Swinging Strike (Cessna U Wildcats Book 1)

by Kimberly Readnour

  “It’s blueberry with two shots of cream,” she says, withdrawing her hand and dropping her gaze. Her thick dark hair brushes across the peaks of those perfect tits. I try to do the right thing and not stare, but come on. A guy can only take so much. The hint of red lace peeking through the gap of the V-neck has me drooling like a virgin watching his first porn. This girl is sexy as hell. The loosely fitted shirt hides her waist, so I can’t tell the shape of her body, but who cares with legs like hers. We’re crouched on the ground, and they seem to go on forever. When I work my way back to her face, I’m met with an icy glare.

  Busted.

  Instead of an apology, I offer advice. “Next time, watch where you’re going.”

  Her huff makes me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. I’m only kidding, but I suppose she doesn’t know my personality. She straightens the stack of papers as her jaw sets with determination.

  “I was in a hurry and arguing with my mom.” She waves the papers in her hand. “But I also was trying to read my assignment.”

  Assignment? Classes haven’t even started yet. Maybe, she works for the football team? Before I have a chance to ask, she stands abruptly and brushes the imaginary dirt off her shirt. “Look, uh…”

  “Braxton. Braxton Smith.” I half-expect her eyes to widen with recognition, but she glances toward the parking lot in the far distance. I refrain from smirking from her lack of interest. Way to put me in my place.

  “Thanks for helping, but I really have to go.” She steps away, and I turn to match her stride. I’m not sure why I decided to follow her other than the fact she’s gorgeous. The boxes back at my room call for me, but they’re not going anywhere. The fact she doesn’t know who I am is different. It’s kind of nice if I’m honest.

  “Not a problem. I haven’t seen you on campus before. This your first year?”

  “Transferred last semester.” She tucks her papers close to her body and presses forward. “So, I take it you’re not a freshman either?”

  “No, not quite. Junior year. I was moving my sister in. Where did you transfer from?” My guess would be the East Coast if her accent is anything to go by.

  “Are we really doing this?”

  “Doing what?” The slight annoyance in her tone makes me want to laugh. I don’t dare though. Something tells me it would be a wrong move on my part.

  “Getting to know each other when I’m running so far behind, I can’t even think straight.”

  “Or walk straight apparently.”

  As if drawing attention to her accident makes her remember she bumped herself, she rubs her forehead and winces.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah”—she scrunches her petite nose—“but it’s a little sore.”

  “Let me take a look.” I try to sweep away a lock of hair, but she waves me off and resumes walking.

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”

  “But you may have a concussion.”

  “And you looking at it will help how?”

  I chuckle because I have no idea. “I deal with these out on…the quad.”

  She halts and those inquisitive brown eyes turn to look at me. “Quad?”

  For some reason, I don’t want to admit I play ball. I like her not knowing who I am. But even if she does know, she’s not drawing attention to it. That’s a plus in my column. “Yeah, a mean game of Frisbee can get aggressive.”

  Her expression dulls, but she doesn’t back away at my approach. She winces again when I successfully brush her hair away. The discoloration looks aggravated, and there’s already a bump forming.

  “You’ll definitely have a goose egg. Make sure you put ice on that when you get home.” The instructions are simple but come across suggestive and throaty. The tips of my fingers linger on her scalp a beat too long, but I rather like touching her, being near her. The need to erase the gap and claim those delectable lips slams into me. My thoughts misfire as the image of pulling her closer and tucking her body against mine ignites a need of want. Our gaze meets and holds as speculation swirls through her irises before she blinks and pulls away.

  “I-I have to go. I’m running late and really need to hit a home run with this one.”

  I stare after her wondering what the hell just transpired between us. But then her baseball idiom sinks in. Has she been toying with me all along? I snap to my senses and match her stride. “You never told me your name.”

  “I don’t believe you asked.”

  “Guess I didn’t. I’m asking now, though.”

