Full Contact: A College Reverse Harem Romance

by Cassie Cole

  I smiled down at my phone, but then I realized what was bothering me about the text conversation. Last night, Lance pretended like he was only kissing me so the sorority girls would leave him alone. Now he was treating it as if it was a real kiss.

  It certainly felt like a real kiss.

  Despite our texts vowing not to make it weird, I spent the rest of my lunch feeling confused.

  20

  Roberta

  My next class was the easiest one on my entire schedule: The Geopolitical Collapse of Europe From 1914-1918. World War One history was something I knew tons about, and I needed three elective credits for my degree. It was in a big lecture hall in the old building at the center of the Appleton campus, with tiny wooden seats with the surfaces that folded up from the side like on an airline. I took a seat in the back and pulled out my textbook.

  The assigned reading was about the build-up leading to the Great War. Specifically on the concept of military mobilization. Basically, it took the European countries several weeks to prepare for war: conscripting soldiers, giving them basic training, and moving equipment to their borders. Because of this, countries that feared an impending war needed to mobilize as quickly as possible so they would be prepared. But that just led to a chain reaction: Austria-Hungary mobilized, which caused Russia to mobilize, so of course Germany had to mobilize its troops, and so on.

  I’d skimmed the reading because I already knew a lot about the topic. I was alert and ready to discuss it when a face I recognized walked in the door. A tall, dark, and handsome Chilean face.

  Feña was wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and his dark curls looked like they’d been freshly washed. But below the waist he wore baggy basketball shorts and a pair of gym sneakers. It was a hilarious juxtaposition of styles. Attractive college boy on top, and lazy athlete on the bottom. Like a fashion mullet.

  He went to the professor and handed him a note. The professor read it, scribbled on it with a pen, and nodded. As soon as Feña gazed up at the seats, I waved at him. He smiled when he saw me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I didn’t see you in this class last week.”

  He lowered himself into the seat next to me. “I was transferred in. I require three history credits, and all of the generic classes were full.” He frowned. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I’ve got an elective requirement too. I chose this class because I learned a lot about the Great War from my grandfather. His father—my great-grandfather—fought on the western front in 1918.”

  “That is quite excellent,” Feña said with a small smile. “Now I have someone to copy off of.”

  I elbowed him in the arm as the professor got up from his desk and began the lecture.

  Despite being engrossed in the topic, after a few minutes my mind drifted to another subject.

  “I saw your workouts this morning,” I whispered. “Is there a reason you’re only using resistance bands?”

  Feña leaned his head close to mine while keeping his eyes on the professor. “He is worried about my back. I have a lingering injury.”

  “How long ago did you injure it?”

  “Sophomore year. Two years ago. Lower back, right above my waistband. It flares up every now and then.”

  I nodded. An injury was something I suspected. But as for Brett’s solution…

  “An injury is no reason to avoid heavy lifts,” I whispered. “You should be doing compound movements to help strengthen the muscle and prevent future injury.”

  “Really? Coach says…”

  “I’m your coach,” I said. “I’ll create a whole new routine for you. It will be better. You said you want to regain your kicking distance, right?”

  “What if Brett finds out?” Feña asked.

  “Excuse me,” the professor suddenly called out. He was staring up at us. “If you two lovebirds don’t mind, I am trying to give a lecture.”

  The other students twisted in their seats to look at me. Feña slid down in his seat to try to avoid being seen.

  “I’m sorry professor,” I said. “Feña and I were talking about the lecture material.”

  “Oh?” The professor crossed his arms. “Please elaborate on your discussion.”

  Feña groaned next to me.

  “Feña didn’t understand why Russia came to the defense of Serbia in 1914,” I replied. “I explained to him that Russia and Serbia were culturally similar, and Russia wanted to protect a fellow Slavic nation from Austro-Hungarian aggression.”

  The professor blinked. “Although it is kind of you to catch Mr. Martinez up on what he missed, please save such discussion for after class. Now, the mobilization of Russia in early 1914 was seen by the other great powers…”

  Feña scribbled in his notebook and then turned it so I could see:

  Thanks

  I flashed him a thumbs-up before shifting my focus back to the lecture.

  We didn’t talk anymore until class was over and we were outside in the hallway. “You took a lot of notes,” I said.

  “My understanding of European history is lacking,” he said dryly. “In Santiago, our focus is on South American history. European history is overwhelming. And it does not help that all the European nations are the same to me. Is there truly any difference between Austria-Hungary and Serbia? And Russia and Germany?”

  I laughed at his generalization. “They’re all pretty unique, with different cultures and histories. I don’t know how you could think they’re similar.”

  He looked sideways at me. “Do you know the difference between Chile and Argentina? Or Peru and Colombia?”

  “Good point,” I admitted. “I can help you study, if you fall behind.”

  “I may take you up on this offer,” he said with a smile.

  “Hey, how are the other guys doing?” I asked.

  “They are fine.”

  “Yeah?” I persisted. “Lance is doing good?”

  He glanced over at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Just curious.”

