Exception (Cambria University Series Book 1)

by Sadie T. Williams

  I am watching a movie on my couch with a girl. Rule number two has been broken and rule number one is teetering on the edge and is close behind.

  Chapter 7: Brooks

  “FUCK!” I shout when I wake up. It’s 6:10 a.m. She’s gone. I fell asleep to her soft breathing with the scent of vanilla filling the air before USA hockey beat Russia in the 1980 Olympics.

  Where could she have gone? How did she get there? I drove her here. Did I say something or do something to freak her out? Fucking stupid, Mac. She isn’t like the rest of the girls, where I can flash my smile and say something smooth to win them over. I’m in a panic right now. Frenzied really. I had planned to get her number, but never got around to it. I was going to ask for it when I brought her home. Double fuck.

  I immediately text Bateman, because I know he’s at Blaire’s apartment, to see if Kiernan is there. No response. He’s probably still fast asleep with Blaire. It’s not worth texting Blaire if Bateman won’t answer. I pace around for what feels like an eternity, but it has only been twenty minutes. Fuck it. I’m still in my clothes from the party, so I quickly change. I pull on some sweatpants, throw my CU dri-fit t-shirt on, socks, running shoes and I bolt for my truck. I’m going over there.

  I pull into the parking lot and run to her building. I am pretty sure Bateman told me once that their apartment building is number two and their apartment is number two. He found it funny because each of the players that live there has a two in their jersey number too.

  I reach the door of apartment 2-2 and knock. More like pound, but I want to wake up whoever is there. The sun is up and I can hear the TV on. I listen harder and I can hear footsteps shuffling to the door. The lock clicks and Kiernan opens the door.

  “Oh thank God!” I shout, louder than I intended.

  “What?” she asks, looking completely perplexed. Her eyebrows are in a deep furrow.

  “I woke up. Wait, first, I’m sorry I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to. It was late and I was just comfortable with you. But then I woke up and you were gone and I thought something bad happened. Like you were pissed at me or something. I should have driven you home and I don’t have your num—“ I’m just spilling words out of my mouth at a rapid pace when Kiernan holds up a finger to her lips and cuts me off. This is so unlike the cool and calm Brooks McCarthy that I usually am. This girl has me tweaked.

  “Shhh. You don’t have to apologize. It was super late and I was getting tired. When you started snoring I took that as my cue to leave. I tucked you in on the couch and called an Uber. It’s all good. I know how it ends. Go USA!” Then she flashes me a brilliant smile. “Come on in.” She waves her arm and invites me inside. Well, that went better than I expected. I’m so used to girls getting pissed off when I stop paying attention to them. I have to remember she isn’t most girls.

  She walks over to the couch, which has a New England Patriots fleece blanket on it, thrown back like she was just lying there. She plops back down on it and covers herself back up, getting comfortable. Okay, I’ll take this as an opportunity to hang out with her. She’s a Patriots fan. Noted.

  She’s wearing white yoga pants and black and white layered athletic tank tops. Her caramel hair is piled in a messy bun on her head, as always. She looks exactly like she did last night, except with a change of clothes. She’s the only girl I know who can possibly look this good when she wakes up. Just a natural beauty.

  I walk over and motion to her to lift her legs. She complies and I slide underneath. She rests her legs back on top of my thighs. I begin to gently rub her legs over the top of the blanket. I’ll take whatever physical contact I can get. She glances at me with her large, black eyes before she shifts her focus back to SportsCenter. My cock twitches. She’s beautiful, athletic, and knows as much about sports as most of my boys.

  “So you’re a Pats fan?” I nod to her blanket.

  “Yeah, I grew up on the East Coast. I’ve been a Pats fan my whole life. You?” I do remember her saying last night she grew up in New England.

  “Go Vikes!” I say with a smile.

  “I suppose you have to be a Vikings fan, considering your dad played for them.”

  Here it is. She finally brought up the great Rhett McCarthy. This is when girls show their true colors. The real reason they’re interested in me. Future arm candy of an NFL quarterback.

  “That pick Baumann threw against New Orleans in the NFC championship. Ouch. I bet he was pissed for a year.”

