Stallion: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (8 page)

“
D
ude
, did you see this!?” I hear Jordan shout from the hall. Two seconds later he’s barging through my door holding a copy of the Tribune.

“Oh, God,” I say, snatching the rag away from him. “What’s it say…”

My eyes scan the article. It’s worse than I thought. This chick really went hard on me.

“Walker Johnson, the school’s prized wide receiver, doesn’t seem as concerned with his grades as he is with getting girls and downing brewskies.” I slam the paper down and almost tear it in half. “The bitch!”

“What’d you do, not give it to her right?” Jordan says with a laugh.

“Pssht,” I say, throwing the paper in his face. “I
always
give it to ‘em right, Jordan.”

“Then what’s her problem? She got a stick up her ass or something?”

“I didn’t even get a chance to give it to her,” I grumble, clenching my fists at my side. “She ran off right before my cannonball.”

“Prolly scared her,” Jordan jokes, alluding to my nickname.

“I don’t think that girl’s had a good dicking in years,” I say, almost to myself, snatching the paper up from the ground.

“Walker Johnson is the epitome of college sports. Some of you have been to his parties, and some of you know him even more personally and know the term scholar-athlete does not apply. The only thing scholarly about Walker is his well-memorized Rolodex of pickup lines he’s quick to whip out on any unsuspecting girl, whether she wants to hear them or not.”

Almost on their own, my hands grip the paper and tear it down the center. I grab the halves then rip them again, and again, and again, until I’ve basically got a pile of confetti at my feet. Jordan is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“What are you looking at!?” I shout at him. The veins in my neck are probably bulging out like the Hulk. Jordan is giving me a look like he’s worried I’m about to explode or rip his head off. Both seem equally likely. “It’s a hit piece! How did they even print this!?”

“You know the Tribune,” Jordan says. “That editor guy’s a real prick. What’s his name? Pauly? Peter?”

“Who cares!? This is ridiculous!”

Fists clenched, I push my way past Jordan and out into the hall. I’m down the stairs in half a second. Where does this girl live? Someone at the paper must know. I’m gonna head right over there and chew her out. Seriously though, what the Hell were they thinking publishing a smear piece like that? Do they have any idea the amount of publicity, let alone money, I’ve generated for this school?

First she turns me down, and then she fucks me over? Ripping me apart like that – she doesn’t know anything about me. No interview, no investigative journalism, just a paparazzi style piece that should be on some blog somewhere, not in a college paper.

If she only knew what the real me was…

Fuming, I yank the door open and stop dead in my tracks.
There she is!

Emmy’s standing on the front porch, a ridiculous smile on her face somewhere between nervous and triumphant.

“Hey!?” She says skeptically.

Without thinking, I slam the door in her face with a loud bang.
Why did I do that? Wasn’t I just going to talk to her?

I reach for the door to pull it open, but before I can, I hear a loud
pop
as the remaining hinge snaps, and the whole thing falls backwards into the room. I jump aside and let the whole thing crash to the floor beside me.

Looking up, I see Emmy looking stunned on the porch, holding her bag to her chest.

“You!” I say menacingly, striding quickly towards her. To my surprise, she backs up, eyeing me like I’m a killer from a horror movie and I’ve got a knife in my hand.

“Wait, wait!” She protests, stumbling as she backs away. “Walker!”

“Come with me,” I tell her, grabbing her arm and pulling her with me down the steps towards my truck.

“Stop! Where are we going!?”

“We need to talk,” I tell her, crossing the yard towards the driveway. I’m strong, and could hold on to her if I wanted, but she’s wriggling pretty hard and I don’t want to bruise her, so I let go when we reach my truck.

“Get in,” I tell her.

“I’m not getting in there with you!”

“You want your story? Or do you want to keep writing gossip rag slop about me?”

I knew that would get her. She stands still, twisting her lips like she always does when she’s conflicted.
It’s weird I already have noticed that about her…

Then I notice something else; she’s done herself up again. Her business casual pants have been replaced by some skinny jeans, and she’s wearing a t-shirt that doesn’t quite cover her stomach. It’s also tight enough to show off that rack. Now everyone’s gonna know.

No matter how hard she wants to act like she’s not into me, I can see right through it. This chick totally wants me, and she doesn’t want to admit it to herself.
That’s
why she wrote the article. She wants to piss me off. She’s flirting with me like we’re a couple of kids on the playground.

A smile comes across my lips. I can’t help it. No one has behaved like this with me in years. Girls just throw themselves at me. There’s never any foreplay or flirtation. It’s just straight down to business.

I’m fucking fuming, but she’s fucking smoking right now, and I want to tear that shirt off her and take her right here. I don’t care if the whole campus wants to watch. I need to have her. Every instinct in my body is telling me to pull her pants off and see what’s underneath.

I wonder if she’s wearing a thong…

But I’m not gonna do it. Not yet. We have a score to settle right now me, and I’m not giving her what she wants until I’ve had my say.

“I want it,” she says softly.

“I know you do,” I reply.

“The story!” She quickly corrects herself, looking like she’s ready to hit me.

“Then get in,” I tell her. Without waiting for her reply, I go around to the driver’s side door and hop in and start the truck. Two seconds later I hear the passenger side door creak open and look over to see her, red-faced like a ripe tomato, sliding onto the bench seat beside me.

“Buckle up,” I tell her. “We’ve got a long ride.”

I step on the gas.

* * *

F
or the first
half-hour we sit pretty much in silence. She asks me to turn the air conditioner up once, but that’s about it. Neither of us wants to be the one to start a real conversation, and I figure the more suspense I put her through the better.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. What I’m about to show her is nothing I’ve shared with anyone. When it comes to my personal life, I’m pretty guarded. I don’t just let anybody in. Most people look at me and think I’ve had it easy my whole life. They see my performance on the field, the life I lead off the field, and they just assume.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

And this girl’s going to get the scoop. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. Is it out of spite? I’m probably overreacting, but that article really got to me. I’m used to bullshit rumors going around about me, but to see it in print, especially from her…that was something new.

But why shouldn’t she write something like that? She doesn’t owe me anything. It’s not like we’re dating. It’s not like we even slept together.

I look over and see Emmy sitting straight up, stiff as a board. She’s uncomfortable. Most people would be lounging by now, leaning on the window, looking outside, but she’s sitting at attention like a marine or something.

Fuck, she’s cute
. What is this girl’s story?

“So, what’s your deal?” I ask loudly, causing her to jump. “You got a boyfriend?”

Brushing her hair from her face, she finally turns to look at me. “Yes, I do actually. His name’s Ronald. He’s pre-law.”

“Fancy,” I reply sarcastically. Of course she’d be dating some bookworm dickhead. “Does he appreciate you?”

“Yes!” She replies, sounding totally offended.

“That’s a no,” I laugh. She doesn’t reply. “What’s the matter? He spend too much time on the books and not enough on your pussy?”

That was probably too much, but it got the reaction I was looking for. She gasps and turns to me like she wants to hit me. “What, are you gonna tell me I just need a good dicking?”

“Hey, you said it. Not me.”

“Actually, for your information,
I’m
the busy one.”

“Yeah, spending all your time on me,” I reply, looking right into her eyes. “What’s he think of that?”

It takes her a second to respond. I can practically see her mulling over the best response in her mind.
She’s cute when she’s mad
. Make-up sex with her would be phenomenal.

“Where are you taking me?” She finally replies, changing the topic to avoid a difficult question.

“You think you know me,” I tell her. “You’ve heard all about me on campus, maybe you’ve seen me play. But what do you
really
know?”

“I know enough—“

“Enough?!” I laugh. “That’s some reporter you are there, Emmy. You know
enough
about me to write a hit piece that belongs in a gossip column. Oh, you’ve got a bright future ahead of you as a journalist.”

All she can do is scowl at me. She knows she took the easy route with that article, and she has nothing to say to defend herself. Eventually, she turns away from me and back to the road.

“Fine,” she says. “But this better be good.”

We sit in silence for another twenty minutes. I can smell her and her scent is intoxicating. My eyes keep being drawn back to her stomach, just poking out beneath the t-shirt. So cute. Her pants are riding pretty low and I can see her hip. I can just imagine what it would feel like in my hands, pulling her back and forth as I slide in and out of her. I’d fuck that scowl right off her face.

The country is nothing but flat out here. Trees and the occasional herd of cows are the only thing breaking up the never-ending landscape. No one comes out this way unless they have a reason to. Finally I see my exit and flip my signal on.

“Is this it?” She asks, sitting up.

“No, I just thought I’d get off the highway for no good reason.”

She frowns as I pull off the highway and turn right at the intersection. I roll my window down and take a breath. The air is familiar here, filled with dust and the smell of the mesquite tree. I’m so used to the processed air on campus and the smell of old beer from the football house that I almost forgot what it’s like to be out here. But it isn’t long before the old feelings come rushing back.

“Ever been out here?” I ask her, breaking the silence. She’s looking out the windows completely mystified.

“No,” she replies.

“This is where I grew up,” I tell her. This surprises her. I’m sure she figured I was from the suburbs or some rich part of the city. I’ve been private about my life before coming to Houston, so not many people know this about me. “Little Red Rock, Texas. Population six thousand.”

“Wow, I thought—” Emmy starts to say, but stops herself. I glance over at her, waiting for her to finish her sentence. But she doesn’t.

I turn down Blue Hill Lane, a dirt road, and pass all the familiar sights. Mr. Brooks’ overgrown lot, the bridge over the Red Rock brook where kids fish in the morning before the heat gets to be too much, and finally the bump over the railroad tracks.

Then it’s a right turn and I’m parking the car in front of a small, one-story ranch. The place has seen its fair share of years. The driveway was smooth at one point, but now the tan cement is nothing but cracks filled with grass. The lawn is spotty, more dirt than anything, and the gardens are withered and brown.

“This is where I grew up,” I say softly as I turn to her. “Surprised?”

Emmy frowns.
Is he kidding?
That’s what she’s thinking right now. She’s waiting for me to continue, but I don’t say anything. I just let the place sink in. Her eyes scan the property, noticing every detail. She’s observant. All her assumptions about me are being shattered. In her head, she’s writing a new backstory for me now.

I push open the driver’s side door and step out into the heat. It’s easily over a hundred degrees today, and there’s no shade to be had. After a minute, Emmy follows.

“Pops left when I was seven,” I say without looking at her. “It was just mom and me after that.”

“She didn’t remarry?”

“Didn’t marry at all,” I chuckle.

“Do you know where your dad is?”

“Tennessee maybe,” I say. “Maybe. Ran off with some trailer trash chick who called herself Daisy.”

Daisy was a real piece of work. Habitual liar, jealous, temperamental, manipulative. But dad wasn’t the most well-tuned engine on the lot, and he fell for her anyway. She had the looks, and as my mom got older he decided to trade in for a younger model.

Scumbag
.

I don’t think of him if I can help it. It just gets me too fired up. I take a deep breath of the hot Texas air and turn around to see Emmy standing a few feet behind me.

“So you took me to meet your mom?” She asks me.

“Whoa, not so fast,” I say, forcing a laugh. “We’re not getting married yet.”