The Hook Up (Game On Book 1)

by Kristen Callihan

  “And you don’t mind pushing me now?” she cuts in, her voice wry but with a wobbly smile. It’s that smile that gives me some hope that she won’t turn heel and run any second.

  “That’s not it. I wasn’t honest with you then. With what I wanted.” I take a step closer, my hand trailing over the counter towards hers. “And everything went to hell.”

  Dark shadows creep into her eyes. Guilt. I know this, but I’m not going to take back what I’ve said. I lower my voice, make it gentle, persuasive. “So I figure, I lay everything on the table now. Because, Anna,” my fingers touch her cold ones, and I thread them with mine, holding on tight, “when I said I wanted everything, that’s what I meant. I want to go to sleep with you, to wake up with you. Every day. The thought of you going home tonight, and me sleeping without you? I hate it.”

  “You do?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  Lips slightly parted, she stiffly shakes her head. “No. I…I hate that idea too. I didn’t know if you’d want me to stay or go or…” She trails off looking flustered.

  More than a fucking glimmer of hope.

  I give her fingers a light squeeze. “I should probably finish stating my intentions.”

  “There’s more?” She’s fighting a smile.

  “Yeah.” I draw her around the counter to stand in front of me. Her head tilts back as she looks up, and I touch the curve of her cheek with my thumb. My heart pounds against my ribs. I’m going all in. But it’s what I do best. And I’ve learned my lesson; Anna is too important to go at with half-measures.

  “One day,” I tell her, “I want to marry you.”

  Her whole body gives a reflexive jerk, her mouth dropping open. “Marry me?”

  I can’t help but smile at her shock. “Not now. We’re not ready for that yet.” I trace her bottom lip with the tip of my thumb. “But one day. One day, I will ask you and hope that you say yes.” I palm her cheek. “You’re it for me, Anna Marie.”

  She steps into my space, her hand landing on my waist while her other hand smoothes over my forearm to clasp tight. My heart squeezes before something deep within eases. She’s searching my face, a small smile breaking over her. “Because sometimes you just know?”

  A grin pulls tight at my cheeks. “You have been paying attention.”

  And then she’s easing into my embrace, her hands sliding over my chest and around my neck. Everything inside me goes warm as I bend down to meet her lips, but I stop just shy of them. “Is that a yes?”

  She halts too, her cheeks plumping on a smile. “You know, you didn’t have to persuade me. I was going to say yes.”

  My gut tightens. She snuggles closer, nibbling along my jaw, up to the sensitive corner of my mouth. I feel it at the base of my balls. “You were?” I follow her mouth with mine, trying to capture it, but she’s evading, a smile gracing her lips as she brushes them across mine.

  I grasp the curve of her hips and pull her hard against me. “Jones.”

  “Baylor.” She laughs, and then gives in, her fingers playing with the leather cord around my neck. “Of course I was.” Her thumb caresses the sliver of wood I carved out of my parent’s house. When her eyes find me, they’re wide and deep green. “You’re my home, Drew.”

  I let out an unsteady breath. “We’ll be each other’s home.”

  TELLING MY FRIENDS that I’m moving in with Drew goes about as well as I expect it to, which is not very. Right in, Iris starts on me.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” She follows me into my room, watching as I open my closet and haul out the steamer trunk my mother sent me off to college with. “You just got back together. Why would you move in with him?”

  “Because he asked?” I heave the trunk onto my bed. “And because I want to?”

  George saunters into the room. “What about Iris? You can’t leave her in a lurch.”

  I glance at him before going to my dresser. “You think I’d do that?” It hurts that he does, but I get it; love can make people crazy. “I’ll still pay the rent here until Iris moves out for grad school.”

  “So Drew’s gonna be like your sugar daddy?” Iris sneers at the very idea.

  “Yeah, because that’s so me.” I roll my eyes. “He owns the house outright and only pays utilities. I’m paying for groceries.” I’d wanted to pay for more, but Drew insisted. His name is on all the bills, and he has the money, so we’d compromised.

