Sacked (Gridiron #1) (7 page)

Life is so unfair.

W
ith little effort
, I swallow the rest of my laughter. I want to pinch Eliot’s cute, frustrated cheeks right now, but I have a feeling that’d go over as well as Hammer’s attempt to throw the ball—which means not at all. His arm is shit. If we run a trick play, he’ll never be the one to throw the ball down field toward Ace.

She shifts uncomfortably, but I don’t make any effort to make that go away. It’s a good uncomfortable. She’s hyperaware of my existence, which is only fair because I can’t stop thinking about her either.

It hasn’t been a cakewalk abstaining from plowing every willing girl who’s thrown herself at me. It’s only gotten worse since I got put on the cover of
SI
with a bunch of other overhyped college players and the caption
Who’s Next?
I didn’t even want to be on the cover. It’s complete bulletin board material. No doubt that stupid picture is up in locker rooms all over the conference full of dart holes.

There is so much willing pussy thrown around that it’s hard to dodge. At a big Division I school, all you have to say is you’ve got a spot on the roster and girls are ready to spread for you. Even the wet-behind-the-ears freshman bartender won’t have any problem finding a chick to go home with tonight, even though he struck out hard with Ellie. It’s easy to drink water instead of pounding drinks. It’s easy to say no to those offers of HGH or money from agents. There are real repercussions to those actions.

But saying no to a hot, dark-haired beauty who wants nothing more than to put her lips around my dick? Or no to the cute redhead who promises me the carpet matches the curtains? Or no to the banging blonde whose barely-there tank top doesn’t quite disguise her erect nipples that she apparently has developed from rubbing her ass all over my lap? That takes super human effort. As each month wore on, it felt harder to remember why I’d decided I’d wait.

I’m not religious. Oh, I believe in a higher being. If pressed, I’d say that heaven and hell existed in some form. But my decision to wait didn’t stem from some mandate in a thousand-year-old written text or from some guy on top of the mountain. It’s a hell of a lot more prosaic and boring. But I’ve managed to say no because I’ve waited this long, and it didn’t make sense to waste it on a quick and easy fuck in some bar bathroom or frat house bedroom.

But fucking my fist gets real old.

It’d be easier if I was a hermit like Ace, who doesn’t like parties and would rather be tied up and whipped publicly than have to sit and make small talk with a bunch of assholes he barely knows, which is why he’s hiding in the video game room playing
Madden
. But I enjoy the crowds. It hypes me up to see all these people here at Hammer’s house, excited to be with us.

And I’m not at all immune to the easy charm of Ellie Campbell, her obvious love of the sport regardless of her stated bullshit claim that she hated it, and her tight body.

“You ready for Missouri?” she asks.

I avert my face to hide a grin of triumph. Not only is her butt still planted on the railing, but she’s asking questions like she can’t quit me. I like how the universe lines up perfectly sometimes.

“You bet, but they’re a decent opponent.”

She snorts. “You don’t have to pretend for me. They’re terrible and you should win by at least three scores.”

Our first game is in less than ten days and we should win it. In fact, our first tough match up doesn’t come until week five but you can’t enter a game thinking it’s won before you even step foot on the field.

“The team you overlook is the team that beats you.”

She shakes her Coke can and we both hear how empty it is, but I’m not ready to go inside and get her a new drink. Out here in the dark corner I’ve staked out, it’s almost as if we’re alone. I can work with this.

“How fresh is that Ducks loss?” she asks.

“Like yesterday. That loss won’t go away until we win the national championship.” We laid a turd in that game against the Ducks last year, but this year when we play them, it’ll be a different story. “It won’t happen this year. I spent the summer watching tape of the spread offense and conditioning like a motherfucker. No one is outrunning me on the field this year. If anyone is gasping for breath during the fourth quarter, it won’t be me.

Ellie tilts her head and her hair falls like a curtain, a privacy shield. I wonder what she’d do if I dug my hand into that hair to hold her steady while I plundered those plump lips with my mouth. Given that one kiss would not be enough, I probably should wonder if she likes public displays of fucking, because once I had my tongue in her mouth, it wouldn’t take long before I’d want to have my dick inside her pussy. Said dick now makes my cargo shorts a size too tight.

“How come you and your brother don’t play for the same team?” she asks. Her light colored tank top catches the lights, making her look a little fairy like. A sexy fairy. She’s wearing a jean skirt, and the tank top is decorated with fish scales—sequins I think. She glitters when she turns. It doesn’t show a lot of skin but the hints are there. Like Telly noted, she has a nice ass, but she also has a sizable rack. Her tits might even spill out of my giant hands. I curl my hands into fists to keep from testing that.

“We play the same position and didn’t want to compete against each other for playing time like we did in high school.”

“That was some
SI
spread.” She smiles, remembering something she liked—hopefully me. “Your brother looks a little weak, though. You tease him about that?”

I start breathing lightly because here it is—where the rubber meets the road. Not many people can tell us apart and she’s suggesting that she can. “He doesn’t get up early enough to lift; doesn’t get the reps in,” I joke. That’s a partial lie. Ty does get up later, but he’s a beast. We had competitions all summer, and probably would have ended up tearing something in our efforts to outdo each other if our dad hadn’t monitored our progress.

“I’m that way too. I like to get up early, but Jack’s a night person. He’d rather practice in the afternoon, stay up, watch film, and then sleep until noon. I like getting everything out of the way so I can spend the evening having fun.”

“And what constitutes fun for Ellie Campbell?”

“Ellie?” she says with a raised eyebrow.

“Ellie,” I reply firmly. Eliot is a weird ass girl’s name, although I keep that sentiment to myself. “You look like an Ellie, not an Eliot.”

“What does an Eliot look like?”

“Five ten, wears skinny jeans. Maybe has a goatee.”

“That’s pretty specific.”

“You avoiding the question?” It’s no casual question. Ellie will be part of my life for a long time. I need to know what she enjoys doing.

She shrugs and flips her hair back, allowing light to come into our small circle. Little spots of golden color hit her forehead and the top of her nose. “I like…football. Watching it, of course. I like orderly things. Opening a new pack of perfectly sharpened pencils. Starting a new notebook. Writing the first goal down in my day planner.”

Ellie slaps herself on the forehead. “God, could I have sounded geekier? Let me try again. I like pounding beers every night and smoking a joint before bed.”

“I like Geeky Ellie,” I tell her and rub the spot on the top of her head that she slapped. The touch surprises her. She stills.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. The words come out almost inaudible, but I’d know what she said if she stood across the room.

“Feeling you.” I can’t help myself from dropping my hand to her cheek. It feels as soft as it looks. I wonder how soft other parts of her feel.

“I don’t think you should do that,” she protests, but doesn’t move.

“Why?”

Her eyes are like chocolate. I want to eat her up.

“Because it gives a girl ideas.” She dips her head and her lips nearly brush the palm of my hand.

Reluctantly, I withdraw. I get the sense I need to slow down for her—that at this point she won’t recognize my actions as sincere or genuine. I drop my hand to the rough wood of the porch railing and immediately miss the feel of her skin.

Beside me she makes a small sigh. I choose to interpret it as disappointment.

After a few moments, she breaks the silence and asks, “Why’d you wear your brother’s uniform for the magazine shoot? Didn’t any of them catch on?”

My heart stops. Literally. It halts for a full second before it hitches back up again. I exhale heavily and put an inch of space between us. She’s too potent and I’m feeling weak.

“None of them.”

“Really?” The space between her eyes crinkles. I leap down from the railing and back away. But there’s not enough space I can put between the two of us. I’m about five seconds from throwing her on the ground.

“Really,” I insist. “I wore his MU jersey the entire time and he wore mine. How could you tell?”

“You guys are similar, but it’s pretty easy.” Her tone is dismissive, as if anyone could tell us apart.

“We’re identical.”

“If you say so.” It’s evident she doesn’t see it that way.

“I don’t say it. That’s what reality is.” I pull out my phone and flick to the family album. “Here, you see.” I show her a picture from this past summer. We’re at the lake and we have our arms across each other’s shoulders. My brother is wearing the blue trunks and I have the red trunks. We’re both wearing matching aviators our mom bought for our birthday. “Look, no one else can tell us apart. Even my dad has issues. Only my mom is able to do so consistently.”

“It’s not my fault everyone around you has really shitty eyesight.” She points to my image. “You’re wearing the red shorts.”

Holeee Fuck.

“Exactly how can you tell us apart? Seriously now. No jokes. No games. Swear it on a stack of holy bibles.”

“I’m an atheist.”

“Fine. On a stack of Darwin treatises.” I roll my eyes.

“Your jaw is more square and defined.” She pinches the photo, zooms, and traces her finger across my jaw. I feel the touch as if her finger actually touched my chin. It sends a shudder down my spine. “And his eyes are weirdly close set. Like horror-show weird. Nothing against your brother. And you’re taller and more muscular.”

She thinks I’m more muscular
. I can’t wait to tell Ty these details. Right before we both left for school, in between summer training camp and the start of fall ball, we weighed and measured each other. The diameter of our biceps measured the same. I swipe to another photo. This time we’re both wearing suits for my cousin’s wedding. Even for my mom had a hard time telling us apart that day. “How about this one?”

“You’re the one on the left.”

I was the one the left. I tuck my phone away, place my hands on my thighs, and lean over to catch my breath. I wonder if this is how the Hulk feels before he goes green. My heart races, my palms sweat, and I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.

“Is something wrong?” She places a hand on my back and I force myself not to flinch away.

“No. Everything is exactly how it should be.” I exhale one more time and straighten to look at my girl’s face, which shows equal parts confusion and worry. I grab her hand. We need a buffer and right now the buffer will be people. Lots and lots of people.

“
Y
ou look thirsty
,” Masters says as he drags me from my corner on the porch toward the keg line and then into the kitchen. I’m blinking from the sudden change in scenery. One minute we were sitting in the near dark, the only lighting from the moon and the tiny Christmas lights, talking about how many bases he’s covered, and in the next he’s dragging me from one end of the house to the other after the weird photo roll test.

He shoulders aside the freshman playing bartender, pulls out a Coke for me, and refills his empty bottle from a pitcher of water in the refrigerator. He really is drinking water.

I find that both charming and strange. My brother is a serious athlete, but he enjoys tying one on. Masters is on another level. I don’t doubt for a second that I’ll be watching him play on Sundays in the next few years from my living room. As if I needed to find something else more appealing about Masters.

“Thanks,” I say when he hands me my drink. I’ve got to get away from him. Somewhere in this house is my older brother and I should go find him. I head toward a dark hallway I spotted off the living area that’s serving as the dance floor for what seems like all thirty thousand students, but I’m stopped by the tether at the end of my hand.

“Going somewhere?” His eyebrow arches slightly and we both know there’s nowhere I can go in this house that Masters won’t find me. The place is too small. He’s too big.

“To find my brother.” I tug, but he doesn’t release me. I could twist my wrist and stomp off. In fact, that’s what I should do. I shouldn’t enjoy the feel of his rough fingers around me. I shouldn’t tingle in my private places at the thought of that touch elsewhere on my body.

Why is it so hard to do what you should do instead of what you want to do? Maybe the better question is: Why do I want things that are bad for me? Because there’s no question that Knox Masters is bad for me. While I may have daddy issues—who wouldn’t with my old man—ever since Travis, I’ve made good decisions when it came to guys. Granted those decisions primarily ended up being avoiding males, but even if Masters didn’t play football, he’d be someone to stay away from. I don’t like overconfident players and despite—or maybe even because of it—Masters’ virginity claim, he’s as confident as they come.

He knows he’ll be playing on Sundays and he has to know that he’s the king of this campus. If he crooked his little finger, 99.9% of the women and maybe half the men would be at his side saying, “
Yes, please
” to any request he may have, no matter how degrading or ridiculous.

This time when I move away, I do the tug and twist, and my hand comes free. The music changes and Silento’s “Watch Me” plays. Watch me disappear. I wave to him before I let the crowd swallow me up. He stares at me, a thoughtful expression on his face. I’m afraid of what he’s thinking, afraid that his interest might draw me back in, so I turn and dance with the nearest drunken student, hoping that somewhere in this mass of people is that chess player I told Jack I would date this semester.

But my plan is waylaid when a circle opens up in the center of the room, and the football players that aren’t hiding in some room playing
Madden
egg each other on to show off their whips, Nae-Naes, and Dougies. You can barely hear the music over the shouts of the crowd. Matty Iverson, the All-American Mid Conference linebacker, starts it off, swinging his hips and grinding low to the ground before jumping back up with one foot in the air. His mop of curly black hair shakes with him.

Another player follows up with his teammates hollering for him to get low. His arms pop and lock, and then he places a hand behind his head and wiggles his elbows as he bounces in a wide circle. I can’t help but smile and cheer along with everyone else as one after another gives us a short display of their moves.

The part of me that loves football is the same part of me that responds to this show right here—the pageantry, the athleticism, the energy of the crowd. The beats of the music, the synchronized shouts, all thrum throughout my body.

“You want to dance?”

