by Paige North
What am I doing?
I blink. What the hell is happening, here? Gabe Forest is a football player, and not at all the kind of guy I should be with— sexually or otherwise. My body wants him so badly, but this is insane. I can’t do this. I’m the RA, I’m a good girl, I’m a virgin, I’m someone who gets married and loses her virginity on her wedding night to a senator’s son. I can’t be thinking about a football player’s thick cock in my hands—
“I need to go,” I say, shaking my head at myself.
Gabe looks surprised, but when I move to leave, he immediately swings his leg away to let me up. I stagger on my feet, like I may fall.
“Are you alright? Lucy—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“I’m fine. I just— I shouldn’t have done that. I need to go,” I say too-fast. I speed-walk to the bathroom door and nearly crash through it, turning to lock it behind me. I stand over the sink, breathing hard, trying to get my bearings. I left my shirt and bra in his room, I realize, when I look up at the mirror. My breasts are reddened at their peaks from his mouth; I go to touch them tenderly, but yank my hands away when my touch makes them tingle with pleasure. Pleasure that he released.
That was insane. I can’t let Gabe Forest do things like that to me. I can’t want Gabe Forest to possess me. I can’t want Gabe Forest to do things to me that I’ve hardly even thought about before, much less fantasizes about.
I take a long breath and repeat a single phrase to myself over and over as I stare myself down in the bathroom mirror.
I can’t let Gabe Forest get to me.
Chapter 4
I’m not sure I sleep all that much that night. How could I? My skin still buzzes and vibrates with energy, a feeling that’s amazing until I inevitably admonish myself for letting Gabe touch me like that. It’s a cycle that repeats itself over and over until the early hours of the morning. I suppose I fall asleep at some point, because at six o’clock in the morning I wake up to the sound of Gabe’s exterior door clicking shut. He’s got a game today— the first one of the season. Which means I do, too.
Even though football very much isn’t my thing, I couldn’t have possibly said no when my father asked me to attend the Harton-Florida game, specifically because we— my parents and I— had all been invited to view the game from Buck Harrison’s VIP box. As far as my dad was concerned, this was akin to being invited to the Pope’s VIP box, or maybe Queen Elizabeth’s. I not only had to be there, but I had to not look like I’d rolled around sleeplessly the night before.
I force myself to get two more hours of bed-time— not sleeping, exactly, but I read somewhere that lying quiet and still get you forty percent of the beneficial effects of sleep. I’m counting on diminished under eye circles being among that forty percent, but I still slather on concealer and outline my eyes in white liner so I look perkier. By ten o’clock, I’m headed toward the stadium, feigning innocent.
“Hi, Dad!” I say cheerfully when I spot my parents waiting for him outside the stadium. I hug him. He’s wearing a designer suit and has clearly had his hair freshly cut. There are a few people taking cell phone photos of us. It’s not surprising— my dad is a senator. Attention comes with the territory, and I’m used to the attention it brings. It’s just kind of part of the package.
What isn’t part of the package is letting some football player get you off in his room, a little voice in my head whispers. I feel my face flush and hope no one notices.
“No hello for me?” my mom asks brightly, linking her arm through mine. She smells like her expensive perfume, and is wearing a blouse that looks casual, but I know cost a thousand bucks— because they bought me to same one last year to wear to their Christmas party. You can’t go mingling with politicians and millionaires and whatever in Old Navy, after all.
“How was move-in? Did it go alright? I wish you’d let us hire you some movers,” my dad says as we start toward the VIP gate.
“It was great! Nothing unusual. Totally normal move-in,” I say. If my parents weren’t my parents, I’m pretty sure they’d see through that lie in a heartbeat. Thankfully, they are my parents, which means they’re way more focused on us looking like a flawlessly nuclear family as we move along. All we need it a faithful golden retriever trotting by our side, and we’d look like pharmaceuticals commercial.