  Iris plops down on the bed and idly flicks the trunk’s lock. “I get that you’re happy to be back with Drew, Banana, but, come on, you’ve been avoiding commitment like the plague, and now you’re going to move in with him?”

  I can’t blame Iris for her skepticism. If I had heard myself even a weeks ago, I’d have thought the same thing. But things change. People grow up. “For months I’ve been resisting letting Drew in, convinced that I’d lose who I am if I did. That he’d crush my heart. But I was the one destroying my soul. I was fucking miserable.”

  Even the shadow of that memory hurts. I brush it aside with a deep breath. “I’m happy with him.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to live with him,” she says.

  “No, it doesn’t. But if being with him makes me happy, then why stay apart for fear that it might not work? That would be stupid.”

  “But you’re so young. Don’t you want to see what the world has to offer?”

  As if life is somewhere just around the corner, and I’ll find it if only I keep searching. It’s what we’ve all been promised, an elusive brass ring that’s always just out of reach, and one day, one day it will pop up in front of us. Well, I don’t want a treadmill life. I’ve tried it and it sucks.

  I shake my head. “I used to think that if I figured out what I wanted to do with my life, everything would fall into place. Now,” I shrug, “now I’m thinking that happiness is never going to be having the perfect job, house, life. It isn’t a destination, you know? It’s a series of moments. I mean, isn’t that what life is? Moments? The here and now?”

  I stuff my underwear into a bag. “Yeah, I have to discover what I want to do with my life. I could end up with the greatest career in the world, but at the end of the day, who I come home to, who I share my accomplishments with is what makes the struggle worth it. And for me, that’s Drew. So, yes, it’s reckless and it may blow up in my face, but I am not afraid. I’m more excited than I’ve ever been. So just… support me, will you?”

  “Shit,” George drawls on a smile. “We’ve got her monologuing.” He ducks a sock I chuck at his head. His expression turns serious. “If you’re that sure about it, then you have my blessing, young Anna.”

  I kiss the top of his head. “Thanks, Georgie.” Then I give his head a light whack. “Smart ass.”

  He laughs. But Iris doesn’t. Her dark eyes are still troubled. Which troubles me. “'Ris?”

  Slowly she shakes her head. “I still say you’re crazy. But I’m with George. If you’re that sure, I’ll support you.”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I thought I had lost myself in Drew. But the truth was that I’d found myself in him. It never occurs to me that Drew might be the one to lose faith.

  I DON’T SEE the trouble at first. All I see is Drew. The only thing that occupies my time is the way we instantly click together when I move in. We get along so well, it’s like having an endless sleepover with my favorite person in the world. So of course I miss the signs.

  It isn’t until another week passes and his friends start showing up that I notice something’s wrong. For one thing, Drew doesn’t want to see them. These are his teammates. These guys practically live in each other’s pockets. And now? Now Drew is hunched on the far recliner, staring off at nothing, while his boys hang out on his couch, watching an NFL game. They’re a boisterous lot, shouting and laughing and trading good-natured insults. I like them.

  They also eat. A lot. I’m bustling back to the kitchen for more chips when Drew snags my arm. “You don’t have to feed them, babe.
”

  I run a hand over his hair. “I’m half-Irish, half-Italian, and all Southern, Drew. It’s like physically impossible for me not to offer food and drink to company.” Honestly, I think I’d die of shame if I didn’t.

  His brows snap together as he glances over at them. “Then I’ll tell them to leave. Problem solved.”

  Laughing, I kiss his forehead, and his arm instantly wraps about my waist. I lean into him, because he seems to need it. “But I like that they’re here. They’re your friends. Which means they’re mine too.”

  He grumbles something under his breath, but I ignore it, hoping that his mood will elevate now that he knows I’m not put out by company.

  It doesn’t. It gets worse. He sinks into a silence that somehow shouts loud and clear that he’s displeased.