  His steady Antonio Banderas gaze wore me down before we had crossed the campus lawn.

  “Alright, Lance and I kissed the other night. At the party after the game. Had Lance not told you? Or did you just want to hear me say it?”

  Feña had a puzzled look on his face. “I did not know. I am quite surprised.”

  I stopped underneath a tree for shade, and turned to face him. “Surprised that I would kiss Lance so soon after… um, being with Danny?”

  Feña shook his head. “I am surprised because Lance does not like to start relationships at parties.”

  “This isn’t a relationship,” I quickly said. “It’s nothing.”

  “A kiss is not nothing,” Feña said. “For Lance, is very much something. But to answer your original question: no, Lance does not seem weird. Cocky after the win against Austin College, but this is normal for him.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Maybe I’m over-thinking things.”

  “Perhaps you are.” Feña smiled. “My next class is back in the other direction. I only followed you because I wanted to intimidate you into telling me what was wrong.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. “Don’t tell Lance I told you. Alright?”

  “I am not a gossiper.”

  “Good.” I glanced at the time. “I’ll text you about your new workout. I’ve got a plan.”

  “I look forward to seeing it, Roberta.”

  Roberta. My name rolled off his tongue with that wonderful accent.

  I thought about it for the rest of the day.

  21

  Fernando

  I woke for the gym extra early the next morning, before Lance or Danny were awake. It felt strange slipping out of our house without them, but today we were trying something new.

  Campus was dead at this time of day, aside from the occasional straggler walking home from a party. When I reached the athletic building, I found Roberta waiting for me outside the door. She was wearing ru
nning shorts and a dry-fit shirt. I could see the outline of her black sports bra underneath.

  “I told you the gym does not open until 5:00 a.m.,” I said as a greeting.

  She held up a key and grinned. “And I told you I have my ways inside.”

  I looked around nervously. “If we are going to get in trouble for this…”

  The door opened with a creak. “Relax. I was study partners with the girl who runs the front desk. She gave me the key, and she’ll cover for us.”

  The gym was quiet and deserted. The massive hanging lights crackled and hummed when Roberta flipped the switch.

  “Let’s warm up,” she said, heading for the stairs. I followed her up to the track, where she dropped her bag off in the corner and then began jogging.

  “You do not have to run with me, if you do not want to,” I said as I fell in beside her.

  Roberta barked a laugh. “I haven’t gotten a chance to squeeze in a run since the semester started. I’m itching to stretch these legs.”

  She meant it lightheartedly, but I couldn’t help but hear the weariness in her voice. “Sorry about that,” I said as we rounded the first corner.

  “Don’t apologize. If I had gotten the physical trainer position, I would be just as busy. I’m happy to be helping you three.”

  “We are happy as well,” I said, and meant every word.

  We jogged a full mile before going downstairs. Roberta’s shirt clung to her torso, making the dark sports bra stick out even more.

  “I’ve done some research,” she explained. “Resistance bands aren’t enough. You need to be doing real weight-lifting. Compound movements with an olympic barbell. Avoiding them for the past two years has probably caused your leg muscles to slightly atrophy, which would be responsible for the loss in kicking distance.”

  I winced. I was afraid of that. I had worked extensively with a kicking expert to ensure my form was flawless, but despite that my field goal kicks were not traveling as far. This explained why.

  “Is it too late to resolve?” I asked. “The season has begun…”

  Roberta smiled warmly. “Not too late at all. In my research I found a six-week training circuit which should restore some of that muscle. What was the longest kick you made in practice on Friday?”

  “45 yards,” I admitted. And even that had just barely cleared the crossbar.

  “Start keeping track of your distances,” Roberta said, “because I really think you’re going to see some improvements. We’ll do these three times a week. Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday.”

  “We usually do not have practice the day after a game,” I said.

  “Well, now you are. Because the alternative is doing them Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but I don’t want you lifting weights that heavy the day before a game. Sound good?”

  It was a lot for me to take in all at once, but in a refreshing way. As the kicker and punter on the team, my fitness was often overlooked in favor of focusing on more valuable members of the team. Nobody cared about the kicker unless he started missing field goals. It had been that way for all four years here at Appleton, and it was only getting worse now that Brett was in charge of the team’s physical training.

  Having someone like Roberta giving me focused, specialized treatment? It was more than I ever could have asked for.

  “This sounds very good,” I said with a grin.

  “We’re going to do squats first,” she announced. “Squats are my favorite lift because they’re a compound movement which work the quadriceps, hamstrings, and glutes. You’re rotating on the knees, ankles, and hip joints all at once. Any idea what your squatting one-rep max used to be?”

  One-rep max was the amount of weight you could do a single rep at, right on the edge of failure. “255,” I told her, “but that was two years ago.”

  “We’ll try 185 today to start out.” She took a 45 pound plate from a nearby weight tree and stuck it on one end of the barbell in a squat rack. I joined her and loaded up the other side with a 45 pound plate, and then a 25 pound plate. Those on each side, plus the 45 pound bar, came out to 185.