  Wait, what? “You saw that game, huh?” She isn’t asking me about being a football god or about going pro like my dad. She actually watched a game, and I shouldn’t be surprised. That pick cost the Vikings the game and their shot to go to the Super Bowl. The Patriots ended up winning the Super Bowl that season, over New Orleans. “He was pissed for a long time. He thinks it was pass interference because Randall hit him early, before he picked it off. We still can’t talk about that game at home. Don’t ever bring it up,” I try to joke.

  “Okay, I’ll remember that if I ever come face to face with your dad,” she laughs. She’s not going to ask me to meet him. Does that mean she doesn’t see this going anywhere, that she can’t see herself meeting my parents, or that she legit has no interest in meeting the great one? I wonder why she isn’t impressed by my dad’s superstar status when she’s such a huge football fan. It took my best friends a year to stop swooning over my dad when he came to games. But why am I worried about her wanting to meet my parents anyways? I don’t date. I don’t date. Rule number fucking two, Mac.

  “So sorry I left last night,” she apologizes and changes the subject.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” I say and try my best not to sound like a pussy.

  “Why?” she asks, genuinely confused.

  “Because the last thing I remember is you snuggled up with me, and then poof, you’re gone like a fucking ghost. I didn’t know if you left pissed off, if you were dead in a ditch somewhere, fucking my neighbor—“

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she cuts me off, holding up her hand in a stop motion. “There will be no fucking random neighbors. Ever. So strike that one out. Dead in a ditch?” She laughs. “Are you my mom disguised as a hot football player? I just didn’t want to wake you. It was my fault you were up so late after you had a long enough day. Game days take a lot out of you and you need to rest. I was fine calling an Uber.”

  “What if Ted Bundy was your Uber driver?”

  “He’s dead.” She smiles and snorts as she responds. I love that she finds herself funny. Snorting can be cute apparently. I chuckle at her response.

  “You know what I mean. You’re never bothering me. I would have brought you home. Don’t do that to me again, please. I may be a narcissistic asshole jock, but I have a heart.”

  “Okay, geez. I didn’t think narcissistic jocks cared about the little people,” she says, half-joking. “I’m sorry.” That, I can tell, is sincere.

  “Okay, I forgive you,” I smile. “Speaking of narcissistic, anything from our game on SportsCenter yet?” I inquire.

  “Yeah, they said you guys are contenders for sure. This strong start is a good sign and the fact that you had a monster game just shows that you’re taking the team in the right direction. They said Michigan, Ohio State, and Florida will be your biggest tests until the playoffs. Duh. But they had a nice video of your ass while you were tossing one to Bateman.”

  “You like my ass, huh?”

  “That was your takeaway from what I just said?” She rolls her eyes. Narcissistic. Check.

  “Well we already know who the perennial powerhouses are. We just don’t play LSU, Bama, Oklahoma or Georgia until playoffs. We need to be in the top four all year, or we won’t make it.”

  “Is Florida next week?”

  “Yup, still non-conference games, but this one will be huge. We have head down to Gainesville on Friday. It’s a hard place to play. Game time is eleven on Saturday.”

  “We play Florida too. Fall season on Thursday. They’re c
oming up here though. We play UNC on Tuesday first. We should win both, but you never know. We should have won the title last season and didn’t. And we’re going to be riding the arms of a freshman and a senior. Nothing in between.”

  “Listening to you talk about riding is turning me on.” I flash her devilish smile. Her cheeks turn pink at my words. Fuck yes.

  Sitting here, talking sports with Kiernan, feels natural. We’re chatting like the oldest of friends. I feel like we’ve known each other for twenty years, not twenty seconds. Nothing is forced and there aren’t any awkward silences. I’m still rubbing her legs on top of the blanket, and we just continue our sports banter for another half hour. She’s fucking fantastic. I haven’t enjoyed talking to a female this much since – well, I’ve never had this much fun talking to a girl, ever.

  “Okay, scoot!” she says and rolls off the couch. “I gotta hit the RAC before my day gets away from me. I can’t lift tomorrow because we play Tuesday, and I have to study tonight.”

