Sacked (Gridiron #1) (2 page)

“Running these steps is good for my heart. As a bonus it sweats the stupid out of me.” I wink but then realize I’m wearing my aviators and trucker hat so that action is for nothing. For the best, really. Winking can be a douchebag move at times.

“Do you have a lot of stupid to sweat out?” She holds back a laugh.

I grin back. “It regenerates every day.”

This delights her and she finally allows the stifled laugh to escape. I can only stare at her for a second or two before I have to look away. She’s so goddamned beautiful it’s getting hard to sit here without looking like a total perv.

“They say admitting the problem is half the solution,” she agrees.

“The running is to get rid of the other half.”

At six fifteen, the sprinklers come on, spraying the turf. The artificial grass doesn’t need the irrigation to grow but it cools down the field and reduces the turf burn. An idea surfaces and I push to my feet. Leaning down, I hold out my hand. “Race you to the bottom.”

She stares at my big paw and then into my aviators. “I can’t.”

“No one will know.” And if they find out, no one will protest. After all, what will the team do? Suspend me? I wiggle my fingers.
Come on.

She sighs and taps her knee, the one with the scar. “I really can’t race you. My knee might give out. I’m fine on flat surfaces, but running down a hundred rows would be asking for something bad to happen.”

Aw, fuck. That was stupid of me. “Then walk down with me.” She hesitates. “I’m not leaving until you slide on the field with me.”

“Gosh, what a wonderful and charming invitation.” She rests her hands on her hips. Whether she intends it or not, the action frames her perky tits nicely. I use the cover of my sunglasses to appreciate how generous the good Lord was with her.

“You know you want to,” I coax.

She purses her lips. The way that the center plumps out makes me bite my lower lip, to stop myself from leaning forward to see how that ripe bit of pink flesh would feel sucked into my mouth.

In a quick move I don’t see coming, she vaults the seat backs in front of us and races down the steps. Bad knee, my ass.

I clamber down behind her, and although I could overtake her, I hover in the background ready to catch her if she falls. Except I get the sense she’d rather have a hot poker up her ass than ask me for help.

“Slowpoke,” she says, full of smiles, when we reach the field.

“Did you hustle me?” I ask in mock indignation.

“Yup,” she replies without a shred of remorse. “Does that mean the turf contest is off?”

“No way.” I pluck the T-shirt out from the waistband of my shorts and tug it on. She makes a sound and I like to think it means disappointment, but since wet grass burn is no laughing matter, I cover up. “Longest slide wins,” I tell her. I swing my arms in warm up.

“What am I winning?” she asks.

I grin at her cockiness. “I’ll let you run with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait to lose then.” She rolls her eyes.

“Personal pride, babe. That’s what we’re competing for.” I’m not making dumb bets. I don’t need a bet to get what I want. After we’re done here, I’ll take her out to breakfast and find out everything about her. This is for the fun of it, because I want to see the longing in her face satisfied.

“You first then. I don’t want you to accuse me of cheating.” She nudges her shoulder against my arm, and that small, innocent contact is like a cannon right to my nervous system. I’m on the edge of obliteration but I want more. Now is not the time. The compression shorts under my running gear can only hold so much in.

“Don’t be sad when you lose. I’ll take you out for breakfast either way,” I reassure her and then take off before she can turn me down. At the twenty, I launch myself and slide a good seven yards.

“That’s not enough for a first down,” she yells from the end zone.

“Let’s see what you got!” I holler back. Rolling over onto my side, I prop myself up on an elbow and gesture that it’s her turn.

She places one foot in front of the other and swings her arms a few times for momentum. She sprints down, leaping forward and then slides to a stop about a foot past me. Damn. I drag her back by the ankle so that her face is next to mine.

Drops of water cling to her grinning face. I lean forward, ready to lick the moisture from her face but I stop myself when she winces.

“Your knee okay?” I ask, worried that she’d hurt herself.

“It’s fine.” Her chest rises and falls as she gathers her breath. I have to force myself to look away. Rolling on my back, I listen as her breath evens out.

Apparently the universe’s gift requires some work. I’m not afraid of hard work. As the great Vince Lombardi said, only in the dictionary is work preceded by success. Rolling on my back, I stare up at the gorgeous blue sky and revel in the fact that what I’d waited for arrived.

