Sacked (Gridiron #1) (6 page)

“We’re going to Hammer’s party.”

The words spread like a wave from one player to the other. Ace might be the quarterback, but Masters is the leader of this squad. I suspect that if he told the squad to strip and run naked in the quad right now, they’d jump up and start ripping off their clothes without a moment’s hesitation. He holds them in his large palm. As his smile pulls up at one corner, I feel like I’m there too. That’s far too dangerous of a place for me.

I jerk back. Maybe Jack’s back isn’t big enough for me to hide behind. I think I need to put distance between myself and temptation. “I think I’ll stay in tonight. I have a lot of unpacking to do.”

Jack, like the good brother he is, doesn’t point out that I’ve already unpacked everything. He tosses his napkin on the table. “Sure. I’ll walk you back to your apartment.”

Masters stands as we do. “Bring her to Hammer’s party. She’ll enjoy it.”

It’s an order, not a request.

S
o that’s
what scurrying looks like
I think as Eliot Campbell runs away. I shake my head. Eliot’s all wrong for her. Her brother calls her Ellie. Ellie fits better, but it’s still not quite right. Maybe
mine?

“Hard to believe those two came from the same family. Do you think one of them is adopted?” Telly asks as we watch the Campbells exit the dining hall.

“Kind of plain. I barely noticed she sat there.” Hammer appears out of nowhere. For a big guy, the lineman moves like a ninja.

“She’s got a nice ass.” Telly rubs his chin as if seriously considering all of Ellie's well-hidden charms. Tonight she wore what I guess is the baggiest T-shirt she owns. I didn’t like seeing her in a guy’s shirt, even her brother’s. I had to stifle all my instincts when her brother put his arm across the back of her chair.

Seeing her with another male—no matter how little of a threat he is—rouses a very deep response in me.

As for plain…shit, these boys are blind. Ellie has the prettiest brown eyes that spit fire when she argues, and those lips? Holy hell, I’d like them pressed against me and wrapped around my dick. Whenever she pushed them together, I wanted to pry them open with my tongue. Still do.

“How can you tell under the tent she has on?” someone else asks.

“You are men of little imagination,” I murmur. I check my watch. It’s a little after seven. I should be able to call my brother before I hit Hammer’s place. “What time are you opening the doors?” I ask him.

He’s staring at me. They all are. I may make out with a random girl here or there at parties, but I’ve never shown any serious interest. While my sexual status was a joke when I was a freshman, my ability on the field has made it something of a holy artifact. Half the team believes our success is the result of my intestinal fortitude. “I thought sisters were off limits,” he stammers out.

“They are to you, Hammer.”

Matty Iverson, our weak side linebacker, is in my apartment drinking a beer when I get home. The house we live in is one of eight in a block. A booster bought them and gave them back to the university for subsidized athlete housing, but only the starters live in the Playground, as it’s called. I’m not sure who named it, some alum four teams ago or something.

I’ve got my own place on the third floor, but most of the time one of my teammates is up here.

“Why weren’t you at dinner tonight?” Eating together every Thursday night is a team tradition. It’s not mandated by the program, but you better have a damn good excuse for not showing up. Better to bring your sister, as Jack did, than not come at all.

“The parental units are still in town. They cleared it with Coach at the last minute. I texted you.” Matty lifts his phone to show me his text. I pull my own phone out of my pocket.

“So you did.” I find the sheet coach gave us of players to watch for and find Jack’s number. I punch that into my contacts. If Ellie doesn’t give me her number tonight, I’ll have to get it from her brother. “You still hungry?”

One dinner a night doesn’t really satisfy anyone’s appetite, not when you’re working out three to four hours a day.

“You know it. What you got?”

I rummage around in the freezer. “Burritos?”

“Hammer having a party tonight?”

We look at each other and then the burrito. I toss it back into the freezer. “Right. Nothing says sexy like ripping one while you’re trying to close the deal. Hot Pocket?”

“Yeah, I’ll take two.”

I throw two in the microwave. “Three minutes, bro. Be right back. I’m calling my brother. You need anything else?”

He throws his feet onto the coffee table. “Nah, I’m good.”

