reggie says, slapping me on the back.

  “Big isn’t everything,” Ben Mayhew calls out, his breath short as he pushes through a punishing set of burpees. He’s a wide receiver, one of the new players Coach Prescott has had to scrounge up since half the expected recruits chose other colleges after the scandal. He’s British and apparently was a star rugby player at his university. He’s also apparently from some famously upper-crust family, but all that breeding didn’t give him any manners.

  Ben stands up and stretches before he eyes me. “Fast is just as important as big.”

  “Oh, yeah?” says Reggie. He hasn’t come to art class since the first day, and we’ve made a tacit agreement not to mention it to the rest of the guys. They would be on his case about risking his eligibility, and they would be on my case about taking an art class. Neither one of us wants to make it a big deal.

  Reggie watches as Ben drops down into a push-up position. In a flash, Reggie grabs hold of Ben’s shorts and the back of his shirt and hoists him into the air. “Is fast helping you now?”

  Ben thrashes in the air like a swimmer while the guys laugh.

  “Put him down,” I say, stepping toward them. Reggie’s funny, but he can be a jerk without knowing it. The whole incident in class is a shining example of that.

  “Aw, Lotto, I’m just having fun with my new roomie.” For the past six months, ever since Jeremy Hudson was kicked off the team and out of school, Reggie had been living roommate-free in a double room where all the players live. I guess Coach Prescott finally assigned him a roommate. I feel bad for the guy, being forced to figure out how to live with someone new. But not that bad.

  Idly, I pinwheel my long arms to stretch my aching muscles. “You don’t start working out and quit fucking around, you’re going to have a real fun time this season.”

  “What do you mean?” Reggie asks, lifting and lowering Ben as the Brit curses and kicks. “This is a workout.”

  “Enough,” I say, over the laughter of my teammates. Ben hasn’t been around long, but he hasn’t exactly been making friends. Dammit if he isn’t as fast as he boasts on the field, though.

  “I don’t need your help, you big bastard,” Ben says, as furious as a spitting cat.

  I raise an eyebrow. At my size, there aren’t a lot of guys who will insult me to my face. Especially when I’m trying to help them out.

  “Put him down,” I repeat mildly, not interested in a fight.

  Reggie sighs theatrically and lowers Ben to the ground. But his voice is suddenly serious when he eyes Ben. “When someone breaks a team record, show some respect.”

  Ben scrambles to his feet. His face is red and his eyes flare with anger as he shoves Reggie back a step. “Don’t touch me again. I don’t need this shite.”

  Just like that, the celebratory mood shatters. The weight room falls into a wary silence as Reggie steps toward Ben, his hands curling into fists. I push myself between them, West right there with me.

  “Guys, simmer down,” the quarterback says, his tone forced into calm.

  Muscles in Ben’s arms quiver. “Then make that dumb oaf fuck off and leave me alone.”

  “You think acting like this is going to make me stop making fun of you? Dude, you’re hilarious. I’m gonna love pissing you off.” Reggie gives Ben a shit-eating grin that would make pretty much anyone want to take him out. Ben is no exception. He tries to shove West aside so he can get at Reggie.

  Oh yeah, these guys are going to get along great.

  I step forward, all trace of a smile wiped from my face. “Cut that shit out, both of you. You could be kicked off the team for fighting with each other. That’s the last thing we need right now.”

  “Lotto’s right,” West says, laying a hand on both of their shoulders. “We have to work together. This sort of petty infighting isn’t going to win us a championship.”

  Ben shakes West’s hand off. “There’s no way this team can win a championship,” he scoffs, then stalks out of the gym.

  In his wake, all the buoyancy drains out of the room. It’s obvious: Everyone wonders if Ben is right. It used to be that if you were a Mustang, you could count on at least being competitive for a Bowl game, being ranked in the top three in the conference. But this year … some of our best players have left for other schools, we have a brand new coach who is a stranger to all of us, and our quarterback has only played one Pac-12 game and it was a brutal loss. Our upcoming season will be the toughest we’ve ever played, and we’re hardly ready to play it.

  “Well, that went well,” I say to West, who just sighs.

  “Let’s get back to work,” he says shortly, “and prove that asshole wrong.”

  I work through my ab routine and my cool-down while the team continues working out around me. Gradually, the relaxed atmosphere returns, but I can tell from the way that some of the guys are looking at West that they’re still thinking about what Ben said.

  Can we win a championship? Hell … can we even win a single game?

  The scalding hot shower beats down against my sore shoulders. I believe in Weston, and I have high hopes in the new coach, but … I can’t shower away the worry that I’ve made a huge mistake by staying with the Mustangs.

