by Teagan Kade
What an asshole. I press my legs together like he’s got X-ray vision, taking a little step back until my senses come to me again, the fire inside me rising at the gall, the utter arrogance of this creature. “Who do you think you are?”
That smile again. “I’m Asher fucking Slade, captain of three-time CWS champs the Hellcats and all-around great guy. Question is, who the fuck are you?”
There’s applause, whooping. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“Willow,” I reply, weak.
Why the hell are you telling him your name?!
I realize I’m staring at his chest. Get it together, woman!
“I— I—” but I’ve lost my train of thought.
A coffee slides onto the counter. Asher reaches behind him and swipes it without looking, without breaking eye contact with me. “Let me know when you’re ready for the Asher experience.” He reaches down and grabs his dick. “Doesn’t seem like that mouth of yours is good for anything else.”
Said mouth drops to the floor as he winks and walks off smiling.
I cannot believe that just happened. I’m frozen.
“Your order?”
I bring my attention back to Coffee Guy. “Um, mocha, skim.”
He writes my order down while shaking his head and smiling. “Man, Asher Slade. What a guy, right?”
I look outside where Asher ‘World’s Biggest Dick’ Slade is happily walking across the quadrangle, fist-bumping and high-fiving people as he goes, not a care in the world, hot coffee in his hand—what should have been my coffee, bringing it to those perfect lips of his.
I’m so angry I can barely summon rational thought. And to think he had the audacity to ask me to sleep with him, just like that, as if every girl he meets drops to her knees before him.
I continue to shake my head, my foot tapping on the floor in staccato.
One day, Sir Slade, you’ll get what you deserve. Mark my words.
*
Like the auditorium, the dorm is a ghost town. Everyone’s either at the game or the bar. No one in their right mind would be studying right now, but then again, many would argue I’m not quite together in the head department to begin with.
But I’m not going to let Mom down, again, and I’m sure as hell not going to let myself down. Penbrook doesn’t hand out scholarships like Halloween candy. I’m one of the lucky ones. I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of attending a college like this without it.
Provided you can keep it.
My roommate Amy is out, her colorful, K-Pop-clad side of the room is the complete antithesis to my spartan, minimalist existence. But that’s the way I like it—no distractions. No boys. No drugs. No nothing that could interfere with my one goal of getting though pre-med and into the kind of career I’ve been dreaming of my whole life, actually helping people and making a difference in the world. What’s that knucklehead Asher going to do with that big ol’ bat of his? Play Major League? Hang out at the Playboy Mansion, father a couple of illegitimate children?
Why are you thinking about him?
I place down the books I picked up at the library, trying to cradle my coffee at the same time. The tiny desk groans with dissatisfaction. “Behold, the weight of the written word,” I announce, seating myself and pulling the first book across. So I don’t have a hot guy to keep me company tonight. So what? I’ve got something better. I’ve got organic chemistry and neuroscience… hundreds of pages of it.
Yay.
I switch on the small TV on the side of the desk. I can’t study in silence. I need background noise, always have. Even as a baby I couldn’t sleep unless the TV was blaring.
“Oh, come on.” It’s the game. I mean, what kind of college televises its own freakin’ baseball games? I’m about to switch it off when I see Asher step up to the plate. He swings the bat through the air, that bucky, world-at-my-feet smile still plastered over his impossibly perfect features, not a strand of inky hair out of place.
I should change the channel, but something fixes me to the screen.
Leave it, I tell myself. It’s not like you’re going to watch it anyhow.
So I do, returning to my notes, but from the first crack of ball on bat my eyes snap back to the screen to see Asher tossing the bat aside and pumping his way around the bases. It takes the opposition forever to get the ball back down to the diamond, by which time Asher’s already slid home. The crowd goes wild, one of his fellow team members slapping him on the ass on the way through. What I wouldn’t give to deliver him a solid spanking of my own, teach him a lesson. Hell, I doubt anyone has ever stood up to him.