“So you love football, huh?”

She shrugs and turns her face to hide her smile. “It’s okay.”

Yeah, and I’m not Knox Masters, decorated defensive end, captain of the Western State Warriors, and projected top ten NFL draft pick.

I
should get
up and leave. Actually, I should get up and sprint the hell out of Union Stadium like we’re in
The Dark Knight Rises
and Bane himself is blowing up the field. But I can’t. There’s a magnet fastening me to the wet turf—a magnet named Knox Masters. It could be that I’m shocked into passivity. I’ve been around football players my whole life, and not one of them had the gravitational pull of Masters.

“I need to go. Thanks for the run.” I push to my feet. I keep the words
I won
to myself. They’d be a red flag to his bull stomping.

“Won’t let me have a rematch?” He pushes onto an elbow and I have to force myself to look away from the damp fabric clinging to his chiseled abs. Why couldn’t he be a little round around the waist like some linemen? Does he have to be good looking and talented? In the football world, grown men get excited hearing his name. Here at Western, he’s the ruler of all he sees.

He doesn’t need to have a face that would fit in on a runway. I’m surprised someone hasn’t broken his nose yet, if not out of jealousy then sheer frustration that one guy has been given so much.

It’s unfair, criminally so. Advertisers will love him once he goes pro. That he intends to declare for the draft at the end of his junior year is no surprise. The fact that he told
me
, some nobody he’s never laid eyes on before, is a shock. What was that all about up there in the stands?

Can I blame it on the thin air, as he suggested? I feel like he’s playing me in some way, but I haven’t figured out his angle. Worse, I shouldn’t care what his angle is. “I’m quitting while I’m ahead. Besides, it’s getting late.”

Masters hops to his feet and smirks at my weak excuse. “Because you can get so much done on campus at six in the morning.”

I check my running watch. “It’s six twenty. The day’s almost over.”

He tilts his head. “Fair enough, but does that mean skipping breakfast? Because I’m capable of talking about lots of other topics. I’m pretty conversant in basketball, some baseball, and hockey.” He flicks up a finger for each sport. “Also, up on
Assassin’s Creed
,
Angry Birds
—although I’ll admit I haven’t played that since high school. I’m more
Clash of Clans
right now.” I laugh against my better judgment. His eyes twinkle as he continues. “I’m so-so on topics like fashion, but I’m partial to miniskirts, tube tops, and skinny jeans.”

He’s running out of fingers. I grab his hand and fold his fingers down to get him to stop. It surprises us both and I start to draw back, but his reflexes are quicker. He flips his hand over and pulls me flush against him.

His long, hard frame against mine causes my electrical system to hiccup, which is the only reason I recklessly say, “I don’t know if I own a tube top.”

When his bright smile turns hungry, I realize my error.
Oh, Ellie, you are such a dumb girl.
Stop flirting with the hot jock and get your ass out of here.

“If you don’t, I wouldn’t worry. Running shorts, work out T-shirts, and ponytails are moving to the top of the list of things I’m a fan of.”

He leans even closer, and the smell of fresh turf, sunshine, and earthy male fills my lungs and my frame quakes the tiniest bit when I gulp in that dangerous cocktail. This is very bad for me. Yet…I’m not moving.

“So, breakfast?” he prompts with a slightly raised eyebrow. “We can talk about our favorite running shoes and exchange minor details like names and phone numbers.”

“I’m a big fan of New Balance,” I murmur even though I know I should pull away.

“I’m a big fan of names.” He squeezes my hand. “Mine is—”

“Knox! Your smoothie is ready!” A cheery voice calls out from the player tunnel. The sound manages to shake me free from Masters.

“—Knox,” he finishes, as if we hadn’t gotten interrupted. His lips are inches from my ear. “What’s yours?” His hand finds mine again and grips me tight, as if he knows I’ll run away at any moment.

Just Knox? It’s like he’s still hiding. Not giving out his full name, not admitting he’s more familiar with the turf we’re standing on than 99% of the student body, not taking off those mirrored glasses or his hat. If he’s not giving it up, then neither am I. “It’s different,” is all I say.

My dad named me Eliot Campbell. He wanted a second son. He didn't get one, but I got the name regardless.