  The RAC, or Recreational and Athletic Center, is the athlete’s hub on campus. We have an 8,000-square-foot weight room that makes other schools drool. There are twenty squat racks, free weights, treadmills and elliptical machines, six cable and pulley machines, and several other machines like a leg press and lat pulldowns. Each machine, weight or bench is black and accented in gold, with the Golden Knights mascot embossed somewhere on the equipment. Besides the weight room, there are multiple gymnasiums where the basketball and volleyball teams practice, plus space for all the club teams. And six racquetball courts, three dance studios, two pools, and basically anything else you can imagine students and athletes could possibly want in a fitness center. They even have an indoor golf facility.

  “Want some company?” I wouldn’t mind watching her do squats in those white pants.

  “You lift on Sundays during season?” she questions.

  “Not usually, but I can do some light work and stretching. I can’t stretch enough in season. My legs are always tight.”

  “So is your ass.” She winks and I feel my gut tighten and my cock twitch again. “Sure, let’s go before too many people fill it up. I hate lifting in front of people.”

  “No wonder I’ve never seen you in there.” I’m starting to figure her out. She hides. She gets hit on constantly. She hates being the center of attention. And if she lifts in yoga pants like she has on now, I’m sure no one in the weight room focuses on anything except her ass. I know I won’t be able to tear my eyes off of it.

  I have girls throwing themselves at me daily, but it’s different for her. I can be an asshole and tell the jersey chasers to piss off. She doesn’t. She’s kind to every one of them, and without realizing it, she gives them hope. She’s giving me hope right now. I’m tagging along to watch her lift. Seriously, this is happening. I’m altering my day for a chick. I can’t explain it. I just know I don’t want to leave her yet.

  RULE NUMBER ONE!

  Chapter 7: Kiernan

  I roll back home around 2:30 in the morning, but I’m not even tired. I get out of my Uber and head down the asphalt path toward my apartment. My head is spinning trying to process the hours prior to now. It’s pitch black inside our apartment because my roommates are either still at the party or passed out. Thank God, no questions or harassment. I just spent the last couple hours cuddling on a couch with Brooks McCarthy and watching him fall asleep. I am not one to swoon, get trapped in lust-filled thoughts, or even spend time concerning myself with boys. I don’t lose my head or my focus, ever.

  His breathing slowed and his beautiful blue eyes grew heavier as I ran my fingers through his hair. I didn’t want to leave him. Besides my besties, I have never felt this comfortable being with someone. He makes me feel at ease, safe, and free. My whole life I had to be the picture of perfection as John Kelly’s daughter. Growing up in the spotlight and judging eyes of the media isn’t easy for a teenage girl. I learned to put on a smile and pretend like it's always wonderful. My dad taught me to fake it for the spotlight, and if something is bothering me, to cry into my pillow in the privacy of my own room. You never let people see your true emotions. It makes you weak.

  I don’t think I need to fake it with Brooks though. I may be in the friend zone with him, but that at least it means I can be me. I walk back to my bedroom and put on the clothes I’ll wear tomorrow to go lift. It’ll just be easier in the morning since it’s so late now anyway. I lay down on the couch, grab my blanket, turned on SportsCenter, and fell asleep to images of his bright eyes and perfect smile, and the feeling of his rock-hard chest against my cheeks when he held me.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! I’m startled awake. What time is it? Fuck, it’s not even 6:30 a.m. yet. I’ve only been asleep for a little while. I lazily roll off the couch.

  Brooks is standing at my door and starts babbling. I catch something about not knowing where I went, and in between, when he does manage to take a breath he’s apologizing to me for falling asleep. He was worried I left. He thought I left him and that I was upset. He’s so strange. Why would I be mad at him for that? I’m not going back to sleep now, so I invite him in. Plus, deep down I want him here. I’m in uncharted territory with him and I don’t know what to do. I just know I want him here.

  I decide casual is the best option. I walk back to spot on the couch and cover up again. Brooks walks over to me, motions for me to lift me legs, and slides underneath me. He begins gently rubbing my legs over my blanket and my whole body feels like it’s on fire. I can’t imagine what I would do if he were actually touching me skin to skin. Every fiber of being wants him, and I don’t know how to express that.

  “So you’re a Pats fan?” Oh shit. He knows football. He knows John Kelly was the best quarterback to play for the Pats before Brady came into the league.