That’s the problem with America’s sport obsession. We celebrate these juiced-up Neanderthals for what? Hitting a little leather ball? We treat them like national heroes. They get all the fame and funding while the real heroes—those who actually contribute to society—go unrewarded. But that’s life, isn’t it? Far from fair. Just one big coffee line.
It’s enough to get my head back into the real game—my studies.
The game shifts into white noise as I work through my assignments, endless charts of anatomy and alien Latin. An hour from midnight, I finish up far sooner than expected. It feels good, almost orgasmic—not that I’ve experienced one in a while, but I still understand the anatomy of it, the theory.
Story of your life, huh?
I close my workbook and relax back in my chair. My eyes turn to the TV. Oddly, I make no attempt to stop them. It’s the ninth inning and the Hellcats are down. Asher steps up to the plate again with the same perpetual grin on his face like he just knows he’s got this, confidence incarnate.
Dad was a huge baseball fan. He never missed a Yankees game, even when they underperformed. He was teaching me the ins and out of ‘God’s sport’ before I could walk, which is why I know the Hellcats need a home run to take the win.
Asher takes his stance, butt out and hands high. It looks like he’s chewing on something. His inflated ego, most likely.
Anatomically, there is something to be admired about the man. In a purely scientific way. Six-one and broad through the shoulders, thighs like concrete columns. And those eyes… It’s like they’ve been injected with glacial ice. Incredible, really.
Shame his brain’s the size of a pea.
Not like the size of his…
I stop myself, my spread legs coming back together, the heated pull between them easing. Asher Slade doesn’t hide much. There are enough naked selfies of him floating around campus to fill a swimming pool. Have I looked? Of course, though not by choice. One day I walked in to find one filling Amy’s laptop screen. I’m talking edge to edge with penis. I thought she was studying anacondas until I came closer.
The problem is that being team captain means Asher gets whatever he wants, when he wants it—girls, grades, you name it. Only a week ago he and a few of his baseball butt buddies overturned a car down near Greek row. Some poor Honda owner woke to find his beloved Civic shiny side up on the front lawn. And what grand punishment did the mighty Asher Slade receive? Zip. Nothing. Nadda. No pending discipline until after the game tonight, like that’s fair. How the college managed to stop charges being laid is beyond me. There’s footage of the act everywhere. But that’s Asher for you—untouchable.
The pitcher throws. It’s a fastball, sweeping high. Asher swings. The bat collects, the camera switches to show the ball soaring into the stands. A homer.
Asher places the bat down and leisurely strolls around the bases, continuing to grab at his crotch and whip the crowd into a frenzy. They love him for it, everyone on their feet—everyone except me. I’m staying seated, thank you very much.
He steps onto the last base before he’s engulfed by his team. They lift him onto their shoulders, tossing him in the air.
I can’t take any more. I switch the TV off and change into my PJs, sliding into bed and facing the wall praying Amy won’t spend tonight screwing some guy five feet away.
CHAPTER TWO
ASHER
“Need some company later?” A leggy blonde hands me down a strip of paper just as I’m about to walk into the tunnel. She looks familiar, but then again, they all do. It’s far too easy to hit and run these days. There’s no challenge in it, no sport.
I take the slip and toss it as soon as I’m out of sight. I’ll have company tonight, but I want to be drunk enough to forget it the following morning.
“You fucking dog.” Leon, our pitcher, pulls me into a headlock. “I thought you were going to screw us over at the end there, you waited so long to swing.”
I push him away playfully. “Jersey boy. I hit the fucking homer, didn’t I? What more do you want? I can’t clone myself.”
He laughs, letting me go. “Thank god for that. What are we doing later? The Quagmire?”
He’s referring to the campus bar, our usual celebratory go-to.
“There’s this hot little thing I met coming out of pre-law,” he continues. “I’m talking Esmerelda tits, defying fucking gravity.”
I keep walking. “And I suppose you’ve road-tested her already?”
He smiles. “Of course. You know I have to sort the wheat from the chaff for you, bro.”
