Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  “Dance with me, Nara?” Ben’s hand is already snaking up my arm, leaving blazing heat in its wake.

  I step closer, tilt my head up to Ben.

  Then I see him, stalking closer. His face etched like stone.

  Ben’s father, Alistair Mayhew, stops just behind Ben and clears his throat.

  It’s like watching a house close up for winter, the way Ben’s warm, open features shutter. His fingers, so light on my arm, grow tight. He turns to face his father, but keeps a hand on me, keeping me close. I couldn’t move if I wanted to right now.

  “You came,” Alistair says curtly.

  “I said I would.”

  “And you brought ….”

  “Nara Robinson,” I say, finding my voice. I’m not going to let this man bully us, look down on us. Ben makes me happy, and it’s well past time I stop pretending my happiness comes second to everything else. I hold out a hand toward Alistair. “We didn’t get a chance to properly meet before, but I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Next to me, Ben stiffens, and his father’s eyes slice between me and Ben.

  “Yes, well.”

  Alistair’s mouth is a thin line, but I smile at him, which is generous of me, honestly. “You know, my mother Melinda wrote a series of histories on the Roman settlements of Derbyshire. She studied at Cambridge in the late eighties and spent a summer walking the Peak District.”

  I’m calling on all my years of watching Masterpiece Theater with Mom, everything I’ve read of her own work as a historian. I don’t want to impress Ben’s father, necessarily, but I don’t want to give him any chance to write me off.

  He blinks quickly, and his stiff jaw settles. “Is your mother Mel Stanley?”

  Now it’s my turn to blink quickly. “Yeah. I mean, yes, it is. She’s Mel Stanley-Robinson now. She’s a professor of history at MSU.”

  The change in Ben’s father is immediate and drastic, and suddenly I can see a hint of the young man he was and where Ben gets his amazing looks.

  “I knew your mother at Cambridge. Mel knew more about my family’s history than I think I did. And she wasn’t afraid to make me feel a right prat for my ignorance either.” Alistair smiles, his eyes far away. “Tell her Ali says hello,” he says, then he smiles at us and takes his leave, and we’re left staring at the space where he’d stood.

  “Ali?” Ben says, a crease between his brows. “No one has ever called my father Ali. Not even my own mum.”

  I laugh, but it’s shaky. The encounter with Alistair has left me fidgeting and surging with energy. I tip back the champagne and set it on a side table, then turn to Ben.

  “You mentioned a dance, Lord Mayhew.”

  Ben grimaces. “Don’t call me that. I like that I’m just Ben to you.”

  His hand slides up my back as we walk onto the dance floor, and I settle one hand on his shoulder as he holds out my other for a formal waltz. Our bodies align perfectly, and everywhere my skin whispers against his is set ablaze with desire. In my towering heels, my chin tucks perfectly against the curve of his neck. I don’t know the steps, but Ben does, and his hands on me are confident, warm, and strong. I let myself melt into this … this dance, this sensation.

  The waltz trips and soars around us, couples swirling past. I peer up at this wonderful man and smile.

  “Ben,” I say.

  “Nara,” he says back.

  It fills my lungs, presses up my throat—my feelings for Ben, the words I want to say. But I swallow it down. Ben smiles down at me, his eyes bright and his lips wide. Then he closes the distance between us and kisses me for all to see.

  A few hours later, we also join the Mile High Club.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben

  I MIGHT COMPLAIN A LOT about American football, but this practice facility is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Every time I come here for practice, I can’t help but be a little bit in awe. At Oxford, our practice rugby pitch was a soggy field surrounded by brambles.

  I nod at the security guy standing at a side door and stride toward the locker rooms to prepare for practice. Most of the guys just show up in gym shorts and tees, but I’ve never been most guys. I’m still in slim trousers and a button-down from class, and my brown boots tap against the polished floors as I walk.

  “Hey!” Someone shouts behind me. Normally, I wouldn’t turn around, but “normal” seems to be changing for me. “Hey, Mayhew!”

