The university garden is located just beyond the auxiliary football field, in the wide open space on the edge of campus. I have to admit, New Jersey is much lovelier than I expected it to be. In my imagination, Jersey was a land of highways and billowing factories. But huge swaths of the state are made up of rolling farmland, gorgeous beaches, and state parks. It’s a different kind of beauty from the sort I’m used to in South Carolina, but it’s got its own kind of charm. And Rayburn is located in the more rural southern part of New Jersey, so I guess I’m still further south than I would be if I’d gone to Columbia or something.
Hey, I’ll take my comfort where I can get it.
“Are you Jessa?” asks a freckled, voluptuous redhead from within the low garden walls.
“Yep. That’s me,” I tell her, propping my bike up against the fence and looking around. “Where are the other volunteers?”
“You’re looking at them,” the redhead laughs. She and I are the only ones who’ve showed up for duty. “How do you feel about compost?”
“Oh, I love it,” I reply with a laugh.
“Good,” she grins, “That’s our first order of business today. I’m Blaire, by the way.”
“Hey Blaire,” I say, shaking her garden-gloved hand, “It’s nice to meet you. Let’s get composting, shall we?”
Dean
By the time Coach Cahill releases us from practice, the entire team is a sore, sweaty mess. It’s fucking great. This is the kind of shit that binds a team together, and I for one am all for it. Some of my other teammates, however, have other ideas about what male bonding should be all about.
“Check it out,” Buck says as we head for the showers after practice.
I follow his gaze and spot the varsity cheerleading squad in the middle of their own pre-season practice.
“You’re a wide receiver, Buck,” I tell him, “Why are you acting like you’ve never seen a cheerleader before?”
“Are you fucking stupid, dude?” Buck says, his eyes widening incredulously, “We’re finally upperclassmen. That means the caliber of pussy we’re gonna be able to get this year is on a whole new level.”
“I had no idea you were such a poet,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Like you haven’t thought about it too,” Buck scoffs, practically salivating as he rakes his eyes across the scantily clad cheerleaders.
“See, that’s the difference between you and me,” I inform him, “While you’re busy thinking about girls, I’m busy actually hooking up with them.”
“Screw you, Crash,” Buck shoots back, “I score plenty of tail.”
“You score plenty of touchdowns too,” I reply, “But again, not quite as many as me.”
“Oh, yeah?” Buck challenges, “If you’re such a fucking pussy magnet, why don’t you go pick up one of those cheerleaders?”
“Because they’re in the middle of practice, and I’m not a creep like you,” I tell him.
“What’s that? I don’t speak Little Bitch,” he grins, giving me a shove.
I can feel my blood starting to simmer the more Buck carries on. I’ve never taken very well to being fucked with. A fact Buck knows full well. I took enough shit from my older brother and dad while I was growing up, until I got big enough to fight back, that is. I made it my business never to take this kind of crap from anyone I don’t share a bloodline with. I may be even-keeled much of the time, but damn if I don’t have a temper when pushed.
“Fine, asshole,” I growl, shoving Buck right back, “Why don’t you toss me that pigskin and give me a reason to barrel in there and pick some girl up along the way. If you can manage to throw it more than a few yards, that is.”
Accepting my challenge, Buck snatches a football from the passing equipment manager as I jog off toward the cheerleaders’ practice field. He cocks back his arm and lets the ball fly… but I should have known it would go off target. Instead of flying into the midst of the cheerleaders, it goes rouge—spiraling off in the other direction entirely. I sprint to keep up with the throw, barreling ahead toward the edge of campus. I’m hard wired complete any pass, