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

by Alley Ciz

  World’s best boyfriend right here. My inner coach waves a foam finger in the air.

  Kay answers the door in what I consider her studying uniform: tight beater-style tank in white and a baggy pair of rolled-over U of J sweats, these in red with black writing. Beneath her tank the straps of a red bra show, to match her sweats, of course. As usual, I can’t see her feet because they are covered by her pants.

  My hands find the bared skin between her tank and her sweats like a moth to a flame. I stroke my thumbs across the bumps of her hipbones, living for that hitch in her breath. After a moment, I finally give her what we both want and press my lips against hers.

  “Hi.” She looks up with a dreamy smile on her lovely face.

  “Hi, baby.”

  “What are you doing here?” She moves so I can enter the dorm, shutting the door behind us.

  “Is it so wrong I want to see my girlfriend?”

  She tosses me a look over her shoulder, rolling her eyes when she catches me checking out her ass, but the tilt of her lips gives away how happy she is to see me.

  I wish I were able to read her better. When we’re alone or surrounded by our friends, she’s open with her affection and lets me pull her into my lap and keep my arm around her. Why is it she won’t do the same around campus? Unless it’s during class or when I join her for lunch, she keeps me at as much of a distance as she does my boys.

  Kay worries so much about eyes on us. Well you know what? There are no other eyes here except us.

  She lets out a squeak when I lift her in my arms and press her to the wall right here in the hallway. Her pint-sized-ness makes it easy to cradle her to me like a football, but a pigskin never squeezed its legs around my waist or rubbed itself against the growing bulge in my joggers like my girl is.

  “Kay,” I warn, sinking my teeth into the curve of her neck.

  “Mase,” she moans, her head falling to the side, allowing me better access.

  Using my lower body to support her, I snake my hands underneath the hem of her tank, skimming them up her back.

  She arches, her breasts thrusting against me, the hard points of her nipples pressing into my chest. I want them in my mouth.

  She cups my face, lifting it so she can kiss me.

  Our mouths meet, our tongues mimicking the movements of our lower bodies, little whimpers escaping each time the ridge of my cock presses on her center.

  She moans my name again, and I curl my hands over her shoulders from behind, hook my thumbs in the straps bisecting them, and ease them down her arms.

  Pink nipples stare at me, begging for my mouth as the material lowers enough to free them.

  Who am I to deny what the nipples want?

  I barely register the dull thud of my hat hitting the floor when she clutches my head, holding me to her body like I might stop if she doesn’t. Fat chance. I suckle at her like she’s a Gatorade bottle after summer two-a-days.

  “Oh god, Mase.”

  Fuck me if the way she looks, head thrown back, hitting the wall with a bang, eyes closed in pleasure isn’t the most erotic sight I’ve ever seen.

  I’ve had jersey chasers put on a full-on porn star performance while they deep-throat my dick, but none of that can compare to the pure passion my girl is radiating as she rides me through our clothes.

  “Mase.” Her fingertips ghost over my eight-pack as she tugs my shirt up. “Mase.”

  Another grind from her. Another roll of the hips from me.

  “Mase.”

  Somewhere in a distant part of my brain, it registers that she’s calling me Mase and not Casanova.

  “Mase.”

  Her nipple falls from my mouth as I rise enough for her to peel the cotton over my head, and as soon as my shirt goes the same way as my hat, I’m feasting on the other breast.

  She’s fire in my arms as my hands palm her ass. I’m about to take this to the bedroom when rapid knocking starts on the door.

  Her eyes are almost completely black as she gets that adorable furrow between her brows.

  Guess I’m not the only one who showed up unexpectedly.

  Granted, I didn’t plan on dry-humping Kay in the hallway, but this is the most unwelcome interruption.

  “Were you expecting anyone else?” I ask as I help adjust her clothes.

  “I wasn’t even expecting you.” She taps my arm to let her down.