  It’s Reggie. He jogs up to me and falls in step as we walk.

  “Did you need something?”

  Reggie pushes dreads out of his eyes. “I wanted to ask how it went … with your, uh, dad and all that. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you in time, man.”

  I sigh and pause, hooking a hand around the back of my neck. My father was downright pleasant at the gala, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that. And it was all because of Nara. Who knows if that pleasantness will stick, but for a night, it was nice. I must smile, because Reggie laughs.

  “So things turned out okay then. At least, that’s what it sounded like ….” He trails off and waggles his eyebrows at me, the meaning clear.

  I groan and start walking again. Nara had slept over again last night. Well, stayed over. We barely slept.

  “Man, is that what Megan and I sound like? I’ll have to try and quiet down.”

  “I’d prefer not to discuss this, Reggie.”

  “Dude, we share a wall. This is totally a discussion. Though I would like to know if you make all the women you sleep with call you Lord.”

  Oh, Jesus. I lengthen my stride, but Reggie just laughs and follows me into the locker room. “Whatever Nara’s doing, tell her to keep it up. You’re almost nice to live with now.”

  I throw a rude gesture at Reggie but can’t quite keep the grin off my face. He’s not wrong about Nara. I’ve been happier in the few weeks we’ve been together than I’ve been in years. It’s like for the first time I’m seeing the world in color again, that I’m actually experiencing what happiness can be. And it’s all because of her, because of her infectious joy and kind soul. It doesn’t hurt that she also won over my father.

  I strip down and quickly change into loose black shorts and a gray T-shirt. I’m bent over my knees, tying my shoes, when I see it: the figurine Riley carved for me. I reach out, run a finger down the smooth wood door of the little Aston. For the first time, it doesn’t make me angry or ashamed or sad. A twist of wistfulness makes me pause—I miss Shelby, but it’s morphed into something different. I don’t miss her with an acute ache that robs me of breath. It’s dull, less painful. She’s become memory. And suddenly, I’m eager to face my future, not stay miserable in the past.

  My future is Nara. I see that clearly now.

  There’s a slap on my back, and I look up to see Coach at my shoulder. “You’ve been looking good in practice, Mayhew. You ready for homecoming this weekend?”

  Honestly, I don’t quite understand homecoming. We’re playing an out-of-conference team, but the guys are acting like this is the biggest game of the season. There’s a parade in a couple days, and a big rally. It’s all so very American. A few months ago, I would have scoffed at it, but it just makes me smile.

  “I’m ready to get out there and scrimmage, Coach.” We’d spent the last few practices focused on drilling. I was ready to run out onto the field and stretch my legs, get into a tussle. To play.

  Out on the enclosed practice field, we run through warm-ups and drills, until my blood is singing and my shirt is soaked with sweat. Coach calls a quick break for water, then we suit up. I still miss the freedom of rugby, where there aren’t heavy pads and helmets, but I’m starting to feel more at home inside all this gear.

  Dwayne Sheehan, the giant defensive lineman who I scuffled with earlier in the season, slams his shoulder into me as he stalks past, but I ignore him. I’ll be facing off against him when we scrimmage, and that’s when I can get my revenge—by blasting by his slow ass to win my side a touchdown.

  Wes
t slaps a hand against my helmet. “I’m going to pass off to you after the snap,” he says as we huddle away from the other half of our team playing defense. “Use those brawling skills of yours to fight through the defense, okay?”

  I throw one fist into my palm and jump on the balls of my feet. I can’t wait. I’m the fastest guy on this field, and I know it. But rugby also made me strong, made me unafraid to jump into the fray. Father used to call my bravery on the field stupid, but I don’t know how to be any other way.

  “You got this,” Reggie says, grinning at me.

  We set up at the line, and my entire body is taut, coiled, ready to spring.