I shut the bedroom door and flip open my computer. My brother, Ty, answers the video call on the first ring. He must be watching porn or game film on his laptop.

“When’s your bye week?” I minimize the video screen and open a browser window.

“Not until Halloween. Trick or treat, dickhead. Why?”

“Shit, that’s nine weeks away. Maybe I can come up there. We’ve got a bye at the end of September.” In the search box, I type Ellie's name. She’s on the second page of results. Her header is a picture of her and Jack, and her profile picture is the back of her head. Her profile is locked. It tells me nothing other than she was born in February. She must be twenty with Jack twenty-one.

“Sucks that you have one so early,” Ty says. Later in the year, byes are better for our bodies and our teams. We get an extra week to heal, take a mental vacation, and come back ready to fight a major opponent. Instead, we got a fourth week bye. Sucks, but it is what it is. “Why do you want to come up anyway, and what the hell are you looking at?”

“I’m checking out a girl’s Facebook profile. It’s locked, though.” I send him the link.

“Eliot Campbell? Is that a guy?”

“No, her brother is the guy in the picture. She’s the one with the ponytail.”

“What kind of name is Eliot?”

“She’s the one, bro.”

“The one what?”

“Dude.” I frown. “The
one
.”

“Oh, shit. Did she pass the test?” His eyes get comic book wide.

“No, I haven’t run it yet. She’s new, a transfer student. I was running in the stadium today, doing my early morning routine.” Ty winds his hand for me to speed up the story. “Her brother is our new transfer tight end from that juco program out west.”

“If she didn’t pass the test then she ain’t the one.”

“I’m telling you the Earth shifted when I met her. I got pissed off that she’d interrupted my workout, and then she started talking about football like it was her religion. She’s got a scar on her knee.”

“Knox, man, you’ve got a weird fetish for chicks with scars.”

“
One
other girl I thought was hot had a scar.” I close the browser. “It’s a sign she’s athletic. Not scared of getting hurt. Pursuing life with both arms fucking wide open.”

“Or it means she’s fucking clumsy.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest.

“This is useful,” I gripe.

“Look, the earliest we can get together is your bye week. You think you can keep it in your pants that long?”

“Shit. I don't know. I practically mauled her on the football field this morning. Her T-shirt got a little wet and even though I couldn’t see a damn thing—fucking sports bras—” Ty gives me a thumbs up in agreement— “I wanted to take her to the turf in front of God and everyone. At dinner, she sat by her brother, and I had to sit on my hands from reaching across and ripping his fucking arm off when he draped it across her seat. I don’t know if I can keep my hands to myself. I know I can’t ignore her. She's too fine. Some other guy will swoop in.”

“Jesus, Knox, you’ve kept it together for twenty-one years, and you’re throwing it away on a girl you’ve known for less than a day.”

“It sounds crazy, but isn’t the whole concept of
the one
crazy? Isn’t the test that we Masters have based on metaphysical bullshit that could never be proven? We accept it on faith. You believe it and so do I.”

“I don’t believe it like you do,” Ty grumbles and looks away.

“Bullshit. I know you believe in it or you wouldn’t have broken up with Marcie.” Marcie and Ty were high school sweethearts everyone expected to marry, until she tried to climb into bed with me one night. She claims she didn’t know the difference. It would’ve been better for her if she confessed she’d done it intentionally. Once Ty heard her say she couldn’t tell us apart, he dumped her. He hasn’t had a steady girlfriend since.

Ty flicks me off but doesn’t argue. Someone shouts in the background.

“Hold on.” He gets up and slams out of the room. “I’m fucking talking to my brother, you assholes. What is the problem?” More yelling takes place. I can’t make it out. Ty returns looking hassled. “Aw, fuck. Gotta run. Someone’s hazing the freshmen even though we told them not to. You’ll regret it if you don’t make her take the test. And pictures don’t count.”

I don’t think I’ll regret shit when it comes to Ellie, except not making a move when the gap is open. I’m nothing if not an opportunist. The time between beating the tackle off the snap is a millisecond. You see the opening and go, or you’re dropped on your ass and some lesser talent posterizes you, putting you on ESPN for all the wrong reasons.

