Looking To Score: #UofJ Book 1- An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Sports Romance (U of J)

by Alley Ciz

  “She’s your friend.”

  “No.” Em waves a finger side to side. “She’s my teammate. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fine. I have no issues with her as a person, but if she hadn’t been Quinn’s roommate last year, she wouldn’t have been my first choice for our fourth.”

  Wow. I fall back against the couch, stunned. Here I was thinking I was letting my past prejudice my present, but maybe my instincts were more spot-on than I thought.

  “If you”—Em grabs my hand in hers—“were anyone else, I don’t think there would be an issue. But with you, being…well, you…”

  Ugh, it’s so frustrating. I’m a nobody. I’m a college student, a cheer coach. Sure, at one point I was one of the top ranked flyers in the world, but the cheer world is such small potatoes compared to the rest. Why do there have to be people out there who look at me and see a stepping stone?

  “How careful does Kay have to be about Eric?” Bette cuts to the heart of the matter.

  “If you’re asking if I think Bailey is going to go internet-stalking Kay, the answer is no.”

  Shudders rack my body at the thought of what Bailey could find if she did go searching.

  Em’s lips turn down in a frown before she turns concern-filled eyes my way. “But I wouldn’t go broadcasting the information either.”

  Of all the friends I’ve made at the U of J—though, yes, there aren’t many—Em’s friendship has been the one that’s touched me the most. Just don’t go telling G that, because I would deny it.

  What I mean is, Em represents a huge segment of people who made my life miserable. To have her not only be the exact opposite of the school cheerleaders I had experience with but to then become one of my fiercest supporters and most loyal confidants—that’s why I consider her my family.

  A girl with four boys claiming to be her brothers could always use more sisters, right?

  #Chapter10

  Football is my life. Ever since I put on a uniform at the age of five, I knew it was what I wanted to do. Everything I’ve done has been undertaken with one goal in mind—the NFL.

  I’ve been blessed to have a family that both supports and helps to facilitate my dream of playing professionally.

  If Mom has ever missed one of my games, I couldn’t tell you which. I’m pretty sure the main reason she chose to be a stay-at-home mom was so she wouldn’t have anything to compete with her three children’s rigorous sports schedules.

  With another solid win for the Hawks—beating Kansas 21-3—in the books, Trav, the guys, and I stroll into the AK house to find the victory party well underway.

  Hawk cries ring out, fists are held out to bump, and the occasional arm gets thrown around our bodies for a selfie as the crowd parts for us like we’re Moses and they’re the Red Sea.

  Here, we are gods, amid the endless stream of people vying to get close to a campus celebrity and the numerous girls willing to suck my dick just for the chance to say they hooked up with the Casanova.

  It’s a rush, but none of it compares to how it feels to be out on the field.

  I spend some time making the rounds, the words from Brantley, my stepdad, ringing in my ears.

  “This is your draft year, son.”

  “We need to make sure teams see you for your full potential.”

  “Today, players are seen as more than their position on the field. Teams look for the full package. You need to show them you are also a marketing gold mine.”

  “It’s not always the wins that bring in the ticket sales. The fans love a good story.”

  “Keep an eye on your draft class. You aren’t the only tight end entering this year. Remember, Liam Parker from Penn State deferred to this year.”

  He prattled on and on. I couldn’t fault him; he was doing his best to help me appear a cut above the rest while adhering to the strict NCAA regulations.

  Still…

  There are times—though sparingly—I wish people would see me as more than my status on the gridiron and the potential dollars in my bank account.

  You know who doesn’t give two shits about your football god status, right?

  What?

  Why the hell would my subconscious be dragging Kay into my thoughts now? Moreover, why have I caught myself looking for her among the bodies filling the house’s makeshift dance floor? Grayson said this wasn’t her scene. She wouldn’t be here.

  I need a beer and a moment to decompress. With a nod of my head, I signal to Trav where I’ll be and head in the direction of the den where we keep a keg of the good stuff.