I’m not complaining, honest— it’s nice having money and fancy blouses and VIP access to stuff. The rules are pretty clear, when you’re a one-percenter. Look good, act polite, form alliances. I keep my privilege in check, but I also know how to work it, especially when rubbing elbows with others like me. That’s probably why everything about Gabe threw me so hard. None of the rules worked on him— from the moment I informed him he was in my room to the moment he took my bra off—
Whoa— think about something else. Anything else, I warn myself as another flush of arousal sweeps over me at the memory. My father hands over our tickets and we’re escorted through the massive wrought-iron arch, to the private staircase for VIPs. As we make our way toward the Harrisons’ box, my mom leans in.
“Do you remember the son? Chandler? He’s here. Very into architecture and finance. He’s planning to open a property investment firm. Went to St. John’s on the west coast,” she whispers quietly.
“When did I meet him, again?” I answer, matching her conspiratorial tone.
“When you were in sixth or seventh grade, that year we went to the Carlton Steeplechase. He was pudgy back then.”
“Oh! Right,” I say, nodding. “Got it.”
“Play nice. Buck Harrison is looking to contribute a few million this fall, and after the disaster the party has been lately, your father needs to remind him that we’re still worth the investment—”
“I know, Mom,” I remind her, and she looks almost— but not quite— ashamed. She’s a control freak, though, just like my dad, so I can’t really blame her. I inherited the trait, after all.
“Buck!” my dad calls out jovially as we come to the end of the long hall of box seats.
“Walter!” the man— Buck Harrison, I presume— answers. Buck Harrison looks like my father, just made by a different manufacturer. Same pristinely tailored suit, same sharp jaw-line, same bright white teeth, same confidence and swagger. He brushes forward and shakes my father’s hand, then my mother’s.
“And little Lucy Shaw! Look how you’ve grown!” he says when he takes my hand, his palm lingering against mine a little awkwardly. I’m used to it— men like Buck Harrison always linger a little too long on girls like me, no matter who else is in the room. I figure they feel like they’ve earned the right to register as mild on the creep scale.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Harrison,” I answer. “Thanks so much for having us up here! I have to admit I don’t see too many Harton games, so it’s nice to be invited.”
“That’s right— you’re something of a bookworm, aren’t you?” he asks, turning to my parents for confirmation.
“She is indeed,” my dad says, and claps my shoulder. “Majoring in public relations!”
“Oh?”
“So she can take over my charities some day,” my mother jokes.
My parents and Buck Harrison dissolve into a conversation about donations and political rivals and tax code, leaving me to step up toward the enormous glass sliding doors that overlook the stadium. There’s a wide balcony on the other side of them, complete with a mini-fridge so you don’t have to go all twenty feet back into the box to get a new drink.
To my right is a catering service, tables filled with trays and warmers, and behind me is a full bar with fancy liquors. Seeing them reminds me of watching Gabe happily drink warm, cheap beer last night, and I close my eyes, remembering how I’d gripped his shoulders, how his finger had tasted in my mouth, how big his cock was in my hand, how —
“Lucy Goosey,” a voice calls. I spin around and see Chandler Harrison walking into the room holding a few bags of Harton-green cotton candy from the concession stands down bel
ow— the kind of thing they don’t sell here on the upper levels. He looks just like his father, save the salt-and-pepper hair. He grins, sets the cotton candy down, then crosses the room to hug me a little too tightly for someone I haven’t seen since middle school.
“Chandler,” I say cheerfully. “Haven’t seen you in ages. Haven’t heard anyone call me Lucy Goosey in ages, either.”
“Nicknames never die in the south,” Chandler says with a laugh.
“Don’t I know it,” I say. We make small talk about school for a while— Chandler is technically a Harton student, but he’s always doing semesters abroad in internships for course credit. He’s a nice enough guy, but he’s a clone of every other son-of-my-parents’-friends I’ve ever met— good-looking, well-dressed, wealthy, and a little too eager to use those attributes alone to get laid.
We all sit down on the balcony, waiting for the game to start. My father plays a bit of musical chairs to ensure I sit next to Chandler, which is expected; in his line of work, men don’t sign contracts; families form alliances, old New York elite style.