  I don’t want to talk about the NFL. He knows too much, and soon he’ll put two and two and figure out who my dad is. So I change the subject slightly and begin talking about his team, telling him what the SportsCenter hosts said about the Golden Knights. They’re heading to Florida this weekend for a game in Gainesville. I’m going to miss him. Shit. I need to get up. This is becoming too easy, too smooth. We laugh, we flirt, and we talk in-depth sports analysis. We fit together so perfectly I can’t stand it. I’m freaking out.

  When he says listening to me is turning him on, a spark shoots through my lady parts into my gut. I need to move. I don’t know what I’m feeling, and my instinct is to run away.

  He offers to come with me to the RAC to lift. Do I want him to? Hell yes I do.

  “You lift on Sundays during season?” It’s taking everything in my power to sound casual.

  “Not usually, but I can do some light work and stretching. I can’t stretch enough in season. My legs are always tight.”

  “So is your ass.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, so I quickly interject, “Sure, let’s go before too many people fill it up. I hate lifting in front of people.” I usually lift in the off hours. I hate being in a crowded weight room. The boys all judge me hardcore because I’m strong, and it makes them view me more like one of the guys than a girl. Playing up the softball stereotypes doesn’t land you many dates.

  “Want a water bottle?” I ask as I fill up my Golden Knights Hydro Flask.

  “Sure. I’d appreciate that. Drinking fountains are disgusting.” He shudders. I get it. So many germs.

  We chat more as we walk, mostly talking football, and he asks some questions about how our team will be this spring. He’s honestly surprised by the depth of my football knowledge. I need to tread lightly so he doesn’t connect the dots to my dad.

  The RAC is mostly empty. Yay! We head to the weight room and I drop my bag in the corner. Today is a leg and ab day so I can recover before Tuesday. I start with squats. I’m going to do 150 pounds today, for three sets. I set the weight and climb under the bar, feeling it dig into the nape of my neck. I push up and the bar rests on my body.

  A few sets later,
Brooks isn’t really doing much anything except watching me. I’m starting to think this is a bad idea as I move onto the leg press and glute machines. He’s going to see how much I lift and be completely turned off. I see the girls he’s hooked up with. I know most of them. They’re pretty and very feminine. Curled hair, painted nails, and high heels. My single leg deadlift isn’t going to get his motor running. Fuck. I didn’t think this through when I said he could come with me.

  “What to do abs with me?” I call over to him – he’s just sitting on the bench press.

  “Yeah, let’s do it!”

  We move over the area designated for abs or stretching. It has mats, medicine balls, and rollers in front of a wall of mirrors. I lay down and he lays next to me. “Fifty crunches?”

  “Only fifty? You soft?” he replies.

  “This is just round one, man.”

  We spent the next 40 minutes challenging each other with different ab exercises. This is the most fun I’ve had lifting. He’s here with me, teasing me, challenging me, and we’re working out. This has to be a dream.

  I know I have some studying to do, but maybe Brooks would want to watch some of the football games with me today. I plan to invite him to stay once we get back to my apartment. I really just don't want him to leave.

  Chapter 8: Brooks

  It’s a gorgeous Monday morning. The fall weather is creeping in slowly, but it’s still warm, there’s a light breeze, and the leaves are just starting to change colors. I’m wearing faded jeans, dock shoes, and a black Golden Knights t-shirt, and counting down the minutes to bio psych.

  I had an epic Sunday with Kiernan. We basically spent the whole day together. I can’t remember when, if ever, I spent the whole day with a chick and didn’t get sick of her lingering around. Sunday flew by. We ate together, watched football together, and just talked. Plus, watching her lift gave me a major boner. She’s so strong and tight in her movements. When she was squatting and her ass stretched out her pants, I almost passed out when the blood rushed from my head to my dick. I watched as her muscles strained with each lift and tiny beads of sweat dripped down her neck and arms. It got me hot. I want to make her sweat. The face she makes when she’s concentrating is adorable. She furrows her brow and sticks her tongue out to the side of her mouth and clamps down on it with her teeth. I imagined her biting down on her lip as I made her come and had to sit on the bench press most of the time, because if I moved Little Mac would be at full salute in my sweats. She is fucking gorgeous.