The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (11 page)

GRAY AND DIAZ are in my kitchen when I get home for the day. My mood is so rotten, I almost regret giving Gray a key, but then I smell something drifting from the big pot on the stove that makes my mouth water and decide his occasional invasions are worth it. I might have asked him to be my roommate, but every time we go to an away game, I have to room with him—and sometimes two other guys—which is more than enough socializing for me. Besides, I like living alone.

When my parents died, I was handed a life insurance payout check for two million dollars and two death certificates. I promptly threw up the contents of my stomach and didn’t get out of bed for a week. I wouldn’t even touch the money. I wanted my parents, not some fucking check. Eventually, Coach convinced me that my parents took out those life insurance policies because they wanted to provide for me. Not the best comfort, but I bucked up and called a financial advisor who put the money in various accounts.

Last year, when I learned the true value of privacy the hard way, I bought a small bungalow style house. I don’t plan to live here permanently, but I bought for cash and, over the summer, I had the master bath and kitchen redone. When I’m ready, I’ll sell it at a profit and put the savings away. For now, however, it’s my haven.

Tossing my keys on the hall table, I make my way through the open concept living-dining room. I kept a few things when my parents died: the dining and living room furniture, my mother’s beloved wedding china, and some childhood mementoes and pictures. Giving the rest away was a nightmare that still haunts me from time to time.

Maybe some people might think I’m not letting go by keeping the furniture, but there’s something soothing about seeing my mom’s carefully selected leather couch and chair set from Pottery Barn, or the coffee table they bought on a weekend getaway, or the dining table that came from my dad’s parents’ home.

Gray and Diaz give me nod as I walk past them and into my room. After a quick shower, I join them.

“What’s cooking, honey?” I ask Gray, who tosses a dishtowel at my head in annoyance.

Unlike me, Gray can actually cook. His mother was Norwegian, and apparently Norwegian women believe in equality for all domestic tasks. He’s been cooking since he was in the seventh grade.

“Stew, sweet cheeks,” Gray answers with sarcasm. “Now fetch me a beer, will you?”

Diaz simply grunts with amusement. He’s one of the best fullbacks I’ve played with, but he doesn’t say much. Ever. He does, however, know how to find a good, free meal, which explains his presence here.

I reach into the fridge and then toss Gray a beer. A raised eyebrow to Diaz, and he gives another grunt then finally speaks. “Got Gatorade?”

The 32-ounce bottle of berry flavor goes to him. I know he’ll drink the whole thing.

As for me, I forego alcohol for the season, so I’m having the bottled water. I’m beginning to get sick of water. I’m sick of a lot of things, actually.

We’re silent as we settle in the living room to eat while watching TV. Something I’m grateful for. I don’t really want to talk. The stew is good. Better than anything I’ve had all week. Damn, I’m going to have to ask Gray to teach me how to cook one day, because this beats carryout and frozen meals by yards.

My mouth is full of stew when Gray attacks.

“So, what’s the deal with you and the redhead?” He looks me over. “Did you tap that?”

Though I don’t say a word, Gray knows me too well, so when the corner of my mouth tightens in annoyance, he grins. “Booyah for you, man. It’s about fucking time. Rubbing the chub just isn’t the same as fucking.” He shakes his head as I roll my eyes.

Gray has despaired of me foregoing casual sex for the past year. I’ve despaired of me too—having become way too acquainted with my right hand, as Gray so thoughtfully pointed out—but the risks haven’t been worth it until now.

I don’t want a relationship. Especially not with you.
Yep. That still hurts.

Gray gives my arm a smack. “I’m thinking she’s more than a handful, eh? Man, she has an ass on her.”

“She has a name. It’s Anna. Use it.” I stare at Gray. Hard. “And if I catch you talking about her body again, I’ll rip a piece of yours off.”

Mistake number one: giving a name to your tormentor. Mistake number two: becoming visibly protective.

Gray’s grin stretches. “You like her.”

He has no idea.

I take another bite of stew so I don’t have to talk.

“So you’re into her, yet you’re moping around like a sad sack. What’s the deal?”

Fucking pest.

“There is no ‘deal.’” I gesture to the TV with my fork. “I’d like to watch
Pardon the Interruption
, if you don’t mind.”

“And I’d like a blowjob every night before I go to bed. Disappointment’s a bitch.”

“Man...” Diaz shakes his head before attacking his food again.

Sighing, I put down my now empty bowl. What’s the deal? Where to start? I think I’ve become fuck buddies with the girl I’m falling for. And while the sex is phenomenal, the fact that she views me as little else is killing me. Yeah, that wouldn’t crush my pride to say out loud.

“She’s…” I frown at the TV. “I don’t know… hesitant.”

“So she’ll let you bang her but doesn’t want anything to do with you otherwise?” Gray snorts a laugh, covering his mouth to keep in his stew. “Oh the irony.”

Gray is too smart for his own good.

“Asshole,” I mutter then give him a glare. “And we’re adding an addendum to the rules. You don’t get to discuss Anna in terms of sex, in any shape or form.”

He wipes his mouth and takes a swig of beer. “Look, man, I’m not trying to be a dick—”

Right.

“—I’m just kind of… shit… shocked. I thought she was into you.”

He gets up to refill his bowl, and I slouch further into the couch. “I wish.”

A movement at my side has me tensing. I forgot Diaz was there he’s so quiet. Warily, I look over, and he regards me for a moment before giving a small shrug. “She don’t belong, that’s all.”

