Sacked (Gridiron #1) (5 page)

“Thanks for coming tonight. I know you told me that you wanted to find a new—what did you call it?” He winds his hand in a circle.

“Tribe?”

He snaps his fingers and points one at me. “Yeah. I thought troop, but I knew that was wrong.”

“I want to make sure I broaden my horizons. Find new people to hang around with.”

“You know it's okay by me if you hang with us jocks. I’d be okay if you even wanted to date a football player.”

“Well, I won’t. I went through that horror house and I don’t need to revisit it.”

Once was enough, thank you very little, Travis F.

“I don't know why you think a guy who plays chess will be better to you than one who plays football.” Jack sounds mildly annoyed.

I shrug and pull out my favorite jean skirt. I wore this all summer long. It was the right length between sexy and sporty. I might as well go with something tried and true. Plus it has pockets, which means I can stuff my ID and keys in the skirt and forego a wristlet or purse. “Maybe they aren't, but I haven't ever dated a guy who played chess before.”

“I’m all for you exploring new shit, but guys are dicks regardless of whether they wear a jock strap or a pocket protector.”

“That's a ringing endorsement of your gender.”

He walks toward the front door. “If you decide to take a vow of celibacy that'd be great, but I’m not that naïve.”

“Maybe I should hang around with Masters,” I joke.

Jack opens the door and steps into the hall. All the traffic stops and stares at him. He smiles and nods to the bangable girls, which it appears encompasses all of the females in the hall. “I thought you didn't believe him.”

“Jury’s still out.”

“
H
i
, Eliot,” Masters murmurs as I wait for the food service employee to spoon a very bland piece of chicken onto a plate.

“Masters.” I guess we’re skipping over exchanging names. I felt him at my back before he even opened his mouth. He carries a certain crackling energy with him. Tonight he smells freshly showered, which is as dangerous as the slightly sweaty, early morning Masters. I shudder lightly.

“Anything wrong?” There’s light amusement in his voice. I’m sure if I turn around he’ll be grinning. Since my defenses are weak from the lack of food, I don’t even peek at him.

“The food here is lousy.” Of course, I say it at the exact moment the server hands me my plate. “But this looks great.” I give her a big smile that she doesn’t return. Masters muffles a snort while I hurriedly grab my plate before the server tips the tray on my head.

“It’s the hall closest to the athlete dorms, so there’s a lot of low calorie choices for those in training. But you can ask the grill to make you anything.”

I turn then, because I have to, and see Masters has a giant cheeseburger, French fries, and a glass of milk taller than my head.

“Now you tell me.”

He plucks the tray from my hands and says, “You should have had breakfast with me. I could’ve shared all kinds of important Western State secrets with you.”

I’m forced to trail after him like a puppy as he makes his way to the back, which has about ten tables shoved together and forty guys. It’s a good thing I’m not carrying my tray, because the sight of half the football team sitting together makes my hands sweaty.

I use the only diversion I have available—Masters’ butt. It’s a work of art and I’m not even into men’s asses. It’s hard and round, and even though he’s wearing cargo shorts, I can still see the flex and release of his glutes. The more I think about Masters flexing and releasing, the tighter my body gets.

No way is Knox Masters, all six-foot-six-inches of prime NFL bound manhood, a virgin. He’s got the wingspan of a god and his hands are big enough that I think they could actually span my waist, which is in no way tiny. When we walked in here, my brother looked almost small at six-four and two ten. I’m not sure what Masters weighs, but he’s solid everywhere. His thighs look like tree trunks, and his shoulders are so wide they blotted out the sun when he virtually accused me of creeping on him at six in the morning.

The door to the stadium was open!

Then he spent the whole time pretending he wasn’t a football player even after I’d hinted broadly that I knew who he was. I should punch him for that.

Now he’s playing another game.

Bodies don’t come harder or finer than his. Sure, there are great forms everywhere in college, particularly among the athletes, but Masters is of a different caliber. Already people are whispering
Heisman
and
First Round
in connection with his name. Panties probably decorate the sidewalks as he walks to class. Women all around the campus have to be offering themselves as tribute on the altar of his purported virginity on a nonstop basis.

Jack sits in the middle with his arm around an empty chair. His brows furrow when he spots Masters carrying my tray.

“I’ll take that.” I tear my eyes off Masters’ butt, pluck my tray out of his hands, and settle into the seat Jack has saved for me.

Masters isn’t done with me. Jack’s eyes get wide as a child’s on Christmas when Masters whispers in my ear, “You can run, Eliot Campbell, but this campus is too small for you to hide.”

Gulp
.