Once the game begins, the Harrisons go wild, standing up and cheering every few moments for things I don’t understand. My parents, like me, have never been all that into football, but they put on a convincing act, howling alongside the Chandler family like they totally understand the need for righteous anger over a “flag on the play”. I pick up the act, but I’m mostly just keeping my eye out for Gabe. It’s impossible to tell which one he is from here since all the players look the same, big hulking humans in tight green pants. I don’t know his number, either, or even where on the bench he’d be sitting. Do tight ends sit together? Or does everyone just mix together on the bench? Ugh, I really know nothing at all about football.
“You’re trying to figure something out,” Chandler says suddenly. I nearly jump in surprise, wondering what, exactly he saw.
“How do you figure?” I answer pleasantly.
“You keep staring at the bench. And you keep cheering a beat after us. You’re not really into football, are you?” he says, looking pleased that he’s caught me at something.
I shrug a little sheepishly, ashamed to have been caught. I thought I was better at this whole faking-interest thing, seeing as how I’ve been doing it most of my life. But then, who better to spot a faker than someone who has probably spent his life doing the same thing? “Not really into football,” I admit. “I was looking at the bench because there’s a guy in my dorm on the team. Gabe Forest?”
“Gabe Forest,” Chandler says, frowning. “Isn’t he that walk on?”
“I think so. He’s a tight end,” I say.
Chandler nods and leans toward me a little, ostensibly so he can see the bench from my point of view. “I don’t know his number, but he’s probably one of those guys on the far end of the bench. Probably isn’t going to play this game. I thought all the players were in the same dorm? What’s this guy doing in yours?”
“Something about Stewart Adams and a bunch of other guys trashing the football dorms. They’re being repaired, so he’s with me in the meantime. I mean, in my dorm. Not with me,” I say hurriedly.
Chandler looks a little horrified at the idea of a football player living anywhere near me— it’s as if I’ve said I live near a lion’s den, or a mob of angry cannibals. He shakes it off and goes on. “He must be good. People don’t really walk on as tight ends anymore, not with how competitive high school programs are getting. He must have played somewhere…weird that no one seems to really know where.”
“Did you play in high school?” I ask, eager to get the conversation off Gabe— mainly because talking about him is drawing up memories that I definitely shouldn’t be dwelling on just a few feet from my parents.
Chandler laughs stiffly. “Not a chance. I’ll pass on the traumatic brain injuries, thanks. These guys don’t have firms to join or brokerages to manage. Doesn’t much matter if they kill off a few brain cells smashing into one another.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to smile through the fact that he essentially just called every football player an idiot. It shouldn’t bother me— I think the same thing, really. Or at least, I did. Before meeting Gabe.
“Hey now, wait a minute,” Chandler says, and rises a little. “Maybe your boy is going to get a shot at the action after all.”
“Who’s that they’re bringing in, son?” Buck Harrison asks, squinting at the field. “That walk on kid?”
“Seems that way,” my dad says, even though I know he doesn’t have a clue.
I rise with the others and press myself against the railing, like the extra inch or so might allow me to see Gabe clearly. There he is— he’s number 42. I expect to feel some glimmer of recognition—a familiar walk, or head movement, or shoulder carriage, but I don’t. And why would I, really? I barely know Gabe Forest, and I’ve only ever seen him in his dorm room.
I feel a little embarrassed for myself that I even thought I might have some sort of connection with him here, at a football game of all places. It was a hookup. One that started with me trespassing, of all things. Gabe Forest was just… an interesting story to tell someday, and nothing more.
The jumbotron flashes and there’s a big woosh sound effect as a video cues up, the text “Who do you play for?” rocketing across the screen in Harton colors. I’d forgotten about this. It’s something they do at more or less every game— give the players a chance to say who they’re playing for (said, of course, in front of a giant insurance company logo, since they sponsor the bit).