  Pushing through the swinging heavy oak door, it’s a welcome relief how the noise from the party is muted enough to carry on a conversation without having to shout.

  There’s a college game playing on the flat-screen, but after the incessant way Brantley hammered on and on about my career, I can’t even bring myself to note who is playing.

  Spotting Grayson on one of the couches, I drop into the open seat next to him and let my head fall back against the cool leather, my hat getting knocked askew as I close my eyes for a few seconds of peace.

  When did all the things I love start to feel so tiring?

  I let my mind drift as I listen to the side of Grayson’s conversation I can hear.

  “Nah, man. You know she won’t come to one of these things.”

  Wonder if he’s talking about Kay.

  Why are you thinking about some chick during a frat party? my inner coach counters.

  “Have you ever been able to convince Kay to do anything she didn’t want to?”

  He is talking about Skittles, but who is he talking to?

  “Good point.” He chuckles. I crack an eye open, trying not to make it obvious I’m listening. I still haven’t figured out what it is about this woman that makes me want to learn more about her.

  It’s such a fucking cliché to say I want to know more because she’s different. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson the last time I believed that. Hell, it almost cost me my best friend. Chicks = drama.

  “Fine.” Grayson runs a hand over his fade, palming the back of his skull like a basketball. “I’ll do my best to convince her. Hold on.” He pulls the phone down to his shoulder then shouts to Noah over at the billiards table. “Noah…when’s the next invite-only?” he asks, referring to the exclusive parties that have made the AK house the place to be on campus.

  “Thursday, bro.”

  “Thanks.” Grayson lifts the phone again. “Okay, I have something that has potential, but if she gets pissed, I’m telling her it was all your idea.”

  “We’re finally going to get to meet this mysterious best friend of yours?” Alex asks, looking up from his game with Noah and proving I’m not the only one eavesdropping.

  “Sweet. I’ve been dying to get a look at her since your mom said she’s hot,” Noah adds, bending to take a shot.

  “Dude, I will seriously kick your ass if you put the moves on her,” Grayson warns.

  Did you hear that, asshole? Stay the fuck away. Football—focus on football.

  “Sure, whatever you say.” Another chuckle. “Look, I’ll work on Em tomorrow, see if I can get her on board. She’s not much for the frat scene either, but honestly, if anyone is going to help me convince Kay to spread her wings, I think it’ll have to be someone from the sister camp.”

  A blast of Post Malone sounds as a group of cheerleaders filter into the den; among them I recognize Kay’s roommate Quinn from lunch.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, man. Just try to keep my brother out of jail and we’ll be good.” Grayson ends the call and waves to Quinn. Unfortunately, the move results in another one of the cheerleaders, Bailey, noticing, and she sashays her way over.

  I can’t fault the guys for watching as her hips sway side to side, drawing attention to her tight skirt. Chick is hot in that bleached blonde, caked on makeup, tries too hard sort of way, but of all the girls I’ve hooked up with over the years, I’ve always shied away from cheerleaders. Th
ey hit a little too close to home with how involved they are with the team for me to risk inviting that drama.

  “Hey, Grant,” she purrs, leaning on the arm of the couch and crossing one of her long legs over the other, allowing the already short hem of her skirt to rise another inch or two higher.

  “Hey, Bailey.” He’s not rude, but I still feel the hint of a brushoff. Can’t say I blame him. Jersey chasers are a dime a dozen at the big Division 1 schools. Where there are athletes, there are the girls—and guys—looking to hitch their wagon to the next one projected to “make it big,” but Bailey has always given off a vibe of being one of those crazy few who would poke holes in the condom to lock you down.

  “What are the chances of us running into each other again?” She walks her fingers up his arm, which he removes by wrapping his own around them.

  “Seeing as I live here, pretty high.”

  I can’t help but snort, which earns me a grin from Grayson and a hungry once-over from Bailey. “Hey, Casanova.”

