Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1)

by Stephanie Queen

  Or do I own up to my mistake and turn down the trophy that I’ve worked towards for so long and accept the consequences, whatever they are?

  Chapter 23

  Jack

  “Cause I love how it feels when I break the chains”

  --Whatever It Takes, Imagine Dragons

  Heisman Trophy Ceremony

  Every step I take feels like my last, like the ground beneath my feet is going to blow up, explode in my face, and wipe me away. I only need to know if I’ve won. To crawl to the top of that mountain, crushed by the boulder I’ve been pushing, bloody and ragged, just to see. To hear my name called. Then I can collapse, let the boulder roll over me as I tumble all the way back down to the bottom and I swear I won’t care.

  Emotion? I’m numb, solid, cool. But the emotions aren’t gone. They’ve morphed into physical pain, the stabbing through my back, like the tearing of my vital organs, like internal bleeding. I feel that any words I speak come from my veins, like my sweat is blood and my eyes are empty sockets. I’m a shell, no longer human, going through the motions and only capable of feeling pain, raw pure physical pain everywhere.

  Taking my seat in the front row, I sit with Joni and my mother. I put my hand on Joni’s thigh and squeeze, but I feel nothing, as if her flesh is a mirage. Or maybe it’s my hand that isn’t real. The room buzzes. I nod at the other candidates, knowing they’re doomed to lose and not caring. My doom will send me to the bowels of hell. They still have a chance.

  But football is only a game, a stand-in for life. It’s not real, so it’s fitting that none of this feels like my life. The very thing I’ve struggled for years to achieve is just vapor, as if I’ve been living in the Matrix world all my life and didn’t know until now, a dream world I’ve finally awakened from just as I’m about to grasp the trophy.

  I chuckle derisively at my folly, at how I’ve gotten everything that means anything so wrong. Chasing after the wrong things, trying to fill a void with a vacuum.

  “What so funny?” Joni whispers. Her smile is brittle. She knows I’m not cool with this, wants so much for me to have my cake, doesn’t realize I’ve already eaten it.

  “You,” I say, leaning in and kissing her forehead, trying to feel the tenderness, knowing I’ve sacrificed it to avoid feeling the hurt, to function. It’s true what they say. You can’t have everything.

  The lights in the auditorium go down and the crowd quiets as the virtual orchestra cues up from the speakers. No real musicians in sight. Nothing is real about this night. Not yet. Not until I take the stage.

  After the Heisman trustees have their say, the MC of the program, a reporter from Sports Illustrated, takes the mic with Ivan Dunleavy, last year’s Heisman winner. It’s time for them to talk about the candidates. They drone on about each of us as the wall-size screen behind them shows the highlights and the audience claps their appreciation.

  In a testament to either my lack of humility, or more likely to the destiny that I should fall on the largest stage of my life, that only the swiping away of what I ruthlessly sought for so long at the moment of triumph would be an appropriate tribute to my heritage and lesson for my life, I know Dunleavy is going to announce my name as the drumroll comes to an end.

  “And this year’s winner of the Heisman Trophy is Jack Hunter from St. Paul University.”

  Joni bounces with happiness, tears streaming as she hugs me and kisses my face. Mom restrains her pride, clutching my arm and giggling like a girl, telling me she knew I’d win. I lean in to kiss Joni once on the lips, my mouth quivering. I don’t want to crush her joy. “I’m sorry, Joni,” I whisper, watching her smile turn brittle.

  “Don’t, Jack.” She clutches the jacket of my tux, the one I let her rent for me for the night. “You deserve this.” Emotions convulse through her words. I stand and try to stay in the moment, hear the applause as I trot up the stairs, keep a smile on my face until I get to the podium. Then Dunleavy hands me the statue and my fingers close around the cold bronze figure and the crushing defeat nearly buckles my knees.

  Lights flash and I blink my eyes. It takes several beats of applause before the crowd quiets and I’m faced with my horrible task. It’s time to announce my defeat to the world.