“Want to run that by me again, D?” I sit up, my fists clenching. I don’t need my teammates trying to make Anna an outsider.

He shrugs again. “Don’t mean anything bad by it, but she knows she doesn’t fit with our crew. I saw her at the party. She wasn’t comfortable there.”

I squeeze the back of my stiff neck. This is the most Diaz has said to me in weeks, so the words take a while to sink in past the shock.

“This is true,” Gray says as he plops back into his seat. “She looked antsy as all hell.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache is coming on. “Yeah.” They’re right. I know this. I’ve just ignored it in favor of feeling sorry for myself.

“If you want her,” says Diaz, “you better take it slow.” His teeth are white against the dark bronze of his skin. “Slow, as in wooing her, cuz you’re clearly her bitch if that glazed look and drunken-ass walk you got goin’ on mean anything.”

“I can kick your ass too, D.”

“Boy, please.”

“So,” Gray asks Diaz, “how do you woo a chick, D?”

“Poetry.”

“Poetry?” Gray sputters. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, you philistine. It’s cool and women love it.”

Gray presses a hand to his chest as if he’s pained. “I…have no words.”

“Because you’re a punk player,” Diaz says, stabbing into his stew with his spoon.

“That hurts, D. Deep inside my soft gooey center.”

“Man…”

“I bet you read ‘em haikus. Can’t imagine you saying more than seventeen syllables at once.”

“You best be imagining my foot up your ass, cuz it’s about to be there.”

They continue to talk shit, but my mind drifts elsewhere. I think about my father and the time we worked on changing the carburetor of my old car. The rusty piece wouldn’t budge.

“Never force something, Drew. A bolt, a pass, a game, whatever.” His dark brown eyes hold mine. “Force it and you’ll lose. Patience and persistence is how you win in life. Take your time, look for the solution, and if it doesn’t come to you, fall back, reassess, and try again.”

I know the true Anna. I’ve seen glimpses of her. When she’s not thinking up reasons for us not to be together, that girl looks at me as if I’m worth something to her. She’s the Anna that makes my heart beat faster, enjoy each second I’m with her. If she thinks she can hide behind sex, then I’ll let her hide until she realizes I’m safe, that actually being together could be something transcendent. And damn if I won’t have a good time doing it. Because while I might be patient, I’m no saint.

IT’S A PERFECT Sunday. The weather is cool and the sun is shining. There are things I could do, assignments to finish, books to read. I could go shopping or into town to watch a movie. But no, I’m sitting on the balcony watching the scant street traffic. My stomach aches and my skin feels too tight. I know what’s wrong. I’m infected with want of Baylor.

It’s going to happen again.

Addiction is best defeated with abstinence. So I’m going to be strong. I’m not going to reach out to him. I just need to get off my ass and do something.

On the table beside me, my phone dings.

I’m hoping it’s Iris telling me where she is so I can join her. But it’s not.

Unknown: Hey. It’s Drew. You busy?

I stare down at the screen, my mind trying to make the letters form comprehensible words. Drew? Texting me? I glance over my shoulder, as if he might be behind me or something. Which is stupid and juvenile. I’m still pretty sure he’s made me insane. There is a part of me, however, that gives a little leap of excitement. The lower part of me, I think darkly as I text him back.

Me: How did you get my number?

I rise and head into the apartment, the feeling of being watched still riding strong.

Unknown: Class study roster. ;)

I snort as my thumb taps on the screen.

Me: Damn study roster.

Unknown: Highly grateful for it myself.

“Yeah well, you would be,” I mutter, but, who am I trying to kid? I am too. The phone dings again.

Unknown: Where are you now?

My cheeks start to hurt from my repressed smile.

Me: Home.

Unknown: Where’s that?

I pause, my heart now giving a little leap as well. This is stupid. He’ll hurt me. Without even trying. I have to protect myself. The thought barely forms, and yet I find myself responding.

Me: Why?

Unknown: I want to know, obviously.

Me: Is this a booty call?

Damn if all my happy parts aren’t perking up now. Traitors.

Unknown: In the spirit of the brutal honesty in which we interact, yes. Yes, it is.

I laugh, too shocked not to. And a stupid grin pulls at my cheeks when I respond.

Me: Brownie points for that honesty, Baylor.

Unknown: Then give me the address, Jones. My list of semi-public places has grown thin. I’ve come up with janitor’s closets and bathroom stalls. Both unsavory. And I don’t want someone other than me seeing your gorgeous butt. I’d like to refrain from punching people, if possible.

I have to agree about the lack of privacy, although my brain’s stalled out on his reference to my butt. He thinks it’s gorgeous? Okay. I can do this. I can keep it about sex. Only sex. Awesome, hot, perfect…

Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap out my address. Sweat blooms along my skin the second I hit send.

My phone is quiet. For too long. Shit. When the text signal chimes again, my heart skips a beat.

Unknown: I’m on my way.

My heart promptly begins to race. And so do I. I practically slam down my phone as I fly into action, grabbing strewn clothes, trash, a sock, my ratty comfort bra, and a variety of other junk that’s cluttering the place. It all goes into the closet. Okay, I shouldn’t care what my place looks like. If I’m a slob, I’m a slob.

But I’m also a girl, and I’m not letting him see my place in any other condition than pristine.

I don’t know how far away he is; why didn’t I ask where he was? Skidding into the bathroom, I look myself over in the mirror. At least I don’t have a zit or anything. Which makes me think of George and his zit analogy. Fucking George.