I didn’t know back then why I struggled to read and write. Other kids made it look easy, so when I met his gaze, the weight of his disappointment pushed me further down in my chair, and my feelings of confusion and shame intensified beyond repair.
Our housekeeper, Hattie, came in at that point, bringing with her my parents’ after dinner coffee and a glass of milk for me. I thanked her quietly and stared at it, feeling it curdle in my stomach before I’d taken a single sip.
“Is that what you think, Son?” my father prompted, not acknowledging Hattie or the coffee she placed before him. “That you should get special treatment because you can’t be bothered to read or write properly?”
There was no point telling him I wasn’t lazy. My father was stubborn and an egomaniac, even before my failings came to light, so I bit my tongue, preferring to draw blood rather than show emotion at his ruthless spiel.
“No, sir,” I replied quietly.
He gave a heavy sigh, not even happy when I gave agreement. “I’d tell you to try harder, but I don’t think you know how. God knows I want to wash my hands of this whole mess, but then imagine how I’d look if you ended up hauling trash for a living. You’re too damn stupid to do anything else, so you better make football count.”
Despite his shitty delivery, I can’t deny the ring of truth from his words. So I’m making football count.
As though she can hear my thoughts, the girl beside me lets out a deep sigh. I tilt my head and study her profile. There’s something wholesome and appealing about her that makes it hard to look away. Her skin has a tanned glow and her cheeks are flushed a deep shade of pink, making her the perfect advertisement for clean living.
Pausing her mad scribbling, she lifts her head to the whiteboard, and I see her eyes. The color is a clear, arctic blue at odds with the warmth her skin radiates.
If she feels my gaze, she doesn’t acknowledge it. She spends her half hour taking down the notes she missed earlier. When the lecture ends, she disappears into the herd of students and out the door.
With the room empty, I shoulder my backpack and make my way toward my uncle. All my classes are set in the mornings so I don’t have to rush anywhere like everyone else.
At noon I usually grab lunch from the dining hall, followed by an hour of watching film with the team. Around two in the afternoon we hit the field until six. Coach kicks us out after that, enforcing the NCAA rules that say we can’t officially train more than twenty hours a week. What we choose to do after that—hit some extra bags, lift weights, run a few more laps—is on us.
Reaching the front, Patrick looks me in the eye and gets straight to the point. “You’re going to fail senior year, Brody.”
Having my own fear verbalized makes the blood rush in my ears. My first instinct is deny, deny, deny. “I’m not going to—”
He interrupts me, his brow pinched. “You are. I was watching you today. You might have followed what I was saying, but you didn’t take notes and you didn’t do your assigned reading. I know because when I went over the case assignments your eyes glazed over.”
“I—”
“Don’t give me excuses. This has gone on far too long. God knows I’ve waited for your father to step in and do something, but I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.” My uncle folds his arms. “I’m organizing you a tutor. Someone qualified to help you.”
His words sink in and shame rises to the surface. “You can’t,” I hiss furiously, keeping my voice low in consideration of students passing the open doorway. “I don’t need help. I’ve made it this far on my own. I have it handled.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” my uncle replies coolly. Unfolding his arms, he opens his briefcase and begins sliding papers inside. “If you don’t undertake the extra tutelage I arrange for you, I’m speaking to your coach.”
My hands curl into fists by my side, furious he would so easily jeopardize my playing season. “You wouldn’t,” I grind out, knowing full well he would.
“I can and I will.” He pauses for a moment to lock eyes with mine, letting me see the hard determination on his face. After a moment his eyes soften a fraction. “I don’t want to see you fail, Brody.”
After snapping his briefcase shut, he prepares to leave and panic climbs my throat. When he starts for the door, I know I’m screwed, but I make one last ditch attempt to get out of it.
“I won’t fail,” I shout after him. “But it’s possible I might if you force me to do this. I don’t have the time to go traipsing across the city every week to have a fancy tutor teach me something I know I’ll never learn!”