He leaves me without another word and ambles casually down toward the other open seats, as if he didn’t—I’m not certain whether it was a threat or a promise.

“What was that all about?” Jack mutters under his breath.

“I thanked him for carrying my tray,” I make up.

“And his ‘you’re welcome’ was a secret?”

I dig my fingernails into my palm under the table so I don’t blush. “I don’t know what’s in his head.”

That’s as truthful as any answer I can give.

“Then you aren’t looking hard enough,” Jack says wryly.

I look up to see Masters standing—looming really—across the table from us. All the seats are filled, but he sets the tray down anyway in a small sliver of space.

“Move down, Telly, will you?”

“Sure, Masters.”

Telly, the Warriors center, shoves his tray down one spot. Soon the entire right side of the table is shifting, one player by one player. Masters calmly takes his seat.

“Thought I’d sit with the offense tonight. See what secrets you all are cooking up.”

“Hell, man, you got to ease up during practice,” Telly jokes. “I thought you would tear Ace’s head off there a couple of times.”

Before Masters can say anything in his defense, Ace leans across the table and points his knife in Masters’ direction. “Don’t you ever ease up on me. You think Ohio will go easy on me, or Wisconsin? How about the teams from Michigan? Think they’ll go half speed because this is my first year as a starter? No fucking way. The minute Masters goes soft on me is the minute he’s given up on this team, this year.”

Telly raises his hands in surrender. “I got you, brother, just joking around with the big man here.”

He pounds Masters on the back a couple of times. Masters doesn’t even flinch. He calmly lifts his giant hamburger to his mouth, bites off half of it, and winks at me.

That’s the last interaction I have with him for about twenty minutes. His teammates unknowingly do all his dirty work to ferret out my information.

Telly asks me where I’m living.

“With a girl named Riley Jensen in the Maplewood Apartments.”

“Those are sweet.” He nods with approval. “You’ll have to have us over.”

“I can fit about four of you in the living room.”

“As long as one is me. I like chocolate chip cookies, if you’re taking baking orders.”

I wait for Masters to insert some remark about liking certain cookies, but he’s completely silent.

Ahmed Lowe, one of the two main running backs, asks me what my major is.

“It’s English Lit. I plan to write technical works for a living, like grants or instructional booklets or anything anyone wants written, but doesn’t write themselves.”

“Ellie proofs all my work. She does a great job,” Jack interjects.

“You can write my papers,” Telly says.

I somehow keep smiling as if his innocent—I hope—joke doesn’t stab me in the gut. “When you’re out of college, I’ll write whatever you want, but I wouldn’t want to affect your eligibility.”

You are an awful person, Eliot. Awful.

Clifton Knowles, the strong side offensive lineman, asks if Jack and I are twins because we’re both juniors.

Jack answers for me. “We’re ten months apart. I got held back a year and so we ended up being in the same grade.”

What Jack doesn’t say is that we’ve been taking care of each other for as long as we both remember, which is why I’m the only female sitting with the football team. There’s nearly a hundred guys who dress and seventy who travel, but in the sea of muscle and testosterone, I’m the only girl because this is my third night here and Jack doesn’t want me eating alone.

He takes care of me. I take care of him. No matter what.

“That’s cool,” Masters says. “I have a twin but he plays—”

“—Defensive end for MU,” I finish for him. It’s common knowledge. Again, they appeared on the same cover of
Sports Illustrated
.

“Ellie probably knows more about football than I do.” Jack ruffles my hair affectionately.

My hand goes up reflexively to smooth the errant strands, but a warm look in Masters’ eyes—one that gives me those unwanted feelings again—has me dropping my hand to my lap. So what if my hair is messy and looks like a static-y monster? It’s not like I want to impress any of these guys. Not at all. I cross my legs and shift in my chair. Masters’ green eyes gleam at me. Bastard. No way he doesn’t know what affect he has on girls. This whole virgin thing is probably designed to convey he’s unattainable for me.

“Hey, boys.” A sultry voice interrupts my stupid thoughts. We all look up into a glowingly beautiful face surrounded by a cloud of gorgeous honey blond hair. Her shirt fits tightly and shows off a pair of breasts that rival my generous rack, which I choose to hide under an oversized, baggy T-shirt I stole from Jack in high school.

She places a hand on Masters’ shoulder and leans over, her breasts touching the side of his face. “When you’re done with your terrible food, I’ve something special for dessert for you.”

The lack of surprise from his tablemates tells me this is a common occurrence.

“Sorry, Bree, you know you’ll get a better response from anyone than me.”

He squeezes her hand and then gently removes it from his shoulder. She shakes her head in good-humored regret. “If you ever get tired of holding that line, let me know. I figured since this is my last year, I have nothing to lose.”