I’m not sitting on my thumbs waiting for anything, especially not Ellie.

T
he party
at Hammer’s house is exactly how it was back in junior college—lots of beer, scantily clad women, and jocks standing around evaluating the talent. Even though classes haven’t officially started, there’s a sizable number of students hanging on the porch by the time Jack and I arrive. I don’t even want to think about how many there will be once the season gets in full swing. Saturday night after a game? This whole place will get overrun with people.

Inside, though, it’s quieter than I expect. Likely, the sultry late summer temperatures are driving people outdoors. The minute we walk inside, Jack gets pulled away by Ahmed.

“Hey, man, come and see this sick play that Hammer pulled off on
Madden
.”

“I need to get Ellie a drink,” Jack protests.

“The keg’s in the back, or if you want a mixed drink, hit the kitchen.” Tyrell points vaguely toward the back of the house. “Just tell the guys in the kitchen that you’re Campbell’s sister.”

And this is yet another reason I don’t want to date a football player. It’s bad enough being
Jack Campbell’s sister
, but to date someone where your entire identity gets subsumed by that? No thanks. Jack hesitates. I give him a push.

“I’ll be fine. Really,” I insist. “New tribe and all.”

The new tribe bit is bullshit because this is a football party. I should have stuck around the apartment and found out what Riley planned to do tonight, but Jack insisted, said that once Masters laid down an edict, he had to follow it for team unity and all that hogwash.

Yet, I bought into it, too, because here I am, at a party full of football players, gridiron groupies, girlfriends, and wannabes. I need to find a nice quiet corner where I can hide for two hours or so until I can convince Jack I should go home.

“She’ll be fine,” Ahmed repeats, and with another shove from me, Jack allows the running back to lead him off to see whatever amazing exploits are going on in a video game of fake NFL players.

In the kitchen, I find a lanky guy with an acne problem pouring drinks. I don’t recognize him, but given the shit position of playing bartender, he must be a freshman.

“Can I have a Coke?”

“Shit, honey, a Coke? I got all kinds of stuff back here. Don’t tell me you plan to pussy out tonight and not get hammered like the rest of us.” He pulls out a giant bottle of whiskey and waves it at me.

Pussy out? Nice.
I resist the urge to tell him that this pussy isn’t impressed with his act.
“No thanks. Just the Coke.”

He leans over the makeshift counter, a piece of lumber stretched across the space between one end of the opening into the kitchen and the other. “It’s not just a Coke, tiger.”
Tiger?
“It’s a statement piece that says I’m boring as fuck. You don’t want to start out on the wrong foot during the first big night of the year. We’ve got girlie drinks back here for people like you. Now what’s your poison?” He tips his head up looking massively satisfied with himself.

“So, you’re a wide out?” It’s time to put this guy in his place. He’s on the skinny side and a hair under six feet. He could be a defensive back, but there’s something about the way he leans forward that makes me think he’s waiting for the gun to go off or the quarterback to yell
set hut
.

His grin widens. “How'd you guess?”

It’s my party trick. Some girls can guess bra sizes. Some guys can do two story beer bongs. Me? I can guess what position you play.

“Your build.” I gesture. “They didn’t require you to get to a certain weight?”

His grin dies off. “Still working on it,” he answers stiffly. 

She shoots. She scores
. “Okay, I'll take my Coke. Thanks.” 

“Get her a Coke, bro,” a deep voice from behind me orders.

“Oh sure, Knox.” The guy’s voice nearly cracks with awe that his team captain is standing there talking to him. He digs around in a tub of ice and shoves the red and white can into my hand.

As I leave the line, I tap the top of it, in case he gave it a good shake under the water.

“You crushed that kid. He’ll stand in front of his mirror tonight wondering how you didn’t see his big guns.”

“Maybe he should spend more time in the weight room and less time hassling girls about wanting a soda.”

“He’s young and suffering from the loss of status. In high school, no doubt, he was the big man on campus.” Masters knocks fists with someone, nods to another person, but doesn’t stop talking to me. “The transition is tough for some.”

A few people give me an appraising look that says
what are
you
doing with Knox Masters.
“Not for you, though.”