  Why does her gaze make me feel like bugs are crawling all over my skin but Kay’s disdain-filled one gets my dick hard?

  “I don’t know.” Another shift, another inch up of her skirt. She’s centimeters away from letting the entire den discover if she’s wearing panties or not. “First I see you at my place, and now I see you at yours. I think the universe is trying to tell us something.”

  “Yeah…that you live with my sister,” he deadpans.

  Grayson has a sister?

  Bailey blanches, her jaw working as she tries to think of how to respond. “Kay isn’t your sister.”

  Wait—Bailey lives with Skittles?

  “In every way but biologically.” Grayson pushes to stand. “As fun as it was catching up…” Sugary-sweet sarcasm drips from his words in a way that would make his Southern mama proud. “Big bro and I have places to be.” He jerks his chin, and I take the opportunity to escape.

  We exit through the door that leads to the kitchen and head directly for the basement where the beer pong tables are set up. As luxurious as the rest of the house is with its crystal chandeliers, vaulted ceilings, and crown molding, down here is all cinderblock and cement. The scent of sweat and stale beer is heavy in the air.

  “Sorry, man.” Grayson starts to fill a pitcher for us to join in on the next open game.

  “What for?” I start to arrange ten cups in a pyramid shape.

  “I didn’t mean to cockblock or anything, but there’s just something about that chick that rubs me the wrong way.”

  “I get it.” I make sure to keep eye contact so he can see I mean it and that I’m not upset.

  “It just gets old only being seen as Grant Grayson, basketball star, and it pisses me off that she thinks she can use our mutual connection to…I don’t know”—he runs a hand over his head again—“get close.”

  I give another nod. I understand that too. It doesn’t feel good to have someone pretend to care when really they are only using you to get to someone else. I’ve come a long way from the naive guy I was in high school.

  “Fuck.” Beer sloshes over the rim of the cup he’s filling as he laughs. “Half the reason I love Kay is because she doesn’t give two shits about how many three-pointers I can throw.”

  “How did the two of you become friends?”

  They are an odd pairing, and I’m not talking about how opposite they are in the looks department. Grayson may not play into his status the way Trav and I do around campus, but on the rare occasions I have noticed him with Kay, he always seems to keep her shielded from those fawning over him.

  “We lived on the same floor last year, and I was in the common room with a few of the guys from the team when she came in on a mission. She ignored Fawkes’”—he points to his teammate and fellow Alpha across the basement—“attempt at hitting on her and was like, ‘Yeah, the only stat of yours I care about is if you’re tall enough to change the lightbulb in my room.’ Then she rolled her eyes in that way she does”—I chuckle, picturing that eye roll perfectly, having been a recipient a time or twenty—“turned to me instead, and that was the start of our beautiful friendship.”

  We line up across from one of our brothers and his volleyball-playing girlfriend then shoot to see who goes first. The pretty brunette is only an inch or two shorter than me, which brings to mind just how short Kay is.

  “Girl is tiny,” I comment in response to Grayson’s story, lifting the cup from the table and scooping out the yellow smiley ping-pong ball from inside before chugging it down.

  “Don’t let her size fool you. She’s fiercely loyal to those she loves. You’ve already witnessed her less than pleasant side in the mornings.”

  In the mornings? I don’t think the word pleasant is in her vocabulary at any time of day when it comes to me. I may have nicknamed her after a candy, but there’s zero sugar and spice and everything nice when it comes to Kay in regard to me.

  “But she still set an alarm every day during hell week to make sure my ass didn’t miss my workouts when I was tired as fuck.”

  “I’d pay good money to see that.” I can’t stop the grin that curves my lips, picturing it as I sink a shot down at the other end of the table.

  “Trust me”—Grayson places a hand on my shoulder, nostrils flaring along with the corners of his eyes—“you don’t want to see it, but in the end, it was worth it. It’s how I didn’t just become simply Grant Grayson, the person, but G to her.”