  Reggie calls the snap, and we explode into action. It’s a furious scrum of movement and sound, men shouting, helmets crashing together. West’s eyes dance across the bodies before they land on me. I’m fast, and I dart past him, smoothly grabbing the football. I cradle it into the crook of my arm, lean forward, and bash my way into the scrum. God, I feel alive doing this—running and pushing and fighting for every inch of purchase. Moving quickly, I feint one way and slip past the lurching form of one lineman, then another. Ahead, the field is clear, my line to the end zone is practically lit up for me.

  Then there’s a horrible growl, and a hand grabs the back of my jersey. I’m yanked back, but I keep my feet under me, desperately trying to fight free. Why isn’t Coach calling this? Where the hell is the whistle?

  A second hand bites down on my shoulder and rips me backward. I land—hard—on my side and then there’s a body slamming on top of me, ramming my shoulder into the turf, pounding my helmet.

  “Jesus, get off!” I push back against the giant body pinning me down. I’m strong, but the sheer weight piled on top of my chest is making my breath come short.

  A hand grabs the grill of my helmet and yanks my head up, until I’m face to face with the defensive lineman who took me out: Dwayne.

  “I will fucking kill you, Mayhew,” the man spits.

  Fear jolts through me—real fear. It surges through my muscles, and I pour every last bit of energy I have into my arms. With one brutal move, I shove Dwayne off me. But he grabs hold of my leg and tries to drag me back down. I kick him off and stand, my shoulders heaving with every breath.

  “Stop it,” comes a shout.

  West looms over us, his eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing, Dwayne? We’re scrimmaging, not trying to hurt each other.”

  Dwayne is breathing hard, and his eyes are glassy. “Like it’d hurt us to have this prick off the field. He nearly lost the last game for us, West.”

  Reggie jogs over and comes to stand next to me. “That was the last game, Dwayne. It’s in the past. We’re preparing for what comes next.”

  Dwayne pushes himself up with a growl and stalks off. “Whatever,” he spits.

  West turns to me. “You okay?”

  My shoulder is screaming, but I can move everything. “Yeah,” I grunt. “I’m fine.”

  West signals for Adams, then nods at me. “I want you to rest for the next play, but then I need you to run long for the catch. You got that?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Megan is at my side as soon as I make it off the field, worrying about my shoulder and checking for concussion. My mind is seething, but there’s something peculiar intermixed with my anger at Dwayne. Reggie and West stood up for me, cared about me because I’m on their team. Our team. For the first time, I want to prove them right—that I’m a member of this team, that I should be here.

  I’ve been playing for myself, unable to see the bigger picture. But now, I want us to win. I want to be a Mustang.

  When West signals for me to join them once more on the field, I huddle up beside him. He’s going to be throwing long—something he’s struggled with during actual games—and I’ll need to run fast and run precise to connect with the ball. West glances at me when he calls the play, and I recognize the uncertainty in his face.

  “You got this, West,” I say.

  He blinks quickly, then looks at me. “Thanks, Mayhew.”

  This time when we settle on the line, I stare at Dwayne, ready to run. Ready to show him just how little he can affect me. Right now, he’s my side’s enemy. But he’s not mine. He’s a teammate, whether he hates me or not.

  When I catch the ball and sprint those final few yards into the end zone, I’ve never felt more elated.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nara

  IT’S THE TUESDAY BEFORE HOMECOMING, and Ben and I both have the evening off. I tug the collar of my jacket up and slip my hands into my pockets to ward off the chill in the air. All around, students stride home from class or wander in groups. There’s bubbling laughter, talk, the sound of music drifting out of the closest dorm.

  I can’t help but smile. I love college, especially here. The excitement of game day, the light-filled reading room of the old library, the paths meandering through courtyards and along the river. And I’m determined to show Ben some of what I love about being an MSU Mustang.

  If he shows up. I dig my phone out of my pocket and check it one more time. He’s ten minutes late to meet me at the giant bronze statue of a rearing mustang at the heart of campus. I lean against the base of the statue, crossing one black-legging’d leg over the other. I’m about to call him when a group of guys at the far end of the quad start cheering.

