by Lily Cahill
He spots me and our eyes meet. For a half second, I think my job is going to be easy. I think he’s about to walk straight toward me. Then he nods once and turns away. I nearly laugh. Is he really playing hard to get? Because those dark blue eyes tell me a very different story about what he wants.
Luckily, I’ve never been a girl to turn down a challenge.
I swipe two shot glasses and a bottle of Absolut from a nearby table and make my way toward him. As I walk, I pretend the room isn’t spinning. I walk straight and tall, totally nailing it. I’ve had my fair share of practice.
“Hey stranger,” I say, grabbing his thick forearm for balance as I hand him a glass. “Do a shot with me.”
“No, thanks,” he says in his thick Texas twang. God, that’s sexy.
“Hmm. And people told me you had manners.”
“Who says I don’t?”
“A girl offers you a shot, you take a shot,” I say, wobbling a little as I thrust the bottle toward him.
“It seems like you might have had mine for me,” he says, steadying me.
“Don’t be silly. There’s plenty left to share.”
“I’m not really the drinking type,” he says.
“Religious?”
“Not overly,” he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Alcoholic?” I ask.
“Not exactly.”
“So why don’t you drink?”
“Didn’t say I didn’t drink. Just said I wasn’t interested in it. At least not tonight.”
“Then why did you come to a party?”
“To celebrate.”
“It doesn’t seem like you’re having much fun so far. C’mon. Just one, and I promise I’ll leave you alone after that.”
He laughs, and I’m not quite sure what the joke was. “You’re not a very good negotiator,” he says.
“Really? Then maybe I should get some help.” I turn to the room, “Who thinks West should do a shot?”
The room erupts in hearty agreement.
“Shot! Shot! Shot!” I chant.
Soon, the whole place joins in. “Shot! Shot! Shot!”
His eyes dart around the room nervously, and his lips purse together. For a guy so accustomed to being in the spotlight, he sure looks uncomfortable. But then his eyes settle on me, and he chuckles and shakes his head.
I tug him down so I can whisper in his ear, “What was that you were saying about my negotiating skills?”
“How about this?” he says, “I’ll do one shot if you agree to stop for the night.”
It doesn’t register at first, “Stop what?”
“Drinking.”
Ah. So the rumors are true. He is the wholesome, good boy type. That’s adorable. My overwhelming desire to corrupt him in every possible way nearly makes me swoon.
“Fine,” I say, pouring vodka into the shot glass I’m still holding.
“I wasn’t finished,” he says.
I cock my head.
“You agree to stop for the night and we go out and get some fresh air.”
I sigh, pretending I have to consider his offer. But really, I’m buzzing with excitement that he seems to want exactly what I want. Maybe this night won’t turn out so bad after all.
“We have a deal,” I say.
He takes the glass and downs it like a pro. No coughing, no wincing. He might as well have been drinking water.
“There,” he says, landing the glass on a nearby table. Then he takes my hand and loops my arm through his. “Now let’s go for a walk.”
Chapter Three
Lou
SOON, WE’RE OUT IN A wide field on a trail that leads back toward campus. It’s one of those November nights in Colorado where it still feels like September. The moon hangs high against the foothills and lights up the sprawling prairie lands in sharp contrasts of black and white. The sky is inky, while the ground is dusted with snow as fine as powdered sugar. I spin around, feeling the whoosh of air against my skin, and it feels so good. So fresh and clean and free.
West takes off his jacket and starts to wrap it around my shoulders.
“That’s okay. Not cold.” I shrug the jacket away.
“It’s freezing out here.”
“That just means …” I say, trying to straighten out the words in my head. “Not drunk enough yet!” I giggle, but my head is still whirling from all that spinning.
“Okay, twinkle toes,” he says, steadying me before I realize I’m wobbling. “Maybe let’s just stick to walking for now.”
“Not enough.” I raise my chin and arms to the sky as I inhale as much night air as my lungs can hold. It’s delicious. “This is fun,” I say, coming back down to earth. “Are you having fun?”
“Of course,” he says. Only it doesn’t look like he means it. Not at all.
“Congratulations on the win today, by the way,” I say.
“Not my win. It was the team’s.”
“And you’re not on the team?” I say, though I know exactly what he means.
“Sure.”
“You had that 45 yard spiral. That’s an impressive throw. We would never have gotten the winning touchdown without that play.”
West gives me a sideways glance.
“I can’t just ignore the two interceptions I threw right before that. If I hadn’t caused so many turnovers, I wouldn’t have had to take a risk on such a long pass.”
“Well, that’s a shitty way to look at it.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“If you’re so pissed, then do better. My dad says you have the potential, and he has a good eye. The best eye.”
He scoffs. “You think I haven’t tried? I study plays more than I study for class. Coach has me doing target drills nonstop. Nothing’s working.”