  “Thank you. For the Heisman, for the vote of confidence. But I’m not a winner. This trophy doesn’t belong to me.” Whispers of shock wave through the crowd, settling me.

  “I’m poor. Not an excuse, but it was the reason I broke rules, broke the law, cheated the system.” Now the whispers are louder, outraged, concerned and confused, but I forge on, looking at my mother and then at Joni. I see the officials in my peripheral vision, frowning, unsure what to do. I take advantage of their hesitation and keep talking. I’ll say everything I need to say to make this occasion real.

  “I’m ashamed now to say that I did things that were far from legitimate.” I take a deep breath and plunge into the deep dark waters of truth, not knowing if it will set me free, only knowing I can’t be any more shackled to my demons than I am now.

  “I wrote term papers for rich students at other schools to earn extra money for the past four years.” The crowd roars this time. Joni jumps up from her seat. Others on stage rush to me. I have more to say, but I stand here mute in surprise as Joni takes the stage and reaches me, her face bright and pained but determined with no tears in sight. Reverend Church leans in and speaks into the microphone asking for people to silence, to let me speak. There’s a crowd around us and I don’t know how she does it, but Joni gets to me and takes the mic away. Speaking to me, and to everyone, she says, “I won’t let you do this, I won’t let you take all the blame for being guilty of the desperation of not having money.” Then she turns to the riveted audience. “The NCAA is to blame for cutting the pay of his summer job, the NCAA’s rules that he can’t accept help or money from alumni supporters or even the school, beyond room and board. And what was he going to do? Let his mother starve?”

  I take the mic back and hold her. “It’s okay, Joni.” The crowd of men around me force me back, but I face the audience, smile, it’s genuine if sad. I stand in place though I’m being pressured to move, and I meet Mom’s eyes. Tears stream down her face. “Spoken like a true girlfriend, a loyal friend, the love of my life.” I turn and kiss Joni then. When I finish, I turn back to the pin-drop quiet audience.

  “I accept full responsibility for my actions. I could have found a legitimate way to earn money for my mother but I chose the quick and easy way so I could maintain a social life and my status as big man on campus. Shallow? Yes. But no more. I know what means the most in life.” I take a deep breath, look at Mom again. “I love you, Mom.” That’s all I have left to say. There’s nothing left inside me, even the demons are gone. I back up from the podium and hand the trophy to Reverend Church. With my arm still around Joni, security surrounds us. I tower over them, but they escort me off the stage with solemn authority.

  By the time we get to the backstage area all hell is breaking loose. I look for someone, anyone I know, but the crowd of people are media, security, and NCAA officials I barely recognize. A lot of questions are shouted at me, but I keep my mouth shut, concentrating on the feel of Joni against my side, warm and tall and brave. I hear a commotion behind me and turn.

  Reverend Church, Dean Lassiter, and Coach Radz are arguing, coming my way. Lassiter shouts, his anger real, though I can’t tell what he says. Then Radz put his hands on Lassiter’s shoulders and pulls him aside, out of Church’s face.

  From my periphery, I see Voland approaching from the other direction and waving to me from a hallway.

  “Let’s go.” I take Joni and turn left, down the hallway toward Voland. He opens a door and heads through.

  “I thought you might want to get out of there,” he says. “I’m sorry this all happened. For the record, I admire the way you handled it.” He stops and looks at me.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry it all had to go down this way. But I should have known better.” I take a d
eep bracing breath of the cold air. New York City weather is a bitch this time of year, no better than New Hampshire.

  “Need a lift to the airport?”

  I look at Joni. We came on the team plane, but I don’t feel like going home that way. Mom drove here in a borrowed car, but she’s going back to Moreland.

  “Not really. How about to a car rental agency?”

  “You got it.”

  I rent a car, maxing out my credit card and not caring. I haven’t checked my phone. It’s turned off. I may need to sell mom’s house to pay the bills. I don’t care. I’ll find a job. Maybe I can sell cars for real at Moreland Chevrolet. If the owner will talk to me after tonight.