  Last year, after the scandal broke, I was approached by a couple of other colleges looking to add more muscle to their offense. NFL scouts like players from winning teams, and if I’m not on a winning team this year …. For the first time, I’m afraid there’s a real possibility I won’t get drafted. Has loyalty screwed my chances at playing pro?

  But the Mustangs are my family … literally. My father and uncles were all on the team twenty years ago, when the Mustangs were becoming the team to watch. I talked it over with my dad last year when recruiters started sniffing around, and we agreed that I should stay with t
he Mustangs. Well, I decided, and I convinced my dad it was the right choice. I was so certain that we could come together and make something magical out of this terrible year.

  I don’t feel that way anymore.

  The rape scandal shocked me to my core. I would never have believed it if it hadn’t been caught on tape. And what does that say about me, that I would have stood up for these guys who did such a terrible thing? Who might have done that sort of thing more than once? Lilah wasn’t wrong when she talked about the mentality that winning excusing all kinds of bad behavior. It makes me ashamed to be part of it.

  I turn in the tight shower stall, brushing against the curtain. I let the water pound my chest, idly soaping my armpit. Even though she’s been distantly polite during classes the last three weeks, my confrontation with Lilah on the first day of class still haunts me. It pisses me off that she pre-judged me, but the more I think about it, the less I blame her.

  She has a point about football players. Some of us are arrogant bastards who take their fame and talent for granted. And more than that, the free education. Thousands of people would kill to attend MSU. Yet look at Reggie. I love the guy, but he’s throwing away four years of an education that would cost someone else nearly a hundred thousand dollars for that same slip of paper. But because he’s built like a wall and has cinderblocks for shoulders, the administration always seems to find a way to keep him on the team. And it’s not just him. I know lots of guys who get away with shit that would get a normal student kicked out of school.

  And I’d have to be a moron not to acknowledge that physical and sexual assault is part of that. People tend to believe that when a woman accuses a sports player of rape, she’s doing it for attention or money. Nobody wants to believe that a guy you cheer for, you idolize, is capable of hurting a woman. But from O.J. to Ray Rice, there’s plenty of evidence that some of those accusations are true.

  It never really bothered me before last year’s scandal. I knew I would never do something like that, so I didn’t really care about it. But now … now that I’ve joked and laughed and played with guys who turned out to be monsters, it’s totally changed football for me. Now, if I can stay healthy and get drafted, do I even want to play pro?

  But if I don’t try for the NFL, what else am I supposed to do? I’ll be graduating this spring with a degree in Ag Science, and pretty much the only place I can take that is back to the farm. As much as I love my family and my hometown, I don’t know if I can go back. I spent high school the local hero for my ability on the field. I’m a goddamned god to some in the town now that I play for MSU. And if I go back …. I shake water out of my hair and scrub hands down my face. I don’t even want to think about being a failure in their eyes. And not just the townies. My dad and uncles have dreamed of my professional sports career since I was born. Disappointing them would be terrible.

  Even though I’m working harder than ever this season, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’m living a life I don’t want. Everything seems tainted by the scandal last year. I can’t stop thinking about the way Lilah stumbled back from me the first time I approached her. It kills me, remembering that for just a second, she seemed afraid of me.

  Especially since she has been anything but afraid ever since. Every class, she gets more incredible. Not everyone in the class is a beginner like me, but no one even comes close to her innate talent. And she has a way with the students—I’m not the only one mesmerized by her casually brilliant aura. I know this is her first semester teaching, but she’s a natural.

  She’s a natural, and I’m … I’m not sure what I am. When I walked in for the second day of class, the carving I’d been working on that first terrible day was suddenly sitting on her desk. I must have dropped it during the paint debacle. Claiming it crossed my mind, but it seemed silly to get proprietary about a piece of wood. I carve dozens of these things a year, and my dorm room is filled with them. But I could do better than that unfinished owl.

  So the next class, I brought in a carving I’m proud of. It’s a delicate willow tree that looks just like the one outside my window at home. Scalloping the leaves had taken forever, but I liked the effect it made in the end. When Lilah wasn’t looking, I left it on the top shelf of a supply cabinet where she couldn’t help but find it. The next class, it was sitting on her desk next to the owl.

  Seeing my work—my art—displayed by someone amazing like Lilah filled me with pride. Over the last two weeks, a deer, her fawn, a wizard in robes, and a chubby piglet have joined the tree and owl. I have been having way more fun than I should admit hiding them around the classroom, palming them as I retrieve supplies for our various projects. She never asks about the figurines, and I never volunteer that I made them. I just want her to have a piece of me that I don’t really share with anyone else.