  We reach her car, and she turns toward me while clicking the unlock button. “It’s Cara.”

  “Can I have your number, Cara?”

  “Look, Braxton. It’s been good getting to know you, and maybe, we’ll see each other around campus, but I really have to go.”

  “Not a problem. I wouldn’t want to be the reason behind your tardiness.”

  She lets out a humorless laugh as she slips inside. “Trust me, I could do that all by myself. See ya around.”

  I nod and back away so she can shut her door. As she drives away, I realize I didn’t get her contact information. She also didn’t tell me her last name or where she transferred from.

  Hmm, for the first time in my life, I think I’ve been given the official brush-off. Talk about being bad for my ego.

  A slow-developing smile spreads across my face. Oh, Pole Girl, we’re so not done.

  Don’t let anything, or anyone, interfere.

  Dad’s stringent words resurface. Yeah, I may not be looking for anything serious. My goal is to remain drama free—especially in the girl department, but this girl has piqued my interest. We can at least have some fun.

  Chapter Three

  CARA

  Running my hand along the smooth black countertop, I take in a deep breath and absorb my surroundings. The slight hint of chlorine from the disinfectant hangs in the air. My gaze lands on the laboratory glassware along the wall and the spectrophotometers positioned strategically on each lab table. A sense of weightlessness strikes my heart, and the urge to twirl, as if I’m floating, overcomes me. I don’t though. It’s thirty minutes before the lab starts. If someone walks in and sees me prancing around like I’m the lead role in The Sound of Music, I’ll be mortified.

  But when drama outweighs the normalcy in my life, there are two places I seek solitude—the laboratory and the animal shelter. The lab is a nice, clean environment. Orderly. In here, I can focus on the current project and delve into specific tasks to reset my mind. The animal shelter just brings me happiness. Nothing beats puppy kisses when you’re stressed.

  None of my family ever sees the serious side of me. They think I’m this drama queen and judge me for the poor choices I’ve made. I can’t blame them. I have made some pretty dumb moves. My brother tries to be there for me, but he’s busy with his life. As much as he’s there for me, he doesn’t know the real me. His girlfriend, Mia, knows me better than anyone else, and that’s only because I spent most of the summer with her. But even she doesn’t understand my passion for the sciences. It’s where I thrive. Well, sort of. It’s not without hard work and concentration on my end, but I swear they all think I’m stupid as if all my bad choices reflect on my intelligence level. I had one bad semester, and suddenly, I’m pegged for failure. That’s fine. I’m fine. Them not knowing or understanding me doesn’t matter. The only people I need to impress are my teachers and adviser.

  Nestling into the chair, I place my backpack in the honey-maple cubital positioned below the counters. A few people file inside, and my solitude slowly dissipates. I open the syllabus before me and study it as if the professor will hand us a test the second she walks in. Overkill, I’m sure, but I like to be prepared.

  I’m reading week thirteen’s lab assignment when a burly voice interrupts.

  “Well, what do you know? If it isn’t Miss Pole Girl.”

  My hand automatically goes to my forehead, and I try not to wince
at the week-old bruise. I shift my gaze to my worst nightmare—Modern-day Babe Ruth in the flesh. What the hell is he doing here? I clear my throat in a feeble attempt to regain my composure.

  “You make me sound like a stripper. Please don’t call me that.” Or sit by me, I silently beg.

  He places his notebook next to mine, and I try not to bristle. Out of all the classes demanding my earnest attention, biochemistry tops the list. I can’t afford to have the world’s biggest distraction sitting next to me.

  “Why not? It’s cute.” His smug voice descends upon me, and my stomach flutters.

  The same thing happened in the quad after I hit my head and he took care of me. As much as I try to deny it, his presence, his touch, stirred something inside me. No way am I engaging in further conversation. I can’t. If I remain quiet, maybe he’ll give up and go sit at the next lab section. There are tons of empty seats surrounding us. This station isn’t his only choice. I bet if he knew today’s article, featuring the one and only Braxton Smith, was written by me, he’d hightail it out of here.