  I’m not surprised when I’m summoned to the president’s office the next day after we get back to campus. I am surprised when Joni’s dad shows up at BMOC House as I’m about to leave. He catches me as I’m getting in my truck.

  “Can I talk to you?” He’s the last person I want to talk to on a good day.

  “I have to be somewhere.” I get in my truck determined not to listen to him because I have a feeling I know what he has to say and I don’t want to hear it right now. But he doesn’t give a shit about me, so he walks up to my window and I open it.

  “I know where you’re going and I know why,” he says. “You’re going to be arrested and if I have any influence, you’ll be doing jail time. You need to leave Joni alone. Let her go. She shouldn’t be tied to someone like you. A criminal.”

  Without saying a word, trying to deflect his words, not let them sink in, I roll up the window and step on the gas, taking off, leaving rubber in what I know is likely to be my last defiant act for a long time. My swan song as big man on campus.

  There’s a hoard of press outside Reverend Church’s office. I pull up to the curb, jump from the truck, and stride with determination through the rushing swarm. I don’t listen to their questions, don’t say a word because I know better. I’m no martyr. I’ll take my rightful consequences, but I’m no ax murderer and refuse to be treated like one.

  Inside the conference room, Reverend Church, Dean Lassiter, and Coach Radz are there with another middle-aged dude in a dark blue suit. A lawyer. I can practically smell it on him. He has that serious look and starched scent.

  Reverend Church takes up the mantle of university president like I’ve never seen before, keeping everyone quiet with his words.

  “Jack, we called you in to talk about the fallout of your confession at the Heisman Award ceremony. It’s a serious matter. Have a seat. Let me tell you what we’re up against.”

  I make a mental note of him using the word “we” and I nod. “I’ll stand.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “You’re being charged with three counts of Academic Fraud which is a Class A Misdemeanor carrying a penalty of up to ninety days in jail and a fine of two thousand dollars. I’ve arranged for an attorney on your behalf because I know you can’t afford one and I’m impressed with the bravery it took for you to confess your sins and give up the Heisman.” He pauses, but I’m too stunned to speak. Absorbing the impact of his support is beyond my emotional capacity in this moment. He continues.

  “The feds have been spearheading an investigation into a large-scale Russian operation of academic fraud and caught a lot of small operators in their nets, which they sent back down to the states and counties to deal with. Ordinarily the county DA wouldn’t bother pursuing this unless the university pressed them. I told the DA that the university didn’t intend to press charges but he said in this case it doesn’t matter.” Church pauses. I take another breath and let it go, let the tension roll through me and leave me like a mass of jelly, barely breathing, barely alive.

  “Because you are a prominent figure in the state and now in the country, representing the university and NCAA football and college athletes everywhere, you are being held to a high standard and seen as good candidate to be made an example of. This is the reasoning I’ve been given for throwing the book at you.”

  The fucking Heisman. I close my eyes and listen, still standing. I’m not sure how. Out of stubborn habit maybe.

  “I’m not making the decision as president of the university, because it’s too controversial with some of the trustees not in agreement. I’m using my personal funds to pay for your defense.” I meet his eyes and feel real admiration.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll repay—”

  “No need for repayment. This is a gift you must accept, Jack.” He extends a hand toward the table where the others sit. “Have a seat. This is your attorney.”

  The lawyer outlines the case and says he told the police he would escort me to the station to face the charges. Fuck.

  “We’re lucky the feds decided not to take the case. Evidently, they have bigger fish to fry and they’re not interested, for once, in cashing in on the publicity of arresting a celebrity. My theory is they believe there’s too much sympathy for you, too many people in your corner.”

  “Will I need to spend time in jail?” I may deserve it, but I can’t let go of my long-held survival instincts and the bad memories I have of the one stint I did as a kid in juvie.

  “I’m going to ask for you to be released to Coach Radzewicz. He’ll be responsible for you. If the court agrees. I’m not sure what the DA’s position is on the matter. I hear he may be looking for publicity on this. He’s not as smart as the feds.”