  I ducked underneath the bar and let it rest against my shoulder muscles. But before I could accept the weight, Roberta stepped up behind me.

  “Real quick, just for my own sanity,” she said. Her hand pressed against my lower back, probing and feeling. “This is where your injury was?”

  “Yes, right there,” I said. Her touch was firm, but gentle.

  “The erector spinae muscles,” she said softly. “Common injury location. Okay, you’re good to begin.

  “I know how to do a squat,” I said defensively. I flashed a smile to take the sting away from my words.

  “Alright then. Let’s see it, kicker.”

  When she had moved out of the way, I gripped the bar and pushed up with my thighs, lifting the weight off the rack and onto my shoulders. I took a step back in the rack, made sure my feet were the proper distance apart, and then used my quad muscles to squat down to the ground. I lowered myself steadily, my knees bending forward and my butt sticking out. Then I engaged my thighs powerfully, rising back up into a standing position. I could feel long-dormant muscle fibers stretching and groaning back to life. The weight was heavy, but easily manageable.

  “Do another,” Roberta instructed.

  I obeyed, lowering myself and then rising back up. It was even easier the second time. I racked the bar and ducked underneath, smiling at Roberta. It felt good doing real lifts again.

  “Your form is a little rusty,” she said, puckering her lips like she’d tasted something sour. “You’re not going deep enough. You want your thighs to be parallel to the ground.”

  I knew that going parallel was the goal of any good squat, but I also thought that’s what I had done. “Okay, let me try again.”

  I ducked under the bar and did another squat. This time I made sure to lower my body even farther, until I was certain that my thighs were parallel. I clenched my quads and drove my heels into the ground, rising back up with even more power than before.

  “Better?” I asked, standing with the weight still on my shoulders.

  “Yes and no. Do another, then rack it.”

  I obeyed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her holding her cell phone. When I had completed another squat, I leaned forward and let the rack hooks take the bar from my shoulders.

  “What do you mean, yes and no? I was definitely parallel that time.”

  “You were,” she agreed. “That was the yes part of my statement. But you’re rounding your back at the bottom.”

  She leaned close to me and held out her phone to show me the photo. It was taken from the side, showing me at the very bottom of the squat movement. She drew an imaginary line with her finger from my neck to my butt.

  “You held good form for the entire movement until the very bottom. Then you rounded your back. That puts extra stress on your lower back muscles.”

  “I felt like I was properly arching my back,” I said. The photo confused me, because it didn’t match what I thought I was doing.

  “Don’t sweat it,” she said, smacking me playfully on the arm. “That’s why I’m here.”

  She moved to the neighboring squat rack and pulled her loose hair up into a ponytail. Then she made an annoyed noise, and pulled her sweat-covered shirt over her head to reveal her sports bra. She tossed the damp shirt on a nearby bench and sighed with relief.

  “Much better. Alright, watch and learn.” She ducked under the bar and took the weight on her shoulders.

  Fitness was attractive to me. A woman with a little bit of muscle tone and visible strength was far sexier than the too-skinny models of the 80s. Fit was the new thin, and it was a trend that I absolutely loved.

  Roberta was very attractive, a fact which was quite impossible to ignore while performing the squat movement. She leaned forward and stuck out her round, heart-shaped ass. The toned muscles in her back flexed as she maintained a perfect back arch all the way down. As
she pushed back up, her round breasts—despite being encumbered by the sports bra—bounced nicely as she locked her knees in the standing position.

  She looked over at me and grinned knowingly. “Did you see how I kept my back from rounding?”

  “Yes,” I lied. I had not been paying attention at all.

  “Here, pull out your phone,” she said, then lowered herself again. She paused at the very bottom of the squat and glanced over at me. “Come on. Take a photo so we can compare.”

  I grabbed the phone out of my pocket and pulled up the camera app. Dios mio. Did she know how she looked right now? Her pink shorts—which were already skimpy to begin with—were pulled tight by the squat, digging into her ass and flawlessly outlining every curve and plane. The skin on her back was smooth and glistening with sweat.

  The things that ran through my mind in that moment would make a sailor blush. I had to look away before I got too excited in my thin workout shorts.

  “Did you take it yet?” she asked.

  “Yep,” I said as I snapped the photo. Despite my dirty internal thoughts, taking a photo made me feel like a creeper, even though I had permission. Roberta racked the weight and then stood next to me. Her ample chest heaved as she pulled out her own phone and held it up to mine.

  “See the difference?” she asked.

  She was leaning into me, her arm touching mine and her thigh brushing against my shorts. I could smell the fruity shampoo in her hair, brought out from the sweat. “I think so.”

  She pointed at my phone and leaned even closer. “I’m maintaining the back arch the entire time. That engages your core more, and keeps from straining those erector spinae muscles. If you’ve been doing it the wrong way, it might explain how your injury keeps flaring up.”

  I started to tell her she was wrong. Arrogance made me want to insist that I knew what I was doing, and that the rounded back just now was because I was tired from coming in earlier than normal, and because I wasn’t focusing enough. I wanted to insist that I normally did it correctly.