SPIKED (A Sports Romance) (2 page)

I
had never thought
of myself as a small town girl, even though in a sort of academic sense, I knew that’s what I was. But
everyone
from Tifton was a small town boy or girl— most people in my graduating class were working at the canning factory, or on a farm, or maybe, if they were really fancy, the Wal-Mart.

Those that went to college didn’t look back, save the cursory visit at Christmas, which had made my “gap year” all the more humiliating. I was the valedictorian, after all— yet without a detailed explanation, when people saw me waitressing at the clubhouse they’d always assumed I was just another small town, go-nowhere type of girl, soon to be barefoot and pregnant.

But still— there was a difference between a girl from a small town and a “small town girl”, and I wanted to make sure everyone at Harton understood I was the former. That’s why I agreed to this football house party thing.

Academics are the priority,
I reminded myself (as if I needed reminding). But hey, hadn’t I read somewhere that people with strong social connections and community ties were more likely to succeed? As long as I kept my eye on the prize— the degree— what could a little revelry hurt?

“Why’s it called the football house?” I asked as we cut through the campus. True to their word, they’d taken me by the Arts and Sciences building, pointed out the library, and even shown me a picnic area where “people who like to study hang out when the weather is nice”.

“Not
the football house
. Just Football House,” Piper explained, looking over her shoulder at me. They’d dressed me in one of Piper’s dresses, a number so small I didn’t know if I should pull it down or tug it up, and Kiersten’s shoes, which were the highest heels I’d ever walked in. I had insisted on doing my own makeup— I actually
liked
makeup, I just didn’t like quite as much of it as Piper and Kiersten did.

“Ok. Why is it called Football House?” I corrected.

“It’s where the football players hang out,” Kiersten said. “They can’t live there, since that’s considered a gift, so it’s sort of a…club? I guess? You’ll see. One of the alumni bought it. It’s amazing.”

“Really? Some guy just
gave
a really nice house to the football players?” I asked.

“Told you: Football is a way of life here. You know, it’s sort of a big deal that you’re even getting to come. Freshmen usually aren’t invited. But you’re with us, and you’re New Lily, so you’ve got an in,” Piper said, nudging Sasha. Piper then jutted her chin forward. “That’s it up ahead.”

My eyes widened.

I’d been expecting something really nice, but not something that belonged in a magazine. It was an enormous house, framed by tall buildings on either side— clearly a relic from when this part of Atlanta was more neighborhood than city. It sat high behind a brick wall, which gave it the appearance of a castle, and there were wraparound decks on each level. There didn’t appear to be any sort of driveway or garage— a fact which made me certain it had to have been built sometime around the 1920s— but there were tall wooden doors in the brick wall, which were nearly obscured by the white jasmine climbing alongside and over the entryway. The entire place glowed gold and white and thumped with music, but it didn’t have the drunken, dirty sort of feel that I had to admit I’d been expecting. A sign out front, surrounded by ornate landscaping, labeled it the McMillan Alumni Hall.

We walked across the street and up to the gates. This close, the jasmine smelled heady and thick, and the bass from the music boomed deep in my chest. Piper knocked on the door a few times; finally, someone swung it open.

“Hey, Tyler,” Piper said sweetly.

The big, six foot something guy gave her a friendly nod. “Hey Piper,” he said, grinning. His eyes fell on me, and he looked uneasy. “Who’s the new girl?”

“The New Lily. She’s with us,” Kiersten said.

“Um…let me check with the captains,” Tyler said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Come on. It’s one girl. And she’s adorable, isn’t she? Plus she’s new to Atlanta so she doesn’t know anything. It’s hella charming,” Piper said, stepping forward to twine her fingers around Tyler’s.

Tyler pressed his lips together, then glanced up the wide stone staircase behind him, which lead to the expansive front porch. “Okay. Yeah, it’ll be fine. New Lily, lay low, okay?”

“Sasha,” I corrected. “My name’s Sasha.”

“Sure,” Tyler said, still looking more than a little wary. The three of them brushed in.

“Is he going to get in trouble?” I whispered to Kiersten as we started up the steps.