Since Gabe is entering the game, they’re showing his spot now. I know this, even before his brown eyes flash onto the screen, but I’m still blown over by them. He’s so good looking. Everything about him is so hard, and carved, and strong, and I can remember so precisely the feeling of him straddling me—
“I’m Gabe Forest, and today I’m playing for you, Harton. Thanks for giving this walk-on a chance,” he says, voice crisp and firm. The crowd goes wild.
“Now, let’s see if he deserved that chance…” Chandler says under his breath as the play begins. He doesn’t sound like he doubts Gabe, exactly, but more like he’s watching racehorses and is worried he’s put his money on the wrong one. He and his father grip the railing in near unison, leaning forward. My father does the same, while my mother and Mrs. Harrison give one another an “Oh, boys!” sort of look.
I barely notice, though, because I’m now staring at the field too, as if I actually have a clue what’s going on. I try to remember what Gabe told me about playing as a tight end— that they sort of do everything, that they catch passes and block and tackle or…something. And that he was great at blocking, which was why he’d been chosen for the team.
No wonder he’s great at blocking, huge as he is, I think as I watch both teams line up. They go still, one player runs back and forth— wow, I really don’t understand football— and then they all smash into one another. This happens twice; I feel the Harrisons relax a little, seemingly less interested in Gabe than they were before.
“Is he playing well?” I ask Chandler.
Chandler shrugs, half-looking at me. “He’s fine. Nothing special. Nothing that I think warrants a spot as a walk-on when there are plenty of high school players who—”
He’s stopped short, because the field is a flurry of movement again. A slow roar emerges from the crowd, building, building, and I stare down, trying to pick Gabe’s number from the sea of players, wishing someone would explain to me what’s going on.
The ball is being passed, shot from hands like a gun, and now it’s been intercepted by a Florida player— I know that’s a bad thing, at least— and he’s about to pass it to another Florida player, and I know that’s a really bad thing, and—
Number 42 comes out of nowhere. He tackles the Florida player so hard, so soundly, so unexpectedly that it almost looks like the earth swallowed the guy up. The crowd goes wild and, to my surprise, so do I— Gabe has done something big, I can tell, especially ba
sed on the way the Harrison’s applaud.
Everything feels different after that play— Gabe is out front, blocking players, holding others back, smashing into people so hard that I have to wonder if Chandler is right about the whole process not being particularly ideal for brain cells. His plays become fodder for the instant replay shots; when they appear on the jumbotron I can’t help but warm at the sight of features familiar even underneath the pads— the barred tattoos, the eyes, even his hands.
“Alright, alright. I see why they took him on,” Chandler says. He looks at me and laughs a little. “You don’t look like you know what’s going on. Do you?”
“Not really. But I can tell Gabe’s good,” I say, torn between offended and knowing better than to feign expertise when I’m far from it.
“He is indeed,” Buck Harrison says, drifting back to his seat and lifting his cocktail. “He and Thorne work nicely together. They make one another look good. It’ll be nice to have some good boys like that as the face of the team this year. Stewart Adams and his cronies were such a PR nightmare.”
“I wouldn’t give Forest that much credit,” Chandler says cautiously. “Look at him on those replays.”
He points— another one of Gabe’s replays is up on the screen. Gabe looks…well. Almost wild. Even through the screen, there’s a ferocity in his eyes, an anger, almost. The other Harton players appear focused and careful, but Gabe reacts to movement like an animal being cut free from a trap.
Something about it is very, very hot. Based on the number of women I can hear cheering, I suspect I’m not the only one.
“He just seems reckless, is all,” Chandler says.
“Fair point, fair point. Better not get hurt,” Buck Harrison answers.
“I think the boys he’s hitting oughta be the ones worried about that,” my mother says, cringing as helmets crash together again. Even up here, in the box, we can hear the noise from the impact.
My mother’s fears are proven right when a player Gabe hits doesn’t bounce back up; the bands go quiet and the noise from the crowd becomes muted out of respect as the guy limps off the field. The jumbotron cuts to Gabe’s face; he looks unapologetic. No, not even— he looks like he hasn’t even noticed. That he’s just waiting to smash into someone else.