  “Yo, Drew,” his friend Rolondo calls over to him. “Man, you need to settle down over there. I swear, you talk any more and you gonna bust a gut.” He grins as he says this and chucks a cheese puff at Drew’s head.

  Drew swats it away. “Pretty sure you do enough talking for all of us, ‘Londo.”

  There’s no humor in his tone. I haven’t had much interaction with the star wide receiver, but I know Drew and Rolondo are close. Rolondo’s glaze flicks to mine, and I see the worry there, and it feeds my own.

  It gets worse when halftime comes on, and one of the guys changes over to ESPN. As luck would have it, they’re talking about Drew and his chances of still being a top draft pick. Apparently, most experts had slated him to be the number one pick. Now, with his injury, it’s all up in the air. Everyone stiffens, Drew most of all, but no one seems capable of changing the channel.

  The light of the screen flickers off of Drew’s stony expression as he watches some oversized guy in a slick suit speculate about his leg. And my heart aches for him. Until they mention their visit to campus. Instantly, my gut plummets. Shit. I’ve been the one who’s gone out for food—or sustenance as Drew’s taken to call it—and I hadn’t exactly been left alone.

  I edge closer to the remote. “Maybe we should watch—”

  “Here’s what Anna Jones, Drew Baylor’s girlfriend had to say,” announces the reporter.

  My face shows up on the screen, microphones being shoved under my nose as I try to escape from the parking lot at the Piggly Wiggly. I feel my cheeks heat. God, does my face really look that round?

  Instantly, everyone perks up, shooting glances as me, then back at the TV. I can’t even meet Drew’s eyes. I want to cry. I stare at the TV instead. The footage splices to my face, the very moment, I’d broken, tired of hearing the doubt in the reporter’s voices, of seeing them turn against their hero. I’d wanted to punch each and every one of them.

  “You named him Battle for a reason,” my voice snaps through the speakers. I look angry. I remember that anger. It had fueled me, made my words come out hard. “Because he never quits. You’re going to have to trust that he won’t give up on this either.” My TV self pushes past them then and escapes in Drew’s car.

  My face is positively on fire now. Every eye is on me, but I only care about one set, and he isn’t looking my way. And then I notice that the rest of the guys are grinning.

  “You tell ‘em, Scarlett,” says Marshal, which for some reason earns him a bap on the head by Dex.

  “Ain’t nobody messing with our boy,” Rolondo insists. “Not with our girl kicking ass.”

  Gray catches my eyes, and a small, bemused smile plays about his mouth. I blush harder.

  And then they’re all laughing and talking as if nothing happened.

  I stare at Drew until he finally lifts his head. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and that scares me. I move close to him, afraid to touch him. I shouldn’t have talked. Never talk to the press. Even I know that.

  Still not quite meeting my gaze, Drew collects my hand. His is cold and dry as he links his fingers with mine and brings them up for a kiss. “You defended me.” It’s a quiet murmur.

  “Of course I did. I’ll always defend you, Drew.”

  He presses his lips against my fingers. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m only sorry that they had to ask. Of course you’re coming back.”

  He looks away. Not long after, he hobbles into our room, claiming that he’s tired. He doesn’t come back out. And from then on, he doesn’t ask the guys over. Avoids them all with a skill that would be impressive if it didn’t worry me so much.

  “I only want you,” he whispers against my neck in the dark cocoon of our bed. “Only you.”

  It ought to please me. But it doesn’t.

  AS LONG AS I don’t think about football, I’m all right. But the world doesn’t want me to stop thinking about football. I’m beginning to resent the claim the game and its fans have on me. I’ve given it my all. I’m tired now.

  Coach expects me to come to practice, there’s only one game left, and it’s the National Championship. I need to be there, show my support. The coward in me wants to hide. I don’t want the pity looks. But my team deserves better from me. So I’ll go. But Coach also wants me to go to physical therapy. I need to stay in form as my leg heals.