My uncle turns to face me, his brow arching. “I figured you’d say that, and I do happen to understand the demands football places on you, Brody. I have a student tutor in mind. It means you can study on campus after practice.”
He’s out the door before I can argue further. It’s probably for the best. I’m already clutching at straws. There’s nothing more I can say that will convince him to back down.
My thought process takes a turn for the worse. What if he lumps me with Kyle Davis? So help me God, if he does I’ll be forced to shoot something. Preferably Davis. In the junk. Assholes like that shouldn’t be allowed to procreate.
Jaxon materializes when I leave the room. “What was all that about?”
“Nothing,” I mutter. A quick glance at my watch shows I have a half hour left to eat something before training.
We head for the dining hall. Eyes follow as we stride down the walkway. Flustered packs of girls giggle and stumble in my path, and guys try drawing me into conversation about the upcoming game this weekend. It usually doesn’t bother me. I’m used to the lack of anonymity now so I don’t notice, but today I do, and I’m too raw right now to deal with it. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and tug my baseball cap low. It’s a half-assed attempt to keep people at bay, but it’s better than nothing.
We’re halfway across the quad when a commanding shout gets my attention. Ryan Carter is spinning the ever-present football in his hands as he makes his way toward us.
“’Sup, Madden,” he calls out with a grin and throws a perfect spiral my way. I stretch up and the ball lands in my arms with ease. The star quarterback whoops loudly as he jogs over. A small entourage trails behind him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride.
Reaching the two of us, Carter points to my forehead. “Man, what the hell is that?”
“What’s what?” I give him a blank stare and he jams his thumb in the spot between my brows.
“It’s a fuck furrow, bro,” he replies when I swat his hand away. “It means you need to get laid. Can’t be stressed for the season opener.”
My mind immediately goes to the blonde in class and my skin prickles with heat. Those legs wrapped around me right now would go a long way to easing this abrasive worry weighting my shoulders, but she had me distracted the entire last half hour. That’s exactly what I need to avoid this year.
Jordan
Saturday afternoon rolls around and my body is wiped from running around campus all week like a headless chicken. Leah is at Hayden’s for the night, so my intention is to crawl my way onto the sofa, spread myself out like a starfish, and watch Thor pound his big hammer on the television.
I just finish popping a packet of buttery popcorn in the microwave when Leah sends me a message.
Leah: Hayden has football tickets. Come pick us up in your new car!
Jordan: Can’t. My feet fell off and I can’t find them.
Leah: LOL! Look under the bed. And be quick about it or we’ll miss kick off.
I sigh wistfully, thinking of Chris Hemsworth waiting for me with his deep, sexy voice that reminds me of home.
Soon, I promise him silently and head to my room to find something to wear. Settling for comfort, I tug on a sleeveless orange hoodie with Colton Bulls printed on the front in navy. After teaming it with a leg-baring pair of white denim shorts, I leave my tousled hair hanging loose. With any luck,
people will think the messy style is exactly what I’m aiming for.
Pocketing my keys and phone, I lock up and head for my car with an excited grin. As of this morning I have wheels. Granted they’re shitty ones, but who cares? I have relative independence, and the chance to explore the Wild West like I’ve been desperate to do since the moment I arrived.
When the crapfest Nissan Pulsar I purchased that very morning coasts into a spot at an apartment complex within walking distance from ours, I breathe a happy sigh of relief. The car made the short trip on a wing and a prayer—and a few strategically placed strips of duct tape. I always keep some on hand because the tape is a crafty fix-all for most of life’s problems: ankle sprains, tightening shin guards, emergency hem repair, and strapping guys to chairs if they get too handsy. Not that I’ve ever done the latter, but at least I have the option if needed.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I step out into the late afternoon humidity and stretch hard. Every over-worked muscle in my body quivers with delight, and I even moan a little. It’s not quite orgasmic, but it’s damn close.