  Would she ever accept me like that?

  Better question…do I even want that?

  #Chapter11

  A part of the reason for the “double life” I lead is an effort to mitigate the guilt my older brother E feels about how his career with the Baltimore Crabs has affected my life. He’s so quick to focus on the negative that he forgets all the great things him being a professional football player has given us, or how easily he would have given it all up for me.

  “Now…there’s the issue of guardianship since Kay is under eighteen.” Those were the first words I can really remember hearing after Dad was killed by a drunk driver.

  Without even blinking, E declared himself my legal guardian, and when our family lawyer told him it would be impossible to do while we resided in separate states because E lived in Pennsylvania during the school year to play football for Penn State, he said, “You think I’m going to let my sister go into the system just so I can continue to play football? Are you out of your damn mind?”

  He loved me enough to give up his dream, to abandon the thing he worked his whole life toward to take care of me. I love him enough to make sure he never comes close to feeling like he needs to do so again.

  So, while it might seem like overkill, I keep my history of being an all-star a secret and, except for the small handful of people I’ve chosen to tell, let the world believe my brother is just a guy named E and not Eric Dennings, #87, star tight end of every football team he ever played on and Super Bowl champion.

  It should come as no surprise that E refuses to answer any questions about his personal life that aren’t about the wife he loves very much. It’s why Bette and I find ourselves entering the grand lobby of The St. James Hotel, where the Crabs stay when they play either New York team. By staying in instead of venturing out, we are less likely to be snapped by the paparazzi.

  The soles of my navy blue Chucks squeak across the marble tile as my eyes bounce over the opulence of the indoor fountain and various guests dressed much fancier than my pair of stylishly ripped black jeans and silk top knotted at the waist, showing a sliver of midriff skin.

  There, amongst the hotel employees catering to any needs that should arise, is E leaning against one of the marble pillars near the entrance to the hotel’s restaurant.

  Our gazes meet at the same time, his face breaking out in that smile responsible for landing him numerous endorsement deals as my feet start to rush toward him, not giving a damn about the attention it might bring in my excitement.

  I jump into
his outstretched arms, similar to how I did with G weeks ago, the brim of my classic Yankees hat knocking against E’s forehead and my feet dangling in the air as he swings me around.

  “Missed ya, Squirt.” He tucks me against his side.

  “And I missed you.” I crane my neck to see him. Our size difference is almost comical. Where I don’t even pass the five-foot marker, he stands solidly between six and seven at six and a half feet tall. We both share Dad’s blond hair, but my height and eyes come from Mom.

  “Missed you too, wife.” When she finally makes it to us, having chosen to walk like a normal person, E pulls Bette into a kiss so passionate I feel like I should offer them a cigarette.

  “I bet you did.” She goes in for another kiss.

  E hooks his free arm around Bette’s waist and leads us toward the restaurant. “Come on, time for me to take my girls to dinner.”

  E and Bette sit together on one side of the booth the hostess shows us to, his arm draped around her. Even after being together for six years, married for four, they still act like newlyweds, and it never fails to make me smile.

  “No B tonight?” I ask, referring to Ben Turner, the Crabs’ quarterback and E’s best friend. It’s actually shocking he isn’t here with us.

  “Nope. I told him I wanted quality time with my girls tonight.”

  “And he listened?” I quirk a brow. That is so unlike him.

  “I may have threatened to ask Jordan for one of her revenge plots if he didn’t.”

  Jordan Donovan is the co-owner of All Things Sports as well as E’s publicist. She comes from a hockey dynasty similar to the Mannings in football, and through the years E has been her client, I’ve heard many a story of the ways she would get back at her brothers and their teammates for their pranks. I can see why B listened.

  “How’s school been?” E takes a sip of the water the server delivered. No alcohol for him before a game.

  “Good so far. Starting to get settled into a routine.”