“Maybe. But that’s sort of what he’s for. There’s a pecking order with the football team— captains, then seniors, then first string, then everyone else. Tyler’s an everyone else. Don’t sleep with him, by the way, or anyone else on his level. They’re cute, but once you’ve been with them, you’re practically damaged goods so far as the upperclassmen on the team are concerned.”

“I’m not really planning on sleeping with any of them, but I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to not be offended by the phrase “damaged goods” and failing.
And people think Tifton is backward.

Kiersten rolled her eyes. “Whatever. More of the good ones for me, then.”

“You…sleep with them?” I asked. We were nearly to the top of the stairs now, and the front porch was coming into view. There were elegant lawn chairs set up across it, most of which were occupied by boys in dress shirts and girls in outfits similar to mine and my suite mates’. There was a level of class to the whole thing, a sort of old school, swanky feel.

Kiersten shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Piper snorted. “
Often
,” she corrected, and then she and Kiersten both laughed. I laughed as well, trying my best to hide a fact that I was certain would horrify both of my suite mates: That I had never had sex. Not sometimes, not often.

Never.

It wasn’t a religious thing, or even a guilt thing. I’d just never met anyone in Tifton that I wanted to have sex with. Sure, I got turned on by the thought of someone’s hands on me, someone’s body against mine, someone
in
me, but then I’d inevitably see my crush swilling Bud Light and belching and suddenly, the idea of letting a Tifton boy near my was horrifying.

I’d never even really had a serious boyfriend— what was the point? I’d known ever since fifth grade that I was going to college and getting out of Tifton— better to not have ties. I had the same plan here, at Harton, since despite what my aunts and grandmother said through giggles, I had no desire to use college to get my MRS degree.

We were finally at the top of the staircase, Football House’s first level splayed out before us. There were massive windows that were thrown open, as were the doors. Inside were hardwood floors covered in fancy rugs, though aside from that, the house had clearly been modernized. There were Leather sofas, an enormous television, a series of video game systems, a long table covered in snacks, and an honest-to-God open bar.

A bartender wearing a vest was mixing drinks, though I saw three kegs on the porch as well. Younger-looking boys— the freshmen, I reasoned— were darting to and from the older guys, bringing them drinks, snacks, their phones…whatever they wanted.

Pecking order indeed, I thought.

It wasn’t until we were walking toward a few of the older guys that I realized two things: One, that girls seemed to more or less be exempt from the pecking order, laughing and being waited on every bit as intently as the older players, and two, that college football players were all
huge
.

Which, of course they were. Football was a contact sport. They had to smash into each other or whatever. And the football players at my high school had been sort of big. But nothing like these guys. The seniors, in particular, were enormous. Tall, broad shouldered, muscular beyond reason. Their jaws were chiseled and their arms protested against their sleeves.

“Ladies,” a young player said, sweeping toward us with three matching cocktails in his hands. He passed them out. “Who’s your friend?” he asked Piper, nodding toward me as if I was a mute.

“This is Sasha. She’s the New Lily,” Piper explained.

“Got it. Someone was asking,” the young guy said, then skirted off before saying whom.

“Someone was asking?” I said, looking at the drink warily.

“Newcomers to Football House are noteworthy. I told you, Sasha, this is a big deal,” Piper informed me, looking pleased that I was attracting attention.

Piper took a careful sip of her drink, while Kiersten gulped hers and then tossed the cup to the nearest football freshmen.

I hesitated.

“Oh god, don’t tell me you don’t drink,” Piper said, looking horrified.

“No, uh, I just…you know. I didn’t see who made this, and I’ve heard more than a few horror stories,” I said.

Piper gasped a little and looked embarrassed. “Oh, honey, no. Not here. I mean, yeah— good thinking. But like I said, Football House is a big deal. That sort of shit just doesn’t happen here.”

“Promise?” I said, glancing down at the drink again. The last thing I wanted was to become a statistic my first day of college.

“You’ll be fine,” Kiersten said seriously. “But hell, here—“ She snatched the drink from my hand and downed it, then tossed it toward one of the freshmen. The boy caught it soundly, then continued on his path. Kiersten looked back to me and grinned. “Go have the bartender make you another.”