“Oh no!” cries the musical voice of the smoothie delivery person. “I’m so sorry, miss, but this facility is closed to the public at all times but game time.”

“That’s my cue,” I murmur, mostly to get my own ass in gear. With a twist, I free my hand. “I’m leaving.”

I give a brisk nod to the bouncy blonde in a royal-blue polo. She has the Warriors logo inked above her left breast and she rocks a pair of khaki shorts. Maybe everyone at Western is blessed in the looks department. In her hand, she carries a large Styrofoam cup with a paper-tipped straw.

The blonde nods in approval and shoves the drink into Masters’ empty fist. I use the diversion to sprint off the field and down the tunnel. Stymied by the smoothie-bearing girl and my quick feet, I’m gone before he can stop me.

Knox Masters is a beast in person. I’ve seen him plenty on television, but the screen deceives you on a football player’s size. With the pads, the helmet, the motion, and the angle of the camera, you forget that in real life some of the men are huge.

He’s six-and-a-half feet of hard-bodied, muscled perfection. When he first entered the stadium, he moved so fast I thought it was someone else, a running back or a tight end like my brother Jack. But as he stormed up the stadium steps like they’d insulted his mother, I’d realized who exactly was providing my early morning entertainment.

Masters is famous in the collegiate ranks to anyone who knows football. Even if you’re trying your best to stop caring about it, like it’s the ex-boyfriend you know is bad for you but can’t let go, you’d know who Knox Masters is. Which is why I don’t get his coyness. Not once during our conversation did he say a word that he played. Did he honestly think aviators and a trucker hat made an effective disguise? The guy was on the cover of the college edition of
Sports Illustrated
a couple of months ago, for crying out loud.

Not to mention, I asked him outright and he sidestepped my question. But he also admitted that he wanted to declare early—a fact widely talked about by the college analysts, but until it came out of his mouth, only speculation. If I wanted a little bit of fame, I could leak that to someone and ruin it for Masters.

I won’t. He knew that somehow.

I’m probably the one person who doesn’t want the stranger in the stadium to be a NFL-bound college football player. If he were some normal guy who liked watching football rather than playing, we’d be at breakfast right now, exchanging numbers, arguing about our fantasy football picks, and finding out exactly what colors of tube tops he liked. But football players and I don’t mix.

On my way back to the apartment, I stop at the campus coffee shop and pick up a caramel mocha latte with soy milk. My new roommate, Riley Hall, has an unfortunate dairy allergy, which means no ice cream for her. I don’t know how she copes with life. I want her to like me because I haven’t had a close female friend in a while, and I’m willing to bribe her with soy milk lattes every morning if that’s what it takes.

She’s up when I get into the apartment, bleary-eyed, leaning against the counter and staring at my tea maker with undisguised frustration.

“Riles, I got you,” I call as I kick the door shut.

She nearly squeals with glee when I hand her the coffee.

“You are a goddess. I knew you were exactly the right roommate for me when your response to my Craigslist ad was that you made a mean cup of coffee.” I open my mouth to confess that the best I know how to do is operate a Keurig, but she waves me off. “I know you lied. It’s enough that you understood that coffee is an essential part of the day.” 

“I thought we were destined roommates because we’re two females with male names,” I quip. My first name is Eliot; hers Riley.

“That too.”

“You're up early.” I'm glad for the impulse to stop for coffee.

She takes a sip of coffee and blisses out for a few seconds before responding. “Your phone has been ringing off the hook.”

“Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I thought I left the ringer off.” I grab for the phone I plugged in by the stove before I left for my early morning jog.

“You did. It vibrated so much I thought it might fall off the counter, so I picked it up. I didn’t mean to pry, but it’s your mom.” She makes a sympathetic face. “It showed on your screen.”

The phone rings again and Riley waves goodbye as she disappears into her bedroom to savor her coffee. I want to go with her, because I’m sure whatever my mother is calling about at seven in the morning isn’t fun.

“Hey, Mom,” I answer right before voicemail kicks in.

“Eliot, why didn’t you answer?”

“I was running.”

She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “I’m sure that’s not good for your knee. If you’d watch what you ate, then you wouldn’t need to run.”

This is the power of motherhood. She’s great at criticizing me out of both sides of her mouth. I’m eating too much and engaging in unsafe activities. Boss mother status achieved in two sentences.