I hear a long, low whistle and my eyes fly open. Straight across from me idles a big black SUV. The tint looks dark enough to be illegal, but one of the rear windows is down, revealing a carload of guys. The back door opens and one of them spills out. His unruly blond curls are stuck to his temples with sweat, and a pair of black Ray-Bans cover his eyes.
“Yo, Damien!” he yells at the driver as he walks backwards to the block of apartments. A snug white tee shirt with red sleeves stretches across his broad, athletic shoulders as he moves. “You want anything?”
The front window comes down on the SUV, revealing the driver. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low. It hides most of his face but dark hair peeks out beneath as he leans out the window.
I catch a glimpse of tanned skin and white, even teeth as he yells back at his friend, “Yeah, grab some condoms! I’m all out!”
As though feeling my gaze, he turns his head in my direction. Ugh. Busted! The guy in the passenger seat beside him looks my way too. Thankfully my phone beeps a text message. Reaching through the passenger window to grab it off the seat hides my flush.
Leah: Hurry up, asshat!
I tap out a quick reply to Leah and hit send.
Jordan: Check your damage! I’m already here.
I toss my phone back on the seat just as a small box comes flying out a third floor window and lands right at my feet. Shading my eyes, I glance up and see the guy from the SUV waving down at me.
“Sorry!” he yells. “My aim was off!”
My eyes fall back to the box. It’s a packet of Durex flavored condoms. I reach down and pick it up. The front features a banana, apple, sliced orange, and a strawberry, with a tagline that reads fruity flavors for extra fun. I give an audible snort because nothing spells out sexy times better than fruit salad.
I glance up again when the guy comes bursting out of the apartment block, his sunglasses perched on his head. He jogs over, his tanned skin covered with a light sheen of sweat from the heat.
I hold out the box. “Wow. Fruity fun. Sounds healthy.”
He gives me a quick once over before a cocky grin breaks across his face, showcasing deep dimples. He takes the box from my hand. “You look like you’re into sports and nutrition. Wanna taste my banana?”
Did he really just say that? “What an offer. Unfortunately I have to wash my hair.”
“Burn,” says one of the guys in the back of the SUV and makes a hissing noise. The sound of laughter trails from the car.
His hazel eyes crinkle, and he cocks his head curiously. “You’re Australian?”
“I am,” I reply, surprised at him picking up the accent. “From Sydney. I’m here on a sports scholarship.”
He leans up against my shitty car and folds his arms. It makes his biceps bulge temptingly, and I wonder if it’s for my benefit. “What do you play?”
I shrug, deciding to humor him while I wait for my friends. “Soccer.”
“A hot female jock that loves playing with balls? Sign me up!” He clutches a hand to his heart, and I can’t help but laugh at the dramatic gesture and at being called hot. “I’m Jaxon Draper, by the way,” he adds, holding out his hand. “But my friends call me Jax.”
His palm is rough and warm, and I like the feel of it in mine far too much so I let go quickly. “Jordan Elliott.”
“Wow, Jaxon and Jordan,” he replies. “We sound good together.”
“Really?” My brows rise dubiously. “I think we sound more like a nineteen-sixties singing duo.”
He laughs and sidles a little closer, looking up at me from beneath thick lashes. “But I can’t sing, so how about we skip the singing part and go straight to the duo?”
“Or we could just skip the duo part and go straight to the break-up?”
Jaxon’s hazel eyes light up. “Make-up sex!”
I take a much-needed step back. “I won’t win with you, will I?”
“Not if I can help it,” he replies and peers inside my car. “What’s with all the stuff?” he asks, looking at my bag of laundry. It sits next to a sports bag full of soccer gear: boots, shin guards, sweaty uniforms. I wince at the mess. I meant to get that stuff out the car, but I was too lazy to climb back up the stairs before driving over here. “You’re not moving are you? What happened? Boyfriend dump you? Because his loss is my gain. I have an apartment right here,” he says with a wave at the building in front of us. “I share it with two assholes, but I can kick them out.”
The horn of the SUV blasts and the guy driving calls out, “Hurry up, Jax!”