  “Yeah!” one guy shouts, pumping a fist. “Can’t stop the stampede!”

  I frown, craning my neck to see, then gasp in utter shock.

  There, across the quad, Ben is striding toward me, a wide smile on his face … and the fan-favorite blue mustang hat on his head. He looks ridiculous with the blue horse snout rearing out over the brim of the hat and the mane fluttering out behind his head. I’m nearly crying I’m laughing so hard by the time he stops in front of me. He swivels his head side to side and flicks the long mane made of yarn.

  “Who’s got spirit?”

  “Yes, you do,” I answer, sardonically.

  Then, he whips out a second hat that was hiding behind his back and plops it onto my head. The thing is unwieldy, with the snout leaning out over my forehead and a tangle of blue yarn down my back. Ben leans in to kiss me, but our respective horse mouths crash together.

  Ben yanks the hat off his head, grabs mine, then hands them to the first student walking by. Then he jogs back to me and sweeps me up into a blazing kiss that heats me up from the tips of my curly hair to my toes in my tan boots.

  “It took me forever to find those hats,” Ben says, after we’ve finally broken apart. “I had to go to some shop on the Diamond mall that sells all this school stuff.”

  I pull back farther to stare at him. “You mean the Mustang Corral? You’d never been in there?”

  “I didn’t have much use for school spirit until I met this bubbly cheerleader.” Ben’s fingers snake up into my hair, and he tugs me closer for another quick kiss. “Love the hair, by the way.”

  That word—love—soars through me. I settle back onto my feet and hook my arm through him. “This bubbly cheerleader is going to properly introduce you to campus,” I say.

  As the sun sets, we wander around campus, me pointing out where I’ve taken class and my favorite spots. Ben is a dutiful tour participant, asking me questions about my history classes and quizzing me on my favorite nineteenth century authors, a list of whom I have to separate between men, women, and continent.

  We’re just leaving the library, fresh coffee in hand, when my phone buzzes. I glance down at it, and my wonderful mood darkens. It’s from my mom.

  Thinking of my beautiful Yaya today. Hope you’re doing well this week. Let’s all do dinner soon.

  Today. Today, four years to the day since my sister was given the life-shattering diagnosis that the damage she inflicted on her brain during the overdose was likely permanent. That all her carefully-laid dreams were never going to be realized.

  “Nara?”

  Ben’s large, solid hand on my shoulder brings me back
. I blink up into his face, wishing like mad that I didn’t have this fear and guilt in my life.

  “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  His words strike me deep, cleaving through the part of me that was consumed with doubt in myself, guilt for Yaya’s overdose, anger at what she’d done to my family.

  What could he do to help? He’s doing it right now. By making me smile simply because I want to. By wanting me just as I am. By asking how he can help.

  I look up at Ben and see love in his vivid blue eyes.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  A small smile plays at the corner of his lips. “For what?”

  “Making good memories with me this evening. It’s the anniversary of Yaya’s diagnosis, when the doctors told us about her permanent brain damage.”

  Ben sits down heavily onto one of the wide steps outside the library and pulls me down next to him. It’s nearly dark, but the warm glow from the library windows bathe us in a halo of soft yellow.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I concentrate on my coffee cup. “Isn’t it morbid, talking about my brain-damaged sister all the time?”

  “I’d rather know what you’re really going through than worry you’re hiding your pain.” Ben sighs and stares out at the gathering darkness. “After Shelby, it was almost like I hoarded all my pain. It meant I was mourning her properly. But I was so invested in mourning her that I stopped living. Until you came along.” Ben turns to me and slips his fingers into mine. “Nara, there has to be balance. I focused on the bad, let it consume me, but it’s not any better pretending it doesn’t exist. The darkness,” he pauses, his mouth screwing to one side for a moment. “The darkness inside both of us is there, but you’ve helped me see that there’s light too. And it’s only because I’ve experienced the dark that I fully appreciate the light.”