  She fiddles with her shirt, trying to get rid of the evidence—even if we didn’t get to the good stuff. Anyone looking at her will know what she’s been up to.

  “Funny,” Kay says after opening the door, “I don’t remember joining the football team.”

  Forgetting my shirt on the floor, I close the distance, wrap an arm around Kay’s middle, and pull her against my bare chest. She leans into my embrace as I stare at my cockblocking teammates.

  Trav, Noah, Alex, and Kev take in my naked torso and Kay’s sex hair, smirking like they know exactly what they interrupted.

  Assholes.

  “What makes you say that, Short Stack?” Trav leans against the doorjamb.

  “Well, Q-B-1…” Kay enunciates each syllable. “What other reason would there be for so many of the Hawks captains to be at my door the day before a game?”

  “We have a few hours to kill,” Noah explains.

  “Oh-kay…” There’s an implied That doesn’t explain anything in the way Kay lets the sentence trail off.

  “Are you not happy to see us, Smalls?” Kev pouts like he’s not one of the most feared defensive ends in D1 football.

  “Yeah, come on, Smalls,” Alex cajoles, also adopting Grayson’s nickname for my girl. “We just wanna be where the cool kids are.”

  “Mase is the only one here.” She finally steps aside to let them in.

  “We’re not here for Casanova.” Noah pops me in the arm.

  “Yeah, he’s lame,” Kev adds.

  “We’re here for you, Short Stack.” Trav drops his arm around her shoulders, pulling her away from me with a wink.

  Asshole may be my best friend, but he better sleep with one eye open tonight.

  “I blame you for this.” Kay peers over Trav’s arm to level me with a Look what you did expression.

  “What’s that, Skittles?” I pop my head through the opening of my shirt, slipping it back on.

  “My life being invaded by football players.”

  “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

  She’s silent, but the quirk of those still-swollen-from-my-kisses lips gives her away.

  “So what are we going to do?” Trav walks them into the living room area, the rest of us following behind.

  “I was studying.”

  “I bet you were.” Trav waggles his eyebrows dramatically and gets himself a backhand to the stomach from Kay.

  The guys make themselves at home around her apartment like we hang here on the reg. Much to my pleasure, Kay settles herself in my lap after retrieving her MacBook. She quickly gets back to work, allowing the guys to change the channel on the television without complaint.

  Her curls tickle my nose and I smooth them to the side, placing a handful of kisses on her now exposed neck.

  From over her shoulder, I get another eye roll, and when she wiggles in my lap, I’m reminded of how blue my balls still are from our earlier interruption. Every now and then, I reach around her and help her by typing on her keyboard, but she smacks my hand away any time I do.

  This is the stuff she doesn’t allow in public, and to be honest, it’s a little bit annoying.

  “Damn, Kay.” Alex whistles through his teeth, bringing everyone’s attention to him. “I think your hashtag might have more hits than Nova’s now.” He holds his phone out toward us.

  Kay’s entire body goes rigid. Slowly, as if using great caution to brace herself for what she is about to see, she slides her gaze to the lit screen.

  In the post—which already has hundreds of comments—Adam is way too close for my comfort, not to mention Kay’s if h
er stiff shoulders and clenched jaw are any indication.

  Based on the way she reacted to Adam at the AK house last weekend when she joined us to watch football, I get the impression she’s not his biggest fan.

  “Asshole.” Kay curses the image and refocuses on her computer.

  “You know.” I wind my arms around her middle, hugging her tighter until her back rests completely flush against my chest, my thumbs slipping beneath the hem of her tank and stroking across the soft skin of her belly. “There’s any easy way to fix all this.”

  “Hmm?” Kay responds but sounds a million miles away.

  “You wore my hoodie, but other than that, we haven’t declared anything.” Plus you barely let me act like your boyfriend in public. I keep that particular thought to myself. “Let’s selfie it up. With one post from each of us, we can clear the air. It’ll shut the haters up and the speculators down.”