  We take the lawyer’s car, a cool silver Mercedes, and I call Tristan to let him know what’s going on. Everything in me screams to call Joni. But her bastard father was right. I don’t want to weigh her down with the likes of me, a possible future ex-con. Fuck. I’m worse than my mother or father ever dreamed of being. I’m so sorry, Grandpa. I was so close—or I thought I was. But I never had a chance.

  Even though I can’t blame my lawyer, because he’s good, the judge doesn’t agree to releasing me to my coach. The prosecutor insists I’m a flight risk in spite of the fact that I have no money. The judge sets the bail at fifty- thousand dollars. Probably because he knows I have no money. It may as well be ten billion dollars.

  My attorney jumps to a stand. “I want to go on the record to say this bail is outrageous. It’s a Class A Misdemeanor, not a felony we’re dealing with, judge.”

  “I know what we’re dealing with,” the judge says. He looks straight at me. “A prominent student who has the national stage to set an example for millions of students nationwide. And he chose to set a bad example. Now it’s up to the court to show college students everywhere what happens when you make a bad choice.”

  The gavel comes down and the judge dismisses us. The air leaves my lungs. I thought I was prepared for this. Aside from the low-level buzzing in my head, I don’t feel anything. Like I’m an avatar of myself walking through a virtual experience. Not the experience I’m supposed to be living, the one I’ve been imagining, anticipating, planning, and working toward for years. This is not what’s supposed to happen when I win the Heisman.

  But it is what you deserve, Jack. I breathe again, absorb the new reality.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. Do you have property you could mortgage to get bail money?” I laugh, thinking about the worthless shack that’s already mortgaged past its value and I shake my head.

  “Anyone you know with money?” I know he’s thinking of Joni, but there’s no fucking way I’d ask her to bail me out. I know she’d do it but I’m the last person she ought to invest anything in. Her father’s words reverberate. She deserves better, not to be shackled to the likes of me. I always knew I had a lot to prove. Thought I was doing a good job of proving myself.

  All I’ve ended up proving is that I’m a world-class fuck-up. I’ve managed to sabotage everything I worked for.

  Because I had it all wrong.

  “You should at least try, make a few calls. I know a bail bondsman.”

  “Jack,” Tristan says. He’s with George and they meet us in the aisle as we walk toward the court clerk’s office. “Bad rap. They
should have let you go.”

  George says, “Guess the judge didn’t trust Coach Radz.” He tries for a smile. Tristan elbows him. “Hey, we can help you with bail. If you want.” I’m about to tell him to fuck off because I don’t want his sympathy, but my lawyer jumps on it.

  “What’s your name, son? If you have five-thousand dollars at your disposal for the ten percent up front, we’d be happy to accept. Let’s go.”

  I can’t talk George and Tristan out of it as they come up with twenty-five hundred each to bail me out. The lawyer lays everything out for me, letting me know that I can’t leave the state, that I’m being allowed to stay at school pending trial per Reverend Church, that if the DA extends a deal we’ll take it to avoid a hearing, but that it’s all going to take time and likely not be resolved until next semester.

  “Before or after April 29th?” I hold my breath. Tristan and George suck in their breaths, pinched looks of concern on their faces as we all wait for the lawyer to tell me the answer.

  “What’s April 29th?” he says.

  “The NFL Draft,” I say.

  He nods, his forehead puckering as he gets the significance.

  No NFL team in their right mind is going to draft a guy with a criminal charge pending. Even if it’s only a misdemeanor, it could carry jail time and they’ll wait before they take a chance. If I have the hearing and I get off with a fine, I still have a shot. I can hear the pounding in my chest now, feel the life in me, the fight in me, the anesthetizing numbness wearing off.

  “Before April 29th,” my attorney says. “I’ll make sure of it. Usually it’s thirty to sixty days in this jurisdiction, sooner if the DA comes to his senses.”

  “Thank you.” I let out a breath and shake his hand.

  “In the meantime, the press will be descending. We got away with no press today because the county sheriff is a fan and he didn’t notify them. Don’t talk to anyone about this. No social media, nothing. Not one word. Not even to Voland.”