“I was fucking homesick the first semester. I missed my brother and my family. I had to remind myself why I was here, why I needed to go to practice every day.”

The bald honesty surprises me so much I stop walking.

“What?” he asks when he realizes I haven’t moved.

“I’m surprised you’d admit to that.”

“You think admitting to being homesick makes me weak?” He raises a surprised eyebrow. “Or are you surprised that I have feelings?”

Enough with the tears, you goddamned disgrace!
I hear my father yelling at Jack.
There’s no place for emotion in this game. Are you a winner or are you a fucking pussy like your sister?

“I thought stoicism is required to wear the jersey,” I say. I try to make it a joke but Masters’ knowing eyes tells me he sees right through my thin veneer. I look away.

On the back porch, a long line of people wait to get a beer. No one is getting drunk at this party, because the buzz will have worn off between beers.

Maybe Knox senses I’m about to bolt because he grabs my hand. “Come on.”

As he steers me past the crowd, around the keg and toward a dark corner where an overgrown tree appears to eat about half the porch, I start to panic. For a million reasons I don’t want to explore, I can’t stand with Knox Masters in a secluded corner.

I tug on his wrist. “I think I want to dance.”

He levels me with a look that says,
Really? You’re pulling that bullshit?

“Then we’ll dance.”

I sigh. There’s no getting away from him.

“Knox! I just got in today!” A bubbly blonde with Hollywood looks saunters over. Her assets are on full display under a tight bandage tank top that plunges low in the front. She’s wearing denim panties—shorts so short and cut so high they look like underwear. It’s a popular look around here. Most of the girls are wearing a lot of fringe and denim. We could be at Coachella, minus the desert and the bands.

“Hey, Kitty.”

She places a hand on his chest, right above his heart and her perfectly manicured nails flex against his navy blue T-shirt. The urge to rip her hand away takes me by surprise. I want to snarl at her,
that chest belongs to me
. I engage in a momentary fantasy of pushing her five feet back and making a slashing motion across my throat.

Fortunately for both of them, Masters steps back.

Kitty’s gaze drops to our joined hands. A confused look crosses her face as if she’s never seen him hold a girl’s hand before.
I know
, I want to say,
it’s weird for me, too.
“Is this your…cousin?” she stammers out.

“No, this is my—”

Before he can finish the sentence, Hammer shows up and drapes an arm around both of us. “This is Jack Campbell’s sister, KittyKat. He’s our new tight end transfer. Good hands. She’s a friend of the team.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Kitty’s smile comes back. She holds out her hand. “I’m a friend of the team too.” She winks.

That’s fine as long as she stays away from Masters.
Ellie, no, this is your way out.
I get my wits together and reach for her. “Actually Kitty, Masters told me he wanted to dance.”

“He did?” she says, wide-eyed.

“Masters?” He frowns. “Is that how you think of me?”

I don’t have to answer that strange question because Hammer interjects with a look of surprise that matches Kitty’s. “You want to dance, man? Since when?”

Masters places his arm around my shoulders. “Ellie is making a joke.”

“It’s not a very good joke,” Kitty says uncertainly.

Masters nods solemnly. “Which is why I’m going to take her to this corner over here and give her some instruction on joke telling. You go dance with Hammer and show him the moves you learned over the summer.”

Kitty and Hammer both nod enthusiastically and disappear inside.

“I wasn’t making any jokes.”

“Trust me. My dancing is a bad joke. You don’t want to see it.”

He lets me go once we make it past the keg line and I wander to the back corner of the porch—away from the music, the crowd, the Kittys of campus. But I can’t seem to shake Masters so I climb up on the top railing and settle in for a night of people watching, which is better than being inside the muggy house watching a bunch of drunk guys play
Madden
on a big screen.

The back of the house juts up against a small green space shared by about six or seven other houses—the infamous Playground where the football team lives. When Jack got the invitation to move into one of the houses, we’d known then that the Western coaching staff had high hopes for him.

Knox leaps, one handed, onto the railing.