“That’s a good policy.”

“But it’s still a no?”

He gives her a nod, friendly but distant. “Still a no.”

She walks off to join her friends, who wait for her at the end of the long row of tables.

“Don’t like dessert?” I blurt out.

My brother kicks me under the table and his size fourteens hurt. As I bend over to rub my abused calf, Masters says, “I’m saving myself.”

“For what? Marriage?” I joke, because as I told Jack, I don’t know if I believe this virgin stuff.

“Not exactly, but close enough,” comes the serious but casual reply, and Masters shoves the last bit of hamburger into his mouth as if he didn’t just proclaim that the earth was flat.

The chicken breast is as flavorless as I thought, and I’m desperately wishing for sour cream or butter, or hell, I’d even squeeze a mayonnaise packet onto my baked potato if I could find one.

But if I’d been sitting at a five star restaurant and eating the best meal of my life, all the food would have tasted the same—flavored with surprised bullshit.

Which I almost said out loud. Bullshit. There is no way. I’ve seen this guy on television. Knox has more moves than a dancer in Vegas. He can swivel out of an offensive lineman’s grasp in one step, run down a wide receiver, and introduce a quarterback to the soil of the vaunted Western State’s turf.

You can’t help but look at his hands, the heavily veined forearms and the bulging biceps, and wonder whether the parts of him that you can’t see are as big. You can’t watch him move on the field, making fucking magic with his body, and not wonder what it’d be like to feel it flush against your own. Heat chases down my spine and my mouth becomes very dry. I stare at the table in front of him, as if I can see through the tray of nearly eaten food and the wood and metal to see the signs of his virginity.

Which would be what? Do I think there’ll be a little wooden plaque that says “newbie?” Shit. I shake my head at my own ridiculousness and then make the mistake of looking upward into Masters’ ruggedly handsome face that will no doubt adorn cereal boxes, granola bars, and billboards someday. He’s got grass green eyes and a chin chiseled out of granite. In another era, Masters would be the general of an army immortalized in marble for his exploits on the field. Today he’s a different kind of warrior—one that crushes his enemies in ten yard increments.

His wide mobile mouth knowingly curves upward and I have an uncomfortable sense he can tell exactly what I’m feeling somehow. I’ve never felt so exposed. I want to snatch those stupid aviators off the top of his head and plaster them on my own face.

“For religious reasons?” my brother asks.

“For Knox Masters’ reasons.” Masters’ expression doesn’t change. He’s still smiling, but there’s a definite no trespassing tone to his words. Beside me, Jack turns to Ahmed to talk about their single wing formation. That’s too much detail for even a fan like me. I tune them out, which leaves me with Masters, who hasn’t moved his attention away from me.

I drop my eyes to somewhere around his nose, because his eyes are so green and bright it’s like staring into the sun, hypnotic and dangerous.

“I can’t tell if you want it to be true,” he says in a low voice that I feel as if I’m the only one who can hear.

“I don’t know either,” I tell him honestly. “But if you are, I think I need to go to church tomorrow, because that means impossible things exist like unicorns and the resurrection.”

He laughs then, a wide mouthed, white teeth flashing. “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

I nod. “I know, but it can’t ever be too early to repent.”

I feel, rather than see, his eyes sweep over me for a long moment as if he’s cataloguing my stick straight brown hair, face, and loose T-shirt. “You don’t look like you have much to repent for.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I say archly with a pointed look.

“They can, can’t they?” he murmurs and the deep rumble of his voice does weird things to my insides. Things I shouldn’t feel for a new teammate of my brother’s. I have two solid gold reasons not to date football players, so no matter how appealing Knox Masters is, he’s not for me—even for a one-night stand to alleviate an itch if he wanted that sort of thing, which apparently, he doesn’t. I’m still not sure I believe him.

His sexual status or lack thereof is none of my business. Sleeping with football players is not on my agenda, so I yank out of Masters’ gravitational pull and turn toward my brother.

“You know some of the guys thought you were a dude because of your name.” Masters has finished demolishing his meal, and I feel the full weight of his attention.

I click my tongue in mock sympathy. “It’s terrible when you feel misled about someone’s identity. What kind of monster does that?”

Masters’ mouth twitches. “Everyone has their reasons.” He shifts to Jack. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Thought I’d take Ellie out. Maybe go downtown.”

“Nah. There’s got to be a party around here.” He leans toward the quarterback. “Ace, what’s the drill for tonight?”

Ace jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Hammer’s throwing a party.”

Masters stretches his long arms across the table, circling his tray and reaching across the invisible center line that separates his space from mine.