“No shit. Your timing is way off. You hesitate so long looking for the right target that you miss your chances at the ones that are open. It’s a mess. And the thing that really pisses people off is that they can see it’s in you. When you do hit the target? It’s fucking magic.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“So why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why aren’t the drills working? Why are you still fucking up out there?”
“Hell if I know.” He says. “All I know is it’s just not fun anymore. The pressure’s brutal. It’s a fight just to stay on the field. Every damn game.”
The wind rips through the prairie again until the whole thing becomes a single living thing: an ocean wave of dry stalks, dancing under the stars.
“When was the last time it was fun?” I ask.
“High school, I guess.”
“You went to Crestmoore in Texas right? That’s a pretty competitive place. There are like 3 guys in the NFL from that high school.”
“Yep.” The way he says it makes me think people remind him of this little fact all the time.
“Maybe it’s a hard act to follow, but that’s what got you here, right? Kicking ass on that team?”
“Uh huh.” Not a talker, this guy.
“So what was so different back then?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess … I guess I was good at it. It came naturally. I was the best, and I didn’t even have to try.”
I laugh. “So you think not trying is what made you so successful? No wonder you’re eating it out there.”
“Thanks a lot,” he says.
“Well, sorry, but you’re gonna have to suck it up sometime. I’ve had to try at everything I’ve ever done. Nothing’s ever come naturally to me. But you know what? That’s fine. That’s life. And the victory is a whole lot sweeter when you’ve had to fight for it.”
The trail becomes concrete under our feet as we step out of the dark field and onto the campus.
“The trick is to be fearless. You’ve got to look your flaws in the face and say fuck, you flaws. I’M FEARLESS!” I yell it into the night air and the burst of noise floats through the sky.
“Easier said than done,” he says. The side of his mouth twitches and I grab his arm, stopping us both and turning him toward me.
“Do it right now.”
“Do what?”
He looks side to side like he’s trying to find someone to save him from this crazy girl. But I don’t care. I’d rather be the crazy girl than the boring girl.
“Scream ‘fuck you’ at your flaws.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not going to fix me.”
“But it’ll feeeel so good.” I drag out the word and put my hand on his chest. I drop my voice and try to lull him into it. “Sometimes you do things just because they feel good.”
He bites his lip in hesitation, but then he tilts his head back and surprises me.
“FUCK YOU!” He screams. “FUCK YOU, FLAWS!” He yells it louder and I can feel all the air in his chest moving out of his body with the words, his muscles rippling under my fingers. “I’M FEARLESS! FEARLESS!” He’s yelling the words with his whole body.
When he’s done he has a huge smile on his face. I feel like I’m seeing the real him for the first time. Him at his gut level. Him driven by instinct and instinct alone.
“Felt good, didn’t it?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says.
I don’t want this feeling to go away. Not for me, and especially not for him. An idea pops into my head and I glance up at him with a grin. “Race you!” I say.
I take off running to get a head start.
“Hey!” he yells, laughing.
Then I hear the clomp-clomp of his feet catching up to me. That’s when I turn on the juice.
I may have hated track, but I still love running. It’s my own thing, not something I want to parade in front of a screaming crowd. And now I realize how long it’s been since I’ve done it, and since I’ve felt like this. I tear forward on the path, feeling the space between us grow. My arms are pumping and my blood is running and my heels are pounding against the pavement. And I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
I’m certain I’m going to kick his ass. But just as quickly as I have the thought, he’s jogging next to me, looking like he’s not even breaking a sweat. And his smirk is so patronizing I want to smack him. If that grin could speak, it would say, “Awww, the cute wittle girl is twying to wun.” He turns around and starts running backwards, and even then I can’t catch up.
I stop, chest heaving. “No fair,” I say. “Your legs are sexy giants.”
He laughs. “Like, the shape of a sexy giant’s leg? Or do I look like I’ve got two of those green guys walking the runway from the waist down?”
“Don’t be an ass,” I pant. “You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t. But I do want to hear more about how sexy I am.”
Then I actually do smack him. On the chest. It’s like hitting a brick wall. “Shut up. You know you’re hot.”
He says something that I don’t quite hear because my heart is pounding in my ears. I lean over to catch my breath. But my balance is off. I trip backward and start toppling toward the concrete.
Only I don’t hit it. West catches me.
His big arms swoop me up and I realize my feet aren’t touching the ground at all. He’s holding me carry-accross-the-threshold-style. And it feels like I’m seeing the real him again, the him that reacts on instinct instead of thinking things into the ground.
Sometimes you forget how big football players really are compared with the rest of the world. I’m not exactly what most people would call a tiny girl. I have an ass and hips and thick, strong legs. But I’m swimming in his arms. And he doesn’t appear to be straining. In fact, I get the impression that he could hold me like this all night. I’m pretty sure that if I struggled—if I wanted to, which I don’t—that it would be entirely at his discretion to let me go or not.