  Her laptop slams shut and she whips around, losing her balance until I steady her with a hand curled around her hip.

  Her eyes dart around the room, searching for what, I’m not sure.

  “No. No posts.” She slashes a hand through the air.

  It may not be rational, but anger boils up inside me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

  “Why not?” It takes great effort, but I manage to keep the bite out of my tone.

  Again her gaze shifts to the side, to check to see if the guys are paying attention. I’m sure they’re listening, but luckily they all have their eyes averted away from us.

  “I don’t do the whole social media thing.” That feels like a half-answer. “I try to keep my picture from being actively posted.”

  I frown and sit up from my reclined position. “Bullshit.”

  I’ve seen pictures of her on Grayson’s and Em’s Instagrams, and I call her out on it.

  The sigh she releases is heavier than a lineman.

  “Have you looked, really looked at them?”

  Yes. I don’t admit that, though, not wanting to give away just how much I attempted to internet-stalk her before we started dating.

  “Alex, can I have your phone again?” He obliges when she holds out a hand.

  All eyes turn her way, no longer pretending they aren’t hanging on every touch and swipe of Kay’s finger across the screen. When she finds what she’s looking for, she flips the phone around, displaying the most recent picture on Grayson’s IG with her in it—the one from the Crabs/Empire game.

  “See this?” All I see is her beaming smile, the same one that is completely absent in her currently paler-than-normal face. “Every. Single. Shot is like this.” I look at it again, not really catching on to what she means.

  “Exactly.” I point at the post. “That’s all I want.”

  “Mason.” Her head falls forward, her hair falling with it and obscuring her face. “Look again.”

  It’s difficult to look away from where she’s massaging the ridge of her brow. The only time I’ve ever seen her this stressed was when she ran out of the AK house because her brother was in the hospital.

  “I get that you want the whole world to see me as your girlfriend.”

  “See you as my girlfriend? What the fuck do you mean by that?” She finches at my curse, and when I glance away to calm myself down, even Trav gives me a look that says Breathe.

  “Mason—”

  “Kayla. Answer the question.”

  Fuck privacy—I need to know now. Plus, it’ll be helpful to have Trav witness her responses. He lived through the lies and was played the same way by her. I refuse to live through another Chrissy/Tina debacle.

  “On the rare occasion G and Em include me in their posts, it’s never of my full face. Either I’m turned away, only showing part of my profile, or it’s from behind, from a distance, or like this one”—her nail audibly taps the screen—“a hat covers most of my face.”

  She’s right. I reach out, cradling her hand in mine as I pull the phone in for a closer inspection. I recognized her right away because she was who I was focusing on, but she’s right—not many people would.

  “You wore my hoodie though.”

  There’s the barest lift of her lips. “I almost didn’t.”

  I don’t like that answer.

  “So why did you?” I anchor a hand around the back of her neck, keeping her eyes on mine when she tries to look away again.

  “Because you asked and I knew it would make you happy. But”—she’s quick to cup my cheek, her thumb running along the arch of my cheekbone before I can cut in—“please don’t ask this of me. I’ll have to say no, and as much as I wish it were otherwise, I’ve discovered I don’t like saying no to you.”

  A growl forms in the back of my throat, this one more lust than anger. She claims I’m the charming one in our relationship, but I think she might be underestimating herself in that regard.

  Her whole body sags when I nod, the subject dropped.

  I get the impression there is more to this than she’s letting on, but now is not the time to push.

  #Chapter45

  I bite back another yawn as the attendant scans my ticket for today’s game.

  After Mase and the guys left yesterday, I couldn’t shake the blanket of disappointment I felt from not being able to give him what he wanted. From the moment I gave in and texted him back, I’ve been on borrowed time. I knew before saying yes to our first date if we were going to make it as a couple, I would have to change how I’ve been living—or more accurately, hiding—my life.

