Full Contact: A College Reverse Harem Romance

by Cassie Cole

  “What is it?” I asked. He had a worrying look on his handsome face.

  “Roberta. I have something to tell you.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said with a nervous laugh.

  “You are a force for good in my life. Thinking of you calms me, even when I should be trembling with fear.” He pointed back toward the middle of the field. “When I was about to kick that field goal, thinking of you was the only thing which kept me relaxed. You know the phrase, go to your happy place? You are my happy place, Roberta.”

  I could feel my cheeks heating. “Feña…”

  “I love you, Roberta Gallo,” he said, dark eyes glistening in the stadium lights. “I love you very much.”

  Something squeezed my heart, but in a good way. “I love you too, Feña.”

  We kissed, and a passing group of students cheered and slapped us on the back while we did, but that wasn’t enough to stop us.

  In that moment, nothing else in the world mattered but our love.

  *

  The Nicky Tarkenton scandal rocked both San Antonio State University and nationwide athletics. Both because of his targeted attacks on the three Appleton players, and the illegal gambling. Apparently he’d made $50,000 worth of wagers during the regular season alone, including betting on games he played in. That explained why he liked to run up the score on teams rather than just running the ball and letting the clock wind down—he was always trying to beat the Vegas points spread.

  Not only that, but the entire San Antonio football team was put under investigation when emails between Nicky and their head coach surfaced. He and the other staff were at least vaguely aware of Nicky’s plan to bait Danny Armstrong into a fight to hurt his knee.

  Appleton held a press conference to announce Lance’s innocence on the drug test. Feña’s academic probation was lifted, although it only warranted a few newspaper articles that were tangentially related to the wider San Antonio scandal. Compared to falsifying a drug test and attempting to injure a star quarterback’s knee, cheating on a history test was boring.

  Appleton State University was awarded the conference regular season championship after finishing with a 10-2 record. The school held a pep rally to unveil the huge trophy, and to hype everyone up for the playoffs. Danny was benched for the playoff games—despite the exciting win over San Antonio, Coach was guilty to the point of despair that he had allowed Danny to go out and almost injure himself. He didn’t even allow Danny to dress for the game, just in case he tried to pull another crazy stunt.

  And Mark? He didn’t do too bad. Compared to the intense pressure of the San Antonio game, the playoffs were a breeze. He led Appleton to victories in the first two games of the playoffs, before losing in the semi-finals to a team from Louisiana. But that was still farther than Appleton had ever gone before in the playoffs, and the team had a bright future with Mark at the helm.

  Which just left my future at the school, and beyond.

  *

  At the end of the semester, after taking all my other final exams, I formally submitted an application for work credits to the Kinesiology department. I met with a panel of professors in a small, cramped conference room. Two of them I recognized as professors from my other classes.

  The third was Coach Mueller.

  I tried not to let his scowl intimidate me as I gave my formal presentation on the work I’d done. Evaluating the three athletes’ workout schedules, sleep cycles, and recovery periods. Their nutritional intake, caloric fluctuations, and the macro targets I set for them. I even briefly discussed the inherited injuries I had to manage—Lance’s tweaked hamstring, and Feña’s long-term injury to his lower back.

  As they passed around my notebook, Coach Mueller snorted. “You know they have these things called computers right?”

  I smiled politely. “I’m a tactile person. I prefer a physical copy.”

  “I must admit, this work is quite thorough. However, I do not see any names here,” one of the other professors said while leafing through the notebook. “Did these students agree to this under the condition of anonymity? Because if so, I am not sure we can accept this work. It must be verified with the athletes themselves.”

  I took a deep breath. I’d been expecting this. “The athletes I worked on were Danny Armstrong, Lance Overmire, and Feña Martinez.”

  Coach Mueller only pursed his lips—I already knew that he was aware of all this. But the other two professors gawked like I was making a joke.

  “But you were not formally working for the athletic department,” one of them said slowly. “Correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Ms. Gallo. Am I to understand that these student athletes were receiving physical training from one of the university staff… and then also coming to you for assistance?”

  “They were, yes.”

  One of them tossed the notebook onto the table. “I must say that this is extremely unorthodox. You went behind the university’s back. Coach Mueller, were you aware of this?”

  “I had no knowledge of what was happening until the last month of the season,” he said carefully. His tone dripped disapproval.

  One of the professors openly scowled. “Did you give any consideration to the fact that your nutritional supplements might have conflicted with what they were receiving from the university staff?”

  “I did consider that. It’s covered in the nutritional tracking I had each athlete itemize each day—”

  “What about exercises?” the other cut in. “Feña Martinez was completing your circuit of compound lifts three times a week, and then also completing the workload from the football trainer.”

  “That is something I did take into account,” I said calmly. “When deciding what weights to begin at, I took the standard starting point calculated from one-rep max, and then reduced the weight by an additional 10% to account for Brett’s workouts.”

  One of the professors removed her glasses and placed them on the table. “Ms. Gallo. You are obviously a very intelligent young woman. And you have done a thorough job here with these three athletes. But we simply cannot condone this type of behavior. Even if the athletes requested it, as a kinesiologist it is your duty to ensure their workloads aren’t conflicting with another program. The lack of transparency here, sneaking around behind Coach Mueller’s back, is alarming, and frankly not what we strive for here at Appleton.”