“I suppose I should thank you for your service then.”
“I’ll let you buy the first round. No biggie.”
I nod. “No biggie.”
Leon’s harmless enough, if a little competitive. He was pissed when I was made captain, but so be it. I’m the better player. Besides, we’ve been through enough together to avoid a petty thing like that getting in the way of brotherhood.
I see Coach waiting ahead.
“Shit,” says Leon, peeling off. “He’s all yours, Slugger.”
Fuck.
I’m looking for an escape, but the tunnel only leads in one direction. You think a coach would be happy his star player is racking up the wins, but I know that look. He’s got something to get off his chest, and it ain’t his grandma’s recipe for chocolate chip cookies.
“Asher,” he starts.
I stop to stand in front of him. “Coach.”
“Great game, son,” he begins. I’m waiting for the ‘but’.
He gets straight to it. That’s Coach Harris for you—anti-bullshit. “I just got off the phone with the Dean.”
I snort. “Tell him he can congratulate me himself.”
I go to walk past, but Coach’s hand holds me back. “There’s going to have to be some recompense for your little car-flipping stunt, I’m afraid.”
“Recompense?” I repeat.
Coach chews on his lip, looking past me. “It can’t go unpunished. Not this time.”
A cold chill runs through me. I’ve taken it too far. This is it, my dreams about to be shattered. “What is it? A suspension?”
Nothing.
“Holy fuck. Am I being expelled? Come on, you know—”
Coach puts a hand up, cutting me off. “You should thank your lucky stars I know how to negotiate, Slade.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean all you’re going to have to do to make this right is a little community service.”
Only one question matters. “I can still play, right?”
Coach’s hand falls onto my shoulder. “You bet your ass. You won’t miss any games, or training.”
My lungs fill with relief. “Thanks, Coach. I mean it.”
“Oh, you’ll mean it, Slade. You’re going to go where the Dean tells you and give it your best fucking shot. I don’t care if this community service is wiping elderly asses. You’re going to suck it up and do it with a smile on your face unless you really do want a one-way ticket out of here. You’re hanging on by the skin of your teeth, son. Remember that.”
“I will. So, what am I doing? Spot of gardening? Breaking rocks?”
I don’t like the vaudeville smile that lights up Coach’s face. “How do you feel about kids?”
*
The Quagmire is in full swing when I arrive. It’s a small bar, but that doesn’t stop a hundred horny, thirsty students from cramming into the space. It’s easy pickings when you’re the star attraction.
A guy wearing a clown wig jumps in front of me, his two pointer fingers jammed into my chest. “You’re fucking awesome, man!”
I thank him and move on, more well-wishers clapping me on the back or trying to get a word in. By the time I reach the actual bar I’ve had three offers of casual sex, an invitation to an orgy, and a proposal.
Leon’s waiting at the bar with my drink of choice, CC & Dry, waiting. He looks over. “You look fucking exhausted, man. Don’t tell me you stopped to run one through that cheerleader, the one with the space between her teeth,” he taps his own, “right here. Fuck, what’s her name?”
I pick up my drink. “Lexie.”
Leon slams his hand down on the counter. There’s a collection of glasses there. Looks like he started without me. “Yes! Fucking Lexie with the perfect ass. Bet you haven’t told Taylor about her.”
I take a swig and place the bottle down. “Taylor and I aren’t exclusive. She should know that by now.”
Leon laughs. “Does she know that?”
I don’t reply.
A guy approaches Leon. The exchange happens quickly, down low, the customer heading back into the crowd.
I shake my head. “You’re playing with fire. How many times have I told you to stop dealing that shit?”
Leon quickly flicks through the bills. “You can’t live large on pennies. Not everyone has loaded mother.”
I point to myself with my drink. “Like me?”
“Yes, like you, asshole.” He looks at me closer. “You look tired, bro.”
In truth, I’m exhausted. The prospect of sleeping with another random girl tonight isn’t actually all that exciting, but I have a certain reputation to uphold. At least it will help you sleep.