  “What’s wrong with being a stripper? They’re just making a living.” Braxton lifts his chiseled chin, his firm lips forming a straight line.

  “Uh, nothing,” I say through gritted teeth. His neutral expression makes it hard to tell if he’s serious or not. I mean, he’s correct. Stripping is a career choice but not one I want to pursue. “Except for the fact that I’m not one.”

  “It’s an option.” He gives me a once-over, and his crystal-blue eyes darken to the same cobalt color of his Under Armour running shirt. “You certainly have the body for it. I think, anyway. You’re kind of hiding yourself in that tank of a top.”

  I stare at him slack-jawed. I’m used to the blatancy of my ex-boyfriend but not from a total stranger. My dark indigo skinny jeans are paired with a tangerine oversized boyfriend T-shirt. Pants are required for the lab, and I wanted to be comfortable. I didn’t know I was going to be judged on my appearance.

  Why is he even in this class? If he’s as good at playing baseball as Lexie says, then the major leagues will be knocking on his door. Shouldn’t he be in something less demanding?

  When I don’t respond, he laughs and switches topics. “So, a bio major, huh?”

  “Yes.” My clipped reply is met with an arched eyebrow, but I remain quiet. My initial assessment of him is correct. He’s just like the rest of the cocky athletes. After witnessing him having two dates on the same night, I’m positive he exudes that same nothing-can-touch-me attitude. They all have it, including my brother. I saw plenty of girls leave my brother’s apartment, and he had no qualms about never seeing them again. AJ kept this carousel going clear up until reuniting with Mia. She changed his world. So, yes, some men can change, but I’ve been around enough to recognize a true player—on and off the field.

  And Braxton Smith will not play me.

  “Well, yes, I’m also majoring in biology. Thanks for asking.”

  I let out a huff. “Look, I appreciate you wanting to converse, in whatever strange way you think is appropriate, but I have to concentrate in this class. I’ll never go out with you, so you can—”

  “Whoa, slow down there, Pole Girl. I don’t believe I asked.”

  “Quit calling me that. And, no, you didn’t ask, but just in case you had any ideas. Why else would you be in my face?” I cringe at the heaviness of my accent. After working at Dida’s over the summer, I’ve been able to rein it in some—the uppity-ups give me strange looks when I deliver their “wooder,” a.k.a. water—but when my temper flares, it slips out or becomes more apparent. But I am a Philly girl. I’m rather proud of our dialect.

  “Did you think maybe I just want to be friends.” He gives me a lopsided grin, and I try to ignore how his dimples pop. He has this innocent kitty cuteness to him but one you have to be on guard against. One false move and the kitty will strike and claw your eyes out.

  “I have enough friends for now.”

  His smirk falters as he eyes me. Guilt creeps inside. I’m normally not this guarded, but I need to be strong. Guys like him are the equivalent of thunderclaps in Guild Wars. The strikes will crack your armor in less than ten seconds. If I want people to take me seriously, I can’t afford distractions, and that means staying away from players, especially athletic manwhores who have more than one date on the same night. Color me stupid if that doesn’t reek “player” status. I’ve been down that road, which only led to trouble. Even if Braxton has been nothing but nice, outside the whole stripper comment, I can’t fall into his trap. That’s exactly how my ex roped me in—nice words and compliments.

  “I don’t believe you. A person can never have enough friends.”

  “Oh my God. Is it really too much for you to believe someone isn’t into you?”

  “Maybe. It’s never happened before.” He grins, flashing me his perfectly straight teeth.

  I stare at him shocked he would admit that to me. “Consider me your first.”

  “I don’t remember you being so standoffish when we first met.”

  “I had a head injury. I wasn’t myself.” I turn to face straight ahead, but I’m distracted by the guy parking his belongings across the lab table. His short-sleeved, button-down top looks freshly pressed and screams frat boy. I raise my chin to meet his gaze. He’s tall like my annoying neighbor to the right. Frat boy nods and smiles warmly at me. His cropped dark brown hair must be weighted with hair product because it doesn’t sway an inch. I return his gesture.