And I feel … small, delicate. No man—no person, in fact—has ever made me feel delicate. I take after my dad. I’m always the one in control—in my relationships, in business, in school with my classmates—and I’ve never really minded it. Being in control is where I’m most comfortable. But this … his arms around me, holding me so tight? This sensation is new.
I think … I think I like it. Maybe not in all areas of life, but physically? Sexually? At the very least, I want to know what it’s like to let go and put my pleasure in someone else’s hands for once.
Before he can set me back on the ground, I circle my arms around his neck and pull him down until his mouth meets mine.
The kiss is soft and slow. At first, he’s surprised and it’s just me kissing him.
Then he responds, and I nearly lose my mind. His tongue finds mine, takes the lead. His arms pull me even closer—so strong and so fucking sexy. His grip is as soft as it is solid. And there’s need in his fingers, the way they palm my skin and clutch my flesh.
He wants this. He wants it just as much as I do, if not more. And he’s letting himself have it. Every muscle in his body is acting on instinct. There’s no hesitation, no doubt. He’s in complete control and I love it. I want more of it, all of it. I want to give my body to him and let him do what he pleases with me.
My breath escapes against his lips. I hadn’t realized how long I’d been holding it until then, how tight I’d been keeping it in my chest. But as soon as he hears my gasp, something breaks between us.
Chapter Four
West
THE SOUND OF HER BREATH brings me back to earth, makes what we’re doing real. Thoughts of her breathing like that fill my mind: gasping, moaning, screaming my name. Everything in me wants to take her back to my room and play her body until I unlock every precious sound she can make. But I don’t. Instead, I pull my hands away from her perfect shape, resisting the urge to cup her luscious ass and wrap her glorious thighs around my waist.
The old me wouldn’t have resisted. The old me didn’t know what is was to say no. To anything. The old me would have stripped her clothes off right here and fucked her brains out.
Sometimes, I miss the old me.
She leans in again, those soft lips slightly parted and ready for my mouth. Fuck.
I put her down. I step back. “No,” I say.
“Why?” she asks, her bold features suddenly looking confused, maybe even a little hurt.
“We can’t,” I say.
Just as fast as that flash of hurt is there, it disappears and her face curls into a grin. “After what I saw in the locker room today, I’m pretty sure we both have the right equipment.”
Jesus, this girl is trouble. And I’ve already had enough trouble to last a lifetime.
“That’s not—it’s not a good idea.” My words fumble in my mouth. She has me frustrated, off my game. Even the single shot tonight was farther than I usually push it. Lucky for me, that’s not my poison. It’s never been a temptation like the other stuff. Still, I like to keep things clean. Easy.
I shouldn’t be distracting myself with women to begin with. And even if I did, she’s the last woman I should be fucking around with.
Not to mention that she’s tipsy. That’s a line in the sand for me, a hard one. I prefer my women conscious and consenting.
Plus, she’s probably not even thinking about how much her dad would absolutely hate us kissing.
“I respect Coach too much for that.”
She exhales and throws her head back in irritation. “Ugggghhhhh,” she groans. “So you’re one of those guys, huh?”
“What guys?”
“Scared of my dad. I really hoped you had bigger balls than that,” she says, a glint in her eye.
What she says has me wanting to prove her wrong, which I’m sure is why she said it. “I’m not scared, and that’s not going to work,” I say.
“Then why don’t you cut to the chase and tell me what will, cowboy?” she asks, smirking.
I take her by the arm and start walking. “Come
on, I’m taking you home.”
“Finally.”
“Your home. Not my home.”
“They won’t let you in. House mom. It’s gonna have to be your place.”
“Knock it off. You know what I mean.”
She rolls her eyes, but walks with me. I keep my pace at a clip as we make our way through the lamp-lit campus quad.
“You’re overthinking again,” she says, irritation clouding her voice. “Did you learn nothing from our shouty time? You’re gonna miss your target, dude.”
“What?” She’s talking drunk again, or maybe I’m too frustrated to understand her right now. It’s not easy saying no to a girl like Lou. And there’s not a lot of blood left in my brain for rational thought.
“Just like on the field,” she says. “Exactly like it. I mean, what’s the problem? I know you like me.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she says, glancing down at my crotch.
This is one of those rare moments when I’m pretty sure it’s easier to be a girl. I reach down and adjust myself so my desire for her is less obvious, and she laughs. She actually laughs.
“Good luck trying to hide that, cowboy.”
“Not everyone from Texas is a cowboy, you know.”
“Don’t ruin my fantasy,” she says.
She’s having fantasies about me, huh? The thought makes me want to buy spurs and a ten gallon hat.
“Does everything you’re thinking make it to your mouth or is it just the booze?”
“Not the booze.”
“Well, maybe you should keep some things to yourself.”
“Is that how you operate?” she asks. “Because I don’t think it’s working out for you so well,” she says as we turn a corner and the giant Kappa house comes into view. “Look. I know you like me. You know you like me. So not acting on it? That’s nothing but fear.”