I didn’t even sense him. Masters bends low, his hands finding a perfect resting spot on my waist. His lips are so close to my ear that one could classify it as a kiss. Realistically, though, it’s loud in here.

“Not really.”

“Yet, here you are. On the dance floor.” His mouth curves up by my cheek. He starts to turn me around into his embrace when I’m saved by a shout.

“Masters! Get your white, unrhythmic ass over here!”

Masters shakes his head and laughs, and it’s like before, deep and rumbly, as if he does everything with his whole self. My stupid body tightens in response because I know he’d be a beast in the sack. He’d throw every ounce of his energy and enthusiasm, and it’d be dirty, loud, and exhausting. Girls would walk funny for three days.

“We’re playing this song on never-ending fucking repeat if you don’t come over here and throw down,” Hammer calls out. He turns to the crowd, waving his arms up and down, and starts to chant,
Masters, Masters
. The students pick it up and soon Masters—and I—get propelled to the front of the circle.

He rubs a hand down his face and turns back to me. “Don’t forget I was an All American pick for both freshman and sophomore years.”

Finishing his uncharacteristic bragging, he steps into the empty space and spreads his arms wide, like a ringmaster in a circus big tent. He bellows into the room, “We having fun yet Warriors!”

Everyone jumps up and screams, “Yes!”

He snaps his fingers, the music spins up, and we watch open mouthed as Knox Masters, soon to be professional football player, the pride of the Warriors national championship hopeful team, begins to dance. He’s…terrible.

Knox jerks his arm between his legs followed a half a beat by his second arm. He doesn’t look like he’s whipping anything so much as attempting to get a hold of an out-of-control jackhammer. His teammates fall into each other laughing. It’s obvious they’ve seen this show before.

Everyone howls and so does Knox. His grin is huge as he dances off beat and tries to grind low as everyone hoots for him to do more. His performance is short, no more than thirty seconds or so, but it’s long enough to crack my no-athlete barrier and melt my ovaries.

He ends by falling into the arms of his other defensive linemen, who throw him back and he careens carelessly right to me. I hold out my hands to brace him, only he stops short, expertly back in control of his body once more. The DJ segues into Jason Derulo’s “Want to Want Me” and Masters takes advantage of the switch to swing me into his arms, his hips moving in rhythm to the music with much better timing than when he tried to hip flex in the middle of the circle.

“Liked that, did you?” He taps the apple of my cheek that hurts from smiling.

“Maybe.” We both know the answer is yes.

“I can make a fool of myself regularly if it makes you smile like this.” He grins again and I can’t stop my own lips from curling upward.
He’s ridiculously irresistible
.

Masters takes this as an invitation to slide one of his big hands around my waist, to rest at the waistband of my jean skirt. His long fingers rest at the top of my ass and he slips his other hand under my hair to palm the back of my head, as if he owns me. Masters tugs my hair back and his green eyes—almost black in the dark light of the dance floor—bore into mine as Derulo sings about needing to be with his woman, about not being able to wait, and getting high by just the thought of her.

Again, there’s something in Masters’ face—a hunger or desire or need—that scares me. I want to run away from this, but he’s fastened me as securely against him as a sailor would lash himself to a mast.

Derulo’s falsetto notes seem incongruous against the big, hard body pressed against me and his tones fade away replaced by an even slower, sultrier song. This time it’s Ellie Goulding begging to be loved the right way. Masters might be a virgin, but his erection feels huge against my stomach. Rock hard doesn’t begin to describe it. Whatever he has in his shorts crushes rocks, decimates them, and turns them into dust. Kind of like all my good intentions.

I can feel them dissolving in the slow grind of our hips. This is a prelude to something, something horizontal and sweaty. I inch back, which is hard to do with a hand at your ass and the other in your hair.

“I’m not having sex with you. Your virgin line won’t work on me.” I wish I had more conviction in my voice.

“I know,” he murmurs into my hair and pulls me back until again there’s no space between us.

My God.
Every denial that comes out of his mouth makes me want to prove him wrong. He presses his face into my hair and I feel his chest move against mine as he inhales deeply. Vainly, I’m happy I showered with my mango-scented shampoo before I came out, even though I swear I had no plans to have Masters sniff me.

His unattainable status works overtime on me. I’ve become the girl I described to Jack. The one who wants to show Masters how amazing sex is.

“Masters, this won’t go anywhere.”

He draws back slightly and frowns. “Is that how you think of me? As
Masters?
I’m not your teammate.”

“I’m not anything to you.”