I drum my fingers against the cheap laminate counter, regretting I didn’t go to breakfast with Masters. It’s karmic punishment, I suppose. If I turn down the good things that come my way, why should I be shielded from the bad? “I only run on flat surfaces.”

“I hope you’re wearing your longer pants. That scar is so visible when you get brown, dear.”

She always adds the
dear
, as if the fake term of endearment removes the sting of her words. I look down at my bare legs stretching out from the running shorts I pulled on. The scar looks like a sideways grimace. Most of the time I forget it’s there, but trust my mom to bring it up. I drop into a kitchen chair and settle in for the rest of her lecture.

“I have pants,” I say, not ready to outright lie to her.

“Good. You want to start out your time at Western on a good note. You don’t want to alienate the nice young men by not putting forth a good appearance.” Mom is the queen of appearances. In her book, as long as we look good, we
are
good.

Knox Masters didn’t seem to care, I want to tell her. In fact, I’m pretty sure he looked at my legs with a hell of a lot of appreciation. I rub my hand over the mark, though, because talking to Mom makes me self-conscious.

“Yes, Mom.”

“But I didn’t call to talk about that. I have terrible news. Your brother signed up for classes without consulting us!”

Good for him.

“He didn’t sign up by himself. He had a student liaison help him,” I point out. Mom must know. She, Dad, and Jack all visited Western together.

“That girl did not do a very good job then, because two of Jack’s courses are simply too difficult for him to manage himself.”

Dread is like a stone. Sometimes it sits in your stomach and makes you want to vomit. Other times it lodges in your throat and chokes you. Either way dread makes you feel terrible. Right now, I feel I
am
stone.

One thing that sold Jack on Western, other than their very real chance of winning the BCS National Championship title, was all the academic resources they have. Every athlete has a student liaison—an upperclassman—assigned to help him or her register. Every class has a tutor available.
I won’t lean so much on you
, he’d told me. I was thrilled. No more taking classes I didn’t like to make sure I knew Jack’s assignments. No more pretending I was interested in Battle Maneuvers of WWII. Most importantly, no more guilty conscience.

I happily registered for classes that interested me, like Creative Nonfiction Writing and Grant Management, the latter being a self-directed course involving writing a real grant proposal, which will look great on my resume.

“Uh huh.” If I hang up will this conversation end?

“I’ve called the Provost’s office, and they’ve informed me that the two courses you need to sign up for are full, but you can audit them. You’ll need to go today, however, and sign up.”

She rattles them off. One is a political science course, the other a sociology course. Neither sounds interesting to me.

“Mom, the time for registering is over. I did that this summer.” As did Jack. “I can’t add two classes to my schedule. I’m taking fifteen credits. That’s a full load.”

It’s not your mom you’re turning your back on here. It’s Jack
.

She continues as if I haven’t spoken. “That’s nice, dear, but I’m sure two more classes won’t be a burden.”

What she means is that it doesn’t matter if it is a burden.

“What, can’t Jack drop those classes?”

“We don’t drop classes,” she says with an air of impatience. “What would his advisor think? You simply sign up and help as you always have in the past.”

“I need all my classes to graduate within two years. Besides, I don’t think it works that way.”

“It does. Haven’t you been listening? I spoke to the Provost’s office. They will allow you to add these two classes in addition to the ones you already have, but you need to go today. What time will you go today?” Her voice is sharp, losing the genteel quality she likes to put on to pretend that she’s a nicer person than she is. Truth is, my mother is a shark, but she has to be to live with my dad. Maybe she was soft at one time, and his constant cheating and absences wore it all away until she was just sharp points that stabbed at you until you bled. It’s a little amazing how far her points extend. How they still hurt even though we are miles apart.

My temples begin to throb. I really, really should have accepted that breakfast invitation from Knox Masters. “Western provides all the athletes individualized tutors. They’ll do a better job than me. Are you certain that I need to take these classes?”

It’s not a question. I know I have to take them. Jack is great at numbers and sucks at reading and writing. I suspect he suffers from a mild form of dyslexia, or maybe that’s how his mind works. I’ve been
helping
Jack out for a long time. That’s why I went to junior college with him when he didn’t get any D1 offers that made sense to my dad. That’s why I’m here at Western, even though I’d have liked to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.