  “Now see, there’s the smile I’ve missed,” my annoying neighbor says.

  Missed? I don’t recall ever smiling at Braxton. The sarcasm coating his tone raises my shackles. I turn back toward him and glare. “Are you seriously going to annoy me the entire time?”

  He doesn’t get a chance to answer because the professor walks into the room and starts with her introductions. After going over the lab expectations and safety lecture, she lays a doozy on me.

  “The tables are paired off in sections of eight, four in each row. Everyone at the end, please turn toward the middle and shake the person’s hand beside you. This is your lab partner for the semester.”

  I inwardly groan as I turn to an all-white grin.

  “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Pole Girl.” Braxton’s hand is extended, and I debate whether to be polite.

  “Cara. My name is Cara,” I say through gritted teeth and grasp his hand. When his calloused palm meets mine, I bite back a gasp as his touch spreads warmth along my skin clear to my toes. My entire body is cocooned with desire, and I want to crawl inside the cubby hole. No, no, no. Lusting after a ballplayer can’t be happening. Not again.

  “What’s your last name?” His voice comes out breathy, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and waits expectantly at my hesitation. “I, uh, need it for homework assignments, sweet cheeks.”

  Ugh, his awful nickname breaks the strange hold he has over me, and I reclaim my hand. Ironically, I like Pole Girl better. “It’s Gonzalez.”

  “Now that wasn’t too bad. Number?” He whips his phone out but is met with silence. He arcs an eyebrow at my reluctance. “We’ll have to contact each other. If I don’t get it now, I’ll just have to later.”

  Whether I want to admit it or not, he’s right. I snatch the phone from his hand and punch in the digits. “This number is to be used solely for lab questions.”

  When I’m done, I hold it for him to take. His fingertips brush against mine, and the warm, tingling sensation causes my gaze to meet his. That cocky, lopsided grin reappears, and I steel my insides against the words I know are coming.

  “I told you you’ll be giving me your number.”

  Yep, Heartburglar is back. We’ll see if your attitude tones down a notch after you read today’s gossip column. “You are a cocky one, aren’t you?”

  “Nah, you just bring it out in me.”

  “Lucky me.”

  We dive into the assignment our professor announced. This
is going to be one long semester if I have to keep my desire in check.

  Chapter Four

  BRAXTON

  Cessna’s Baseball Captain Known as a Player on and off the Field.

  Rumor has it, Modern-day Babe Ruth was seen at the upscale restaurant, Dida’s, with not one but two women on the same night. Sources say after he left with the first girl only thirty minutes passed before entering with another willing participant. Yes, you read correctly, thirty minutes later. A swift goodbye or is baserunning not the only thing he’s quick at? Inquiring minds want to know.

  But don’t distress.

  Despite unknowingly not having the lead attention of their male partner, both ladies left with a smile. I hope the team captain has as much luck stealing bases as he does stealing those hearts. Heartburglar has upped his game.

  Till next rumor.

  Mel G.

  Rumor Has It, CU’s newest gossip column.

  “What the fuck is this?” I stare at the article on my phone, my pulse racing. Is this some sort of joke? I scan the link my teammate Garret sent me and run my hand across my jaw. The article looks legit. But seriously. What. The. Fuck. And fuck this Mel G., whoever he is. I have no idea what I did to piss this guy off but going after my masculinity is a new low.

  I push the front door open and stalk to the area we consider the living room. All the jock houses are built the same—two-story, block-style homes. The bottom level is like a studio featuring a big open-floor plan. Since there’s an upper level, a massive beam runs across the ceiling between the kitchen and living room supported by two metal poles. That’s right. In lieu of walls, the architect in charge of designing college housing—for jocks, no less—designed a living room with stripper poles.