The side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what you think.” His arms go around me again. He leans down. “You're too beautiful for words.”

I stumble but his arms hold me upright. I wish I had some resistance left, but my willpower seems to have abandoned me.

He massages my scalp as he uses a muscled thigh to part my legs. I lean into him, drunk off the beat that pulses from the soles of my feet up into my belly. His hands tighten against me, pressing my soft flesh into his harder frame. I feel
everything
—the jut of his hard-on against my stomach, the ridged abdomen barely disguised by his tight T-shirt, the bands of steel that clutch me close. Against my better judgment, I move against him and his thigh slips farther between my legs. The denim of my skirt rides up and the worn cotton of his shorts rubs against the newly exposed skin.

His big hand drops from my ass the tops of my legs and a tremor unmoors me.

“What are you doing to me?” I croak.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my temple in a feather-light caress. “We’re just dancing.”

Only we’re not
just
dancing. We’re pressed as close as two people can get. His leg is so far between mine that I don’t think my feet touch the floor anymore.

“Masters, we can’t…We shouldn’t…” I can’t even finish my sentences because what are we doing? I don’t even know anymore.

“I know,” he groans. The guttural moan travels through his body, reverberating against me. At least I’m not the only one caught in this strange thrall. He releases me abruptly, swinging me around toward the edge of the dance floor. All around us people do their own versions of upright sex on the dance floor, and no one notices as we sidle down that dark hall. I don’t know where we’re headed, but I’m going with him.

The deep bass of the common room fades, but as we reach the end of the hall, a new noise greets us. Masters nudges a door open and my eyes blink at the brightness of the room. Inside, a bunch of athletes hunch over controllers attempting to beat the hell out of each other in a video game. Despite practicing all day, they’re competing to be the best video game football player. The bright light, the congregating jocks, the removal from the heat and sensation on the dance floor is exactly what I need to snap me back to my senses. This is the last place I want to be, and Masters is the last person I should be fooling around with. So much for my declaration of not doing any football player ever again.

I spin and give Masters a bright smile. “I’m grabbing another Coke.”

“There’s beverages inside. Plus, your brother is over there.” Masters pushes me into the room, and sure enough Jack sits on the wide sectional, tapping furiously on his buttons. “I’ll go take a piss and then I’ll grab you a Coke. Jack, don’t let your sister leave. We’re arguing over the best athlete of all time and I’m not done making my case for Bo Jackson.”

“Oh, man, she’s a Jim Thorpe fan.” Jack pats the sofa without taking his eyes off the television screen. “Come sit down, El. Watch me waste this motherfucker.”

Gee, can I?
I plop down on the sofa. I figure that Masters will leave, Jack will forget I’m here, and I’ll be able to make my escape.

“Don’t go anywhere.” Masters points at me and then jogs away.

I wait for about thirty seconds and then stand, but before I can walk out, other members of the team stop me.

“What’d you need?” one asks me.

“Yeah, Masters said not to go anywhere.”

Jack looks up. “You going somewhere, El? You can’t leave by yourself. Give me a minute. We’ve got a quarter left, and I’ll walk you home.”

“Wait for Masters,” someone advises.

I drop back by Jack, because clearly I’m not leaving until the oh-so-great Masters returns. The good thing is that any lingering desire or interest gets entirely eroded by his absence. In fact, the longer he’s gone and the more I’m forced to watch Jack have his onscreen Andrew Luck throw downfield, the less I care about ever seeing Masters again. I certainly don’t want to dance with him, pressed against his broad frame, or have his rough hands work me over.

Absolutely not.

So I focus on Jack and the fact he’s getting his ass handed to him.

“Try an angle route,” I tell him. “Don’t go long every time.”

He glowers, but in the next play runs an angle route for a completion. How long does it take to piss and get me a drink? Not as long as Masters has been gone.

Jack’s opponent, a floppy-haired dirty blond who introduces himself as Eric—call me God—Goodwin, scowls. “Man, you can’t have a coach in here with you. Not fair.”

Jack shoots his middle finger at Goodwin and mutters under his breath to me, “Pass or run?”

It’s third and two, and he’s got Frank Gore. Duh. “Run.”

Jack chooses a trap play, and when the defensive predictably runs toward the opening, Gore shoots through and runs all the way down to the end zone. The room erupts. Jack throws down the controller and starts slapping his hand in the air as if he’s spanking someone. His teammates start hugging him and Jack glows. Literally glows, with the broadest, happiest smile on his face. Eric drops his head into his hands in misery.