Leon turns, his back to the bar, elbows resting on the runner. “What did Coach have to say? It was about the car-flipping thing, wasn’t it?”
Leon’s more perceptive than people give him credit for. Not much gets by him. I take another mouthful of my CC & Dry, clearing my throat. A girl lifts her shirt in the corner, shaking her flapjack breasts in our direction. “I knew I wouldn’t get away with it. It was a stupid fucking idea, really.”
Leon punches me in the shoulder. “Fuck that. You guys were just blowing off some steam, having a little fun. Besides, you were hammered.”
“That’s no excuse,” I reply. “At least not in the Dean’s eyes”.
“Fuck the Dean!” Leon exclaims, arms swinging wide, his drink sloshing over the rim of the glass. “Like he didn’t get up to some shit when he was in college.”
“Did they even have alcohol in the 1800s?”
Leon knocks on the bar. “Funny motherfucker. What do you have to do then? Blow the old man?” He pops his cheek out with his tongue.
I shake my head, cradling my drink. “I wish. No, some kind of volunteer-slash-community service crap.” I reach into my pocket and hand him the slip of paper Coach gave me. “I’ve got to report to this place tomorrow first thing and talk to that girl, one of the students who volunteers there.”
Leon reads. “The McMahon Center For Disadvantaged Kids? Fuck me. Sounds like a sinkhole for dreams if ever there was one.” He keeps reading. “Holy shit.”
“What is it?”
He taps the paper, looking up at me. “I know this girl, man, the one you’ve got to meet.”
“You do?”
He nods. “Oh, yeah. Willow Grant. We went to high school together.”
“And?” My head kicks into gear. This could prove useful. Leon can sweet-talk her a little, cut my sentence down. If I’m Maverick when it comes to girls, Leon’s Goose. He’s just as slick as I am when it comes to wooing the fairer sex.
Leon takes out his cell, swiping and scrolling. He passes it across to me. “See for yourself. She’s doing pre-med here, real studious type, professor’s pet. That kind of shit.”
/> Whatever fantasy I had of getting out of this evaporates when I see the face on screen. It’s the girl from the coffee shop, the one who took offense to me cutting in line. “Fuck.”
Leon takes the phone back. “I feel you. She’s a fox, right? I mean, I don’t usually go for redheads, the glasses are a bit much, but let me tell you, there’s a decent body there.”
I swallow. “You haven’t…?”
“Willow?” laughs Leon, shaking his head, but it’s forced. I can’t get a read on whether he’s lying or not. “You’d have better luck getting into Fort Knox than her pants, big boy. I doubt she even comes out of her dorm room.” He sees the expression on my face. “What? You don’t think you’re going to be the one to crack the code, do you? You’re good, bro, but you’re not superhuman. One look at that Batus Gigantis of yours and she’ll run a mile.”
I was in a rush at the Grind House, but I do remember her. I never forget a face, especially one that hasn’t been below me, twisted in the throes of climax while I work my magic. “What do you propose I do? Coach said the Dean was clear. If I fuck this up in any way, I’m off the team for the rest of the year. I’m talking ‘show up a minute late and you’re out’.”
Leon slides his cell back into his pocket. “Like I said, your Jedi mind tricks aren’t going to work on this one. Trust me. You’re going to have to go for the long con.”
I take another hit of my drink. “I can handle it.”
“Like you handled the Ambrosi twins? Because that story is legend, man.”
“A legend best forgotten.” I attempt to change the subject. “What about you? How’s economics working out?”
He faces the bar again, looking down at his glass. “You know the average we have to hold to stay on the team. I’m skating close to the line, bro, but I’ll be fine. Not everyone has the golden ticket for a 4.0 free ride like you do.”
I play along. “The benefits of being Penbrook’s golden boy.”
“Do you even have to do fucking anything, or do you just hand in pictures of your dick and wait for the A?”
I grin. “Why, you want one?”