  Mase has this way of seeing me how very few people, if any, do. When he looks at me, he doesn’t see Eric Dennings’ little sister, the girl used by a boy because of who her sibling is, the girl teased and bullied to get a laugh. I’m not the girl who was so broken by her father’s death and the events thereafter it became clickbait.

  He doesn’t see me that way because I haven’t told him any of it.

  Is it so wrong to bask in it for as long as I can?

  Between a night of tossing and turning and today’s double practice, I’m completely wiped and need a sugar-free Red Bull in my life stat.

  The weather has taken a turn for the craptastic, and if guilt wasn’t driving me to show I’m a supportive girlfriend in the few ways I’m comfortable with, I’d be watching the game from home.

  By the time I’m making my way down the steps to our seats, the game is already in the second quarter, and the rain is coming down in a steady downpour.

  Cinching the strings of “the hoodie” to tighten it over my red Hawks ball cap, I ignore all the pointed looks and whispers cast in my direction as I pass.

  With Pops on shift, I spent the night at the Taylors’ only to have T finally force me into scrolling through the UofJ411 posts. When she uses logic to make me pull my head out of the sand I try to hide in, she makes me feel like I’m the one in high school and not her.

  The number of posts dedicated to Mase and figuring out the identity of his mystery girl is insane. I don’t understand why the hell it matters who he dates.

  It got to the point where I had enough and I left T and Savvy to continue to scroll while I focused on the old episode of Gossip Girl they had playing in the background.

  “Hard practice?” G eyes the extra-large can in my hand when I plop down in my seat, my legs too tired to hold me up any longer.

  I shrug. It’s more my restless night than the productive practices that has me mainlining the energy drink instead of coffee.

  I look out over the field in search of number eighty-seven and find him with the rest of the offense at the line of scrimmage. I take a moment to admire the way his butt looks in his tight football pants. Because, hello! football pants.

  A quick glance at the scoreboard shows the Hawks are already up by a touchdown and are driving for a second. The center snaps the ball to Trav, who drops back and pump-fakes before launching the ball downfield into Mason’s hands for a touchdown.

  The stadium erupts in cheers as the band plays
the school’s fight song. I’m still on my feet clapping when Mase runs behind the team bench to check out the stands.

  His fingers are hooked through the face mask of his helmet, holding it by his side, and his mouthguard is pinched between his molars, hooking around his cheek. His free hand runs through his hair, causing it to stick up in disarray, while he scans the crowd—for me.

  The moment his beautiful eyes lock onto me, he smiles, dimples flashing, and tingles shoot down my spine.

  This guy.

  He is sex on legs and I could look at him for hours.

  He points at me with his helmet, winks, blows me a kiss, and heads back to join the rest of the team.

  Don’t mind me, just over here swooning.

  I never stood a chance when it came to Mason Nova.

  Hopefully it doesn’t end up blowing up in my face.

  I let the squishy feeling in my belly warm me, focusing on it and not the countless cellphones I see pointed in my direction.

  During halftime, my phone vibrates in my pocket with a text from Charlie telling me they already have something for me to hear. After making sure Mason sees me at the start of the third, I tell G and CK where I’m going and follow Charlie’s directions toward the end zone where the drumline sits near the field.

  “I can’t believe how fast you came up with something,” I say to Charlie when he joins me.

  With all my personal drama, it’s almost hard to believe we met up only yesterday.

  “Once we started playing around, it was easy. It’s still rough, but do you wanna hear it?”

  “Absolutely.” I bounce on the balls of my feet, unable to contain my excitement. I tend to geek out when it comes to putting things together for routines.

  He may have been concerned—and sure they aren’t the beloved cadences they have for the school—but they are amazing.

  “What do you think?” he asks when he rejoins me from playing.

  “They’re great, totally fit our style.”

  “Cool. If you need us to tweak anything, let me know and we’ll take care of it.”

  The stadium’s announcer catches my attention, calling out Kev’s sack for a turnover. The special teams is heading out to receive the punt by the time I turn around to face the field.