  My heart sank. I could feel my entire future slipping away from me, like sand through my fingers.

  Coach Mueller had remained silent for most of my presentation, but now he spoke up. “Ms. Gallo applied for an official position with the athletic department. She was denied. Yet still she pursued her side project with my players.”

  My legs felt wobbly. I thought I might pass out right there in front of them.

  Everything I’ve done has been for nothing.

  “I realize now,” Coach said slowly, “that it was a grave mistake not hiring Ms. Gallo.” Although he addressed the other two professors, he stared intently at me. “I allowed the athletic booster club to pressure me into hiring a different trainer, a freshman who was not qualified in the slightest. It was in this environment that my athletes went to Ms. Gallo for additional training, and that fault is mine. Despite the unorthodox and unsanctioned environment in which she worked, she was able to keep my boys healthy and hale all season long. Her workout schedule even helped increase our kicker’s average distance by ten yards. She’s as responsible for the win over San Antonio last month as anyone else on this campus.”

  “You claim she kept them healthy,” the other professor said. “Yet Daniel Armstrong suffered a potential season-ending injury.”

  “Well hell, Patricia. She can’t make the human knee invincible.” Coach Mueller tapped on the table with a thick finger. “Roberta Gallo busted her ass all season. This notebook is proof. If she didn’t earn her three work credits, then no one else ever has.”

  They made me wait outside while they deliberated.
Typically, work credit reviews were straightforward. A student worked at a physical therapy office or athletic team, they kept notes on what they did, and submitted a signed report at the end of the semester. But this was an obviously unusual situation.

  It took them 20 minutes to make a decision. When the door opened, it was Coach Mueller who greeted me with a heavy frown.

  “You never should have pulled this stunt,” he said.

  My stomach sank down into my legs. Oh no.

  Then he gave me a lopsided grin.

  I ran out of the building like it was on fire. Outside, four people waited for me: Danny, Lance, Feña, and Aly.

  “I did it!” I shouted. “I got the credits!”

  For the next few moments, the five of us were a squealing, giggling, cheering mess.

  “Best three credits I ever helped anyone earn,” Lance said with a boyish grin.

  “You can thank me for that,” Aly said haughtily. “I’m the one who dragged her to that party before the semester. If she had not have hooked up with Danny…”

  I gave her a playful shove. “You just wanted someone to be your wingman so you could try to take home your own football player.”

  “I did!” she exclaimed. “And in the end, you took him too!”

  “Technically, you did get me to take you home,” Lance pointed out to Aly.

  “And here I am four months later, as single as the day I arrived at Appleton.”

  “I will introduce you to Mark,” Danny said, pulling out his phone. “He liked brunettes.”

  Aly squealed excitedly.

  “Three credits?” Feña asked me.

  “Yep. Same as any normal class.”

  “But I thought you needed six total.”

  I sighed. “Technically, yeah. I need another three for the spring semester.” I cocked my head. “Got any athlete friends who need some physical training help for the spring?”

  Feña wrapped me in his arms warmly. “I believe I can find two or three.”

  Epilogue

  Roberta

  June in Texas usually felt like a steamy armpit, but today was a pleasant 76 degrees with a cool wind blowing out of the north. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, savoring the weather. We didn’t get a lot of days like this past March.

  And soon, all of us will be moving out of Texas.

  The announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeakers: “Now batting for Appleton, the center fielder, Lance Overmire.”

  “Come on, Lancelot!” I cheered from the bleachers on the first base side of the baseball field. “Wait for your pitch! Be patient up there!”

  Lance stepped up to the plate and adjusted his elbow guard. The baseball bat looked tiny compared to his huge mass—it was almost like a giant holding a straw.

  The Midwestern pitcher began his wind-up from the mound, then released. The baseball zipped across the inside part of the plate, causing Lance to lean away from the pitch. The ump gave the signal that it was a ball.

  “Good eye, good eye,” I said.

  The next pitch ran in on Lance and plunked him in the thigh. Lance tossed his bat angrily and walked down to first base while staring down the pitcher. For a few tense moments it looked like he might get into a fight over the hit-by-pitch, but then he looked away.

  The kindly old woman sitting next to me on the bleachers chuckled. “He’s just showing off for his grandma.”

  “You think so?” I asked. “Lance is a show-off all the time, after all.”

  “Oh yes. Lance always has an extra bit of flair whenever he knows I’m at a game. Been doing that since he was a little boy.”

  She nodded confidently. She was a shriveled little woman, barely more than five feet tall and hunched into herself like a pale raisin, but her eyes were sharp and she smiled at Lance as he took his lead at first base.

  I patted her leg. “It’s been good seeing you at the baseball games. You should have come to the football games last fall!”

  She grunted dismissively. “I can’t watch that sport. Makes me cringe every time Lance catches the ball. I’m just so afraid he’ll get injured! Baseball is a much better sport.”

  “You must not be very happy he was drafted into the NFL, then.”