Jaxon waves off his friends without taking his eyes from mine. “Shut up, Damien!” he yells back, not seeming bothered by it. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
“Busy being a loser,” comes another voice, making me wonder how many guys are squeezed in there. I risk another glance at the car, finding them all watching us with interest.
“You should go,” I tell him, shifting uncomfortably beneath their stares.
“I should.” He pushes off from his lean on my car. “When’s your next game? I’ll come watch.”
“You already missed it. We played last night.”
“Damn. Next time then?”
We can always do with more bums on seats so I shrug an agreement, careful to keep it casual.
“So did you kick ass last night? What am I saying?” he says before I can reply. “Of course you did. Look at those long legs and cute little biceps.” Jaxon starts walking backwards, his eyes roving over me admiringly. Heat floods my cheeks from the aggressive flirting. “I bet you kill it on the field.”
“I do,” I assure him, the car keys jingling as I pocket them to head inside and chase up Leah. “I kill it off the field too, so consider yourself warned.”
“Don’t hurt me.” Jaxon holds his hands up in mock fear, but underneath I can see his pleasure at my teasing response. He points the box of condoms at me. “I’m sure I’ll being seeing you around, Killer.” Turning for the SUV, he holds the box crudely against his groin and crows to his friends, “Behold! The fruit of my loins!”
I ignore them after that, making it halfway to the building entrance before Leah comes jogging out the front door. Stripes are painted across her cheeks like war paint in our college team colors of orange, blue, and white. Matching ribbons flutter cheerily in her waves of dark brown hair.
“Ellioootttt!” she shouts loud enough for an entire mile radius to hear. Her shorts are similar to mine, but she’s wearing a short-sleeved tee shirt that fits snug across her torso. Reaching my side, she makes a kissy face. “How do I look?”
I give her an exaggerated once-over as Hayden makes his way toward us. “Like an orange tabby cat out on the prowl.”
“Perfect,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s just the look I was aiming for.”
Hearing a squeal of tires, I glance over at the SUV leaving the parking lot. I catch a flash of red taillights, a blac
k and white number plate that reads MADDEN2, and a sticker on the back window of a football above the words: The person that said winning isn’t everything, never won anything.
Hayden and Leah are oblivious to the departing carload of guys. They’re both too busy staring at my car, their expressions dubious. I spread my arms wide and grin. “What do you think?”
Leah opens her mouth to reply. A garbled sound comes out.
“I think it’s great,” Hayden says quickly, but we all know it’s a lie. There’s nothing great about my car. At least he tried.
Fifteen minutes later I squeeze into a spot at the stadium between a red Dodge Ram and a shiny black Escalade. Leah sinks low in the backseat with a humiliated moan, her brown eyes peering out the window to make sure she hasn’t been seen.
“I’m not embarrassed at all, just so you know.”
“No one can see you anyway. They’re all inside.” I yank the handbrake on and it protests with a loud, teeth-grinding screech. I flinch at the horrendous sound.
Hayden is more vocal. “Motherfuck!”
I glare at both of them in turn. “At least I have a car,” I say, because the car Leah collected me from the airport with is Hayden’s, and right now it’s sitting at the mechanic’s with a busted whozeewhatsit.
“Only because you have a brother who sent you money to buy it,” Leah points out as Hayden makes his escape. She snaps her gum and reaches for her bag while I roll up the window. The air-conditioner is busted, so it’s either warm air blasting from the open window or slow suffocation. “I think I’d rather have no car than one that has a front bumper held on with a bunch of tape.”
“Just pretend they’re silver racing stripes. Ta da! Instant street cred.”
“People are gonna egg your car,” I hear her mumble as she shoves open the creaky door and hops out. The central locking is also stuffed, so I jam the key in the door to lock it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I chide as the three of us walk around the front and examine the front bumper. Six vertical pieces of tape stretch from the bonnet to somewhere beneath the car. Nicky will shit a brick if he sees it. “You can barely notice it.”
The End Game Page 3