“Thanks,” I said, flushing a little, and made my way to the bar. Kiersten and Piper watched me go, then turned their backs on me when one of the older football players— a tall, Latino-looking guy with dark eyes and cheekbones carved by angels— approached them.

“What can I get you?” the guy behind the bar asked as I slid up to it. There were no seats— just the tall bar table— but I still found myself clinging to its edge like a life raft.

“Something easy to drink?” I asked.

The bartender smiled— he was wearing eyeliner that was so on point, I wanted to ask him for tips on doing my own. “How about this?” he asked, and opened a cheap beer.

“Yes, please,” I said, taking it from him. “Will I be the only one not drinking something fancy?”

“Nah— everyone dissolves to PBRs by the end of the night,” the bartender said. He rested his elbows on the bar and leaned across. “So. You’re new.”

“Yes. I came with Piper and Kiersten,” I said, turning to motion toward them. “Oh!” I said, feeling my face flush.

Piper was steadily making out with the Latino guy, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. He reached down and lifted her from the ground like she weighed nothing at all which, given the size of his muscles, she probably didn’t so far as he was concerned.

“Piper, Piper, Piper,” the bartender said, shaking his head a little. He sounded unimpressed. “That’s Stewart Adams. He’s a rising junior, future star quarterback. Just ask him.”

“Oh,” I said, unsure what else I could say. “So he’s a jerk?”

The bartender shrugged and tidied the neat bowtie at his throat. “He’s fine. She’s just using him. Trying to get to the real prize,” he said, and grinned.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

The bartender side-eyed me. “You
are
new. Well, honey, first off: Welcome to Harton. Second off, allow me to be the first to point out the hero of Harton, the king of this particular castle. He’s the fire in the loins of every girl and at least one of the boys in this room,” he said, raising his own hand. “And the king’s name is
Jacob Everett
.” As the bartender said the name, his voice got low and sultry, as if even uttering it was somehow decadent.

The bartender motioned over to his left and into a room just over his shoulder. There was a fireplace with a brick mantle, and around it were dozens and dozens of posters, photos, and newspaper cutouts celebrating the Harton Rams’ football achievements. A beaten but cozy looking leather couch was positioned along one wall, and was occupied by a variety of girls (who looked like off-brand versions of Piper and Kiersten).

Other football players— all clearly the upperclassmen— were lingering near the couch arms or standing in the open doorways, laughing at jokes I couldn’t hear and more or less blocking my view of the center of the couch.

“Which one is he?” I whispered to the bartender.

“You’ll know. Wait till they move,” the bartender said a little hungrily. A few breaths later, one of the largest of the players finally shifted and stepped to the side and yes, the bartender was right— I knew immediately who Jacob Everett was. Sitting in the center of the couch as if it were a throne, he forced me to take him in piece by piece.

I noticed first that he was tall— or at least, I figured he was tall, because it looked like he could barely sit comfortably on the couch, his knees were bent so high. His t-shirt hugged the muscles of his shoulders and neck, soft material against hard, toned skin. He had full, dark hair that looked flawlessly tousled, and angled eyebrows that turned up the volume on each and every expression.

Then I noticed his eyes— gray-blue and deep-set, gems in the center of his carved face. They were eyes that made my stomach twist, that made something between my legs clench and my tongue press to my teeth.

And they were on
me.

I jumped, realizing this— I’d been so busy watching
him
that I hadn’t noticed he was watching me until I’d probably been staring for a ridiculous amount of time. The bartender laughed nervously under his breath and waved at Jacob Everett, who raised a hand back. I attempted to dissolve into the floor, and when that didn’t work, spun away from Jacob and pretended to meticulously study the label on my beer.

“Relax, honey. That’s everyone’s reaction to him,” the bartender said as he prepared a drink for a nearby freshman player. “He’s basically the reason I work these parties. I mean, can you blame me?”

“Yeah, he’s good looking. And he’s the one Piper is really interested in?” I asked.

“Well, he’s the one they’re
all
really interested in, but Piper especially. She’s worked her way up from the lowly freshmen, and now with Adams, she’s one step away from Jacob Everett’s nine-inch cock.”