  She scoffed. “Stupid boy. Should have stuck with baseball. Look how good he is! Wouldn’t have to worry about concussions, either.”

  “He loves football,” I said. And the huge signing bonus the Los Angeles Rams gave him didn’t hurt.

  Lance glanced over at us and grinned. He looked like he was just barely holding back from waving at us enthusiastically.

  “Well, I’ve enjoyed spending time with you during the season. I hope you come out to California to watch some of Lance’s games, Grandma Overmire.”

  “Oh, please. Call me Babs.”

  “Now batting for Appleton. The shortstop, Danny Armstrong.”

  Danny looked sharp in his baseball uniform. His arms bulged more underneath these sleeves compared to his football jersey, and his chest muscles pressed tightly against the front. As he stepped into the batter’s box and readied himself, he made the bat look like it weighed nothing.

  I glanced at Lance’s grandma and said, “Hey, random question. Is Babs short for Roberta?”

  She frowned. “Of course not, dear. My name is Barbara.”

  I smiled to myself. “I thought so.”

  The first pitch to Danny was a hanging curveball that caught too much of the plate. Danny stepped into his swing, entire body twisting and muscles flexing in perfect synchronicity. There was a metallic PING as he crushed the ball, pulling it high and deep into left field. The outfielder didn’t even bother to move—the ball cleared the left field fence by at least 40 feet.

  Those of us on the bleachers jumped up and cheered—especially Grandma Overmire, though she was slower to stand up. Danny flipped his bat unceremoniously and started his home run trot. Lance clapped his hands together (“Let’s go! Let’s go!”) as he rounded the bases and crossed home. When Danny finally rounded third and then touched home plate, he gave me a wink as he went back into the dugout.

  I smiled—it was good to see that his knee was fully healed. And that it hadn’t affected his spot in the draft order back in April.

  “That’s home run number eight on the season for Armstrong. Now batting for Appleton…”

  “Isn’t that boy going to the NFL too?” Grandma Overmire asked.

  “He sure is. He was drafted by the Los Angeles Chargers.”

  “Oh, wow. There are two teams in Los Angeles?”

  “That’s right,” I said. And thank goodness for that. Having both Danny and Lance in the same city made things much easier for us.

  For all of us.

  I rubbed Grandma Overmire’s shoulder. “It was nice talking to you, but I need to get back to the team. See you at dinner?”

  “Looking forward to it, dear!”

  I climbed down the bleachers and went around to the team dugout. Technically, as the team’s trainer, I wasn’t supposed to leave the dugout. But the baseball coach didn’t mind me slipping away for a half-inning to talk to Lance’s grandma. She’d become something of a team mascot this season.

  “How’s the arm?” I asked Feña.

  The handsome Chilean rolled it in his socket and frowned. “It feels fresh. The cryogenic therapy you gave me yesterday might have worked.”

  “It’s early,” I grumbled. “We’ll see how you feel in the seventh inning. Let me know if there’s any discomfort. The scouts from the Dodgers have been up my ass since Sunday.”

  He gave me a sympathetic look. “Still?”

  “They want to protect their investment.”

  “Well, it is not their investment yet.”

  I smiled sweetly. “All the more reason to be safe. Let me know if there’s any discomfort. Don’t try to play through it.”

  The Major League Baseball draft had been last week. Feña was selected by the Dodgers in the 14th round. His agent was still negotiating
with the Dodgers about the signing bonus, so the last thing we wanted was for Feña to get injured before the ink was put to paper. Feña had passed his physical, but the Dodgers trainers were calling me three times a day to ask about his rotator cuff.

  Feña leaned close. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me in front of the other baseball players.

  But then all he said was, “I trust you, Roberta. I will let you know.”

  We smiled at each other, completely trusting—and completely in love.

  The moment was ruined by Lance walking up and smacking Feña hard on the ass. “Hey there, señor. Don’t feel obligated to plunk one of their hitters as payback for them hitting me.”

  “I was not planning on it,” Feña said smoothly.

  Lance looked offended. “I mean, feel free to do it if you want. Since we’re best buds and all, and they would totally deserve it. But don’t feel obligated.”

  “I think Feña would rather not initiate a brawl that might result in an injury,” I said dryly.

  Lance put up his hands. “I’m just saying. If you brush their asshole pitcher back with some fastball chin-music, it wouldn’t make me unhappy.”

  I stared at Feña. “Do not hit their player.”

  “Si, Coach Babs.”

  Feña jogged out to the mound for the next half-inning. He had some pop on his fastball, topping out at 96 a few times, but his real strength was his breaking ball. His slider darted out of the strikezone so rapidly that it made the opposing batters’ swings look silly.

  He was on fire today, locating with his fastball and setting them up for the offspeed stuff. As the game went on, he mowed down the opposing team. We ended up winning 3-0, with Feña pitching a shutout. The only damage from the other team were two hits and a walk.

  After the game, I followed the team back to the locker room. The trainer’s room was adjacent to the locker room, where I helped ice Feña’s shoulder with a giant inflatable arm sling that made him look like Popeye after eating spinach.