  I promise to go to PT, but I don’t. I don’t do anything. And it becomes a weight on my chest. But I can’t seem to snap out of it. I know Anna notices. She hasn’t said anything, but it’s coming. She wouldn’t be Anna if she kept her opinions to herself.

  Worse? The nightmares. They hit me like a sack. I wake shaking and sweating. It takes me too long to realize that I’m not on the field, my mask buried in mud, turf in my mouth, and my leg bone snapped in half.

  But I’m okay. As long as I don’t think about football, I’ll be okay.

  Hard not thinking about something you love.

  Anna has gone out with Iris. She was antsy as she left, fidgeting with the car keys and kissing me almost absently as she bustled out of the door.

  I sit on a stool at my kitchen counter and spin a bottle cap. Is she disappointed in me? Does she want me to go out more? I rub my fingers against the stubble on my jaw. Hell, I haven’t gone anywhere in weeks, not wanting to see people. The last time I ventured out for a checkup, the sheer number of pity pats, get well soons, and you were the best we’d ever had—one incident accompanied by a grown man literally crying on my shoulder, God help me—was an absolute nightmare. I’d broken out into a sweat and almost threw-up before Anna had reached the house.

  She hadn’t said much then, just that people were fucking weird. When we were safe at home, she’d taken me to bed and kept me occupied for the night. It isn’t right, the way I’m leaning on her. It’s yet another thing I can’t seem to stop.

  A knock on the door jerks me out of my funk. I literally flinch, my back tightening and my heart beating too hard. With a snarl of irritation at myself, I push back from the counter and get the door.

  Coach stands on the threshold, his weathered face shadowed by a baseball cap. He’s going casual, which, for him, means slacks and a polo shirt. It also makes me suspicious. Coach is probably not aware, but he has tells. A suit means he’s going to kick your ass in a hurry. Casual means he’ll come at you as a friend, hoping to sneak past your resistance before you realize you’ve been played.

  “Hey, Coach.” I step back to let him in.

  “Drew.” He heads for the kitchen. He’s been here enough to know where it is. Coach helped me pick the place. Helped me pick my ass off the floor when my parents died. And I don’t want him here. The smell of his expensive cologne makes my throat close up.

  He turns and looks me over. “How you doing?”

  “Good.” I limp to the counter. A half empty beer bottle rests on it. I want to drink it down, and at the same time, shove it away, hide it from Coach.

  I settle for resting my hands on the cold marble. “You want a beer or something?” God, I just want him out of my house. His presence is choking me.

  He gives me a level look. “You drink often?”


  I can’t help but snort. “I’d like to think I’m not so prosaic as to become a drunk. Or a druggie,” I add because I know his next question will be about my painkillers.

  Annoyingly, he smiles in that way of his, like I’ve made him proud. Which makes me want to smash things. But the smile falls. “You’ve missed another PT session.”

  What can I say? Nothing. The weight on my chest grows.

  I feel him watching me.

  “Want to tell me why you missed? And practice too? You might not be able to play, but you are still a member of this team. It reflects poorly on you and the team when you don’t show.”

  Never have I heard such subdued disappointment from my coach. I clear my throat. I can’t tell him the truth. How can I tell this man that I don’t want to return?

  The giant clock my mom salvaged from a downtown building in Chicago ticks away in the dining room. And then Coach takes a step toward me.

  “If you could see yourself the way I do.” He shakes his head. “I just don’t want all that potential to go to waste, Drew.”

  “Yeah, well neither do I.” Unfortunately some things aren’t under my control. I shift my weight further onto my good leg, and say what I need to say to get him out of here. “Look, I won’t miss another PT.”

  The choking sensation is growing, clogging my throat, filling my lungs.

  “The break is clean,” he says. “You’re young and strong. You’ll heal and be back to top form in no time.”

  I make the mistake of meeting his eyes. And shit, that was stupid because our gazes lock, and I know he sees everything. That he gets what’s going on in my head, that I’m spooked. That the instant I heard my leg snap, something within me did as well, and I’d realized everything I’d ever relied on was as solid as smoke.