  I soap my way down my chest, thinking about Lilah. True to my word, I had made no attempt to flirt with her. She treats me like the rest of the students. I shouldn’t be thinking about a relationship anyway—this upcoming season will be the most important one of my life, and I really need to concentrate.

  But none of that makes a difference. I’m still insanely hot for her.

  She seems to have an endless wardrobe of sexy skirts that show off her legs and silky tops that make me wild thinking about the skin underneath. I could spend hours stroking the tattoo that spirals up her arm, kissing the rings and studs lining her ears, tangling my hands in her wild hair. I can’t stop thinking about how the sandalwood of my skin tone would look against the ebony of hers.

  My cock’s rising now, just thinking about her, and my soapy hand slides ever lower. I prick up my ears, straining to hear any movement in the locker room. Empty. I don’t make a habit of jacking off in a semi-public place, but there is no way I can go to class in this state. I close my eyes, take my cock in my hand, and begin to stroke.

  Immediately, my mind floods with images of her. Her leg hitched up against the desk, laughing, as sunlight pours through the windows. Wearing her glasses, blending watercolors. The lacy pink bra strap that peeks out from her dress during the class. Then my imagination takes over, and I lose myself dreaming of her soft lips, her heavy breasts, her wet, hot pussy.

  I’ve never lusted after a girl like this. But I can’t seem to hold back. Every time her eyes find mine during a lecture, my system floods with heat. Every time she stands near me to look at my work, my cock swells against my tight boxer briefs. Once, she laid her hand on my back as she was demonstrating a technique, and I wanted to flip her over and fuck her blind right there on the table.

  Fantasizing about that—her legs wrapped around me, my face buried in her breasts, the rest of the students cheering us on—I stifle a groan as I come.

  I rest my head against the wall of the shower, breathing like I’d just run the forty. Now that my head is cleared of lust, a peculiar mix of shame and amusement washes through me. I feel like a randy teenager. And if I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late for class.

  Chapter Six

  Lilah

  RILEY FUCKING BRULOTTE IS DRIVING me crazy.

  I’m pretty sure it doesn’t show on the outside. I’m pretty sure I’m managing to give this lecture about the techniques of Pop Art painters without betraying the heat that pulses through me every time I look at him. Which I hardly ever do, because I can’t handle this level of attraction without losing my mind.

  I’ve been teaching this class for three weeks now, and I’m proud to say that it’s working out much better than I expected. The projects have been going well, and the students are responsive and engaged. Once I got over my nervousness, it has actually been really fun to go back to basics. I learned most of these techniques a decade ago, and I’ve been taking them for granted.

  Seeing the students get excited about what they are creating has been great. I just wish I could say it’s spurred my own artwork. But I’ve barely sat in front of my easel since class started. I’m too busy researching lectures and putting
together lessons. Maybe that’s a cop-out, but at the moment it feels like a relief to not be chasing my own creativity.

  And I’ve got enough on my mind trying to ignore Riley. He’s sitting at the back of the class, taking notes again. He seems almost too big for the chair, with the way his long arms and legs spread out in every direction. It should look silly, a man his size sitting in a standard classroom chair, but instead he looks calm and confident, like he’s hardly aware that he’s the biggest man in the room.

  He usually wears sweatpants and T-shirts that look thin and soft with wear. These T-shirts have become a source of fascination for me—or, more accurately, the way they cling to his body as he moves. He’s got this thick golden hair and sweet brown eyes and a motherfucking dimple, all of which is totally unfair. He should not be allowed to be this hot.

  I was hoping that he would be rude or dumb, to counteract the hotness, but so far it doesn’t seem like it. In fact, so far he’s been attentive and enthusiastic. He asks good questions. The essay he turned in for extra credit was thorough and well-written. And he specifically scheduled a make-up class with me today, after the regular class, to go over the lesson he missed.

  All of which makes me feel even worse about the way I pre-judged him. And still—still!—I can’t look at him without thinking about the Mustangs who raped my best friend.

  It’s illogical, but logic has never been a particularly important factor in my life. I run on instinct, emotion. But when it comes to Riley, all my senses are at war.

  “All right, so now that we’ve talked about mixed media, I want you to give it a try on your own. Your homework over the next week is to gather some pictures, items, flotsam and jetsam, whatever, and bring them to class next week. Try to think about composition, and take a look at the selected works by James Rosenquist and Richard Hamilton. We’ll start putting together a mixed media piece on Monday.”