“How high can you box jump?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Like my moves, do you?” He flashes a smug-as-fuck smile and flexes his biceps. My body tightens in an instinctive response. At least I blame it on biology. It’s natural for me to be turned on by a big, strong guy. Generations of women have succumbed to the big brawny male. It’s why a specimen like Masters exists. “I can do just shy of five feet. Not as good as JJ Watts, but I’ll get there. So, why are we hiding back here?”

“I’m at a party with over a hundred people. I hardly think that qualifies as hiding.” Masters hasn’t shaved and the scruff around his chin only serves to make him look a hundred times hotter. I remind myself that hairy chins can mean hairy butts and hairy backs, but sadly, that does nothing to quell my biological response to him. I take a sip of my Coke to hide my agitation and hopefully cool myself off.

“It’s dark here. There isn’t another person within ten feet of you. I think that qualifies as hiding.” He leans closer, his muscled forearm resting too close to my ass for comfort. I try to slide over an inch but a tree branch stops me.

“This thing is a hazard.” I bat at the branch. It causes a few leaves to fall, but doesn’t give me any space to move away. Between his body and this unruly forest, I’m stuck.

“Hammer’s too busy to cut it down. Besides, I think people fuck back here. He probably keeps it to provide cover.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that from personal knowledge?”

“Personal? As in, have I made the mistake of checking out some noises back here, thinking that an animal was rooting around in garbage, only to find one of my teammates getting his pipes cleaned? Then yeah, from personal knowledge.”

“Still sticking with that virgin thing, are you?”

“I am.” He lifts a bottle of something to his lips and drinks. His big hand nearly engulfs the container filled with clear liquid. Probably vodka. I tear my eyes away from his bobbing Adam’s apple because even that is sexy. “You don't believe me, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” I tilt my head as if a new perspective can reveal the truth. “I don’t know why. I look at you and think it can’t be true.”

He smiles back at me. “I take that as a compliment, but it’s true. I mean, I'm glad that you think that I've got some moves. That bodes well for my future girlfriend.”

“Is it so important that I believe you?”

He spears me with those brilliant gem green eyes of his. “Yeah, I think it is.”

I refuse to explore that sentiment. It’s too scary. I ask him another question. “So, you've never made out with anyone or never had a girlfriend?”

“No, I have.” His arm has slid over that spare inch and now rests against my ass. I try not to let it affect me. I try to pretend that little contact between his bare forearm and my jean-clad butt isn’t spreading into every nerve of my body.

I clear my throat. “So, you’re an
everything but
virgin. Newsflash, you're not a virgin.”

He chuckles, low and deep. “I’ve never stuck my dick in a girl. I've never gotten a blowjob. I've never gone down on a girl. But I have got to first and second base.”

“I can't believe I'm asking you these things, but I can't help myself. It's partly your fault because you keep answering them. But how about dry humping?”

He takes another swallow from his bottle and then another. Then he drains the whole thing and sets it on the deck floor. “Yeah, I'll admit to that. Do I keep my virgin status?”

“I’ll think about it.” I’m glad it’s dark because I feel hot, and I bet I’m beet red. Why I’m asking these super personal questions of Knox Masters, I do not know. But I’m the one suffering because now all I can think about is what it’s like to kiss Knox, to straddle his lap and rub myself against him until we’re both crazy with lust. Dry humping? Did I really ask him that? I press my can against my forehead, but it’s lukewarm and provides absolutely no relief. I think I need a cold beer. Or some of that rum that the kid offered earlier.

“What are you drinking?” I ask in an effort to remember a tiny bit of manners and hop off my spot on the porch. A few people have drifted over, probably drawn in by Masters’ gravitational force.

“Water.”

That stops me short. “Water? No beer? No vodka? Season hasn’t even started.”

“There will be plenty of time to throw down after the season is over,” he says mildly, not even remotely offended. “The average time in the NFL is five years. I'll play ten if I'm lucky. Fifteen if the gods smile down at me. That gives me forty plus years to drink myself into a stupor.”

The discipline this guy has amazes me. “You're big into delayed gratification.”

“Waiting can be worth it.”

“How would you know?”

He laughs. He throws his head back, and the deep rumble starts in his body and ends in mine. Fuck me. He’s gorgeous, talented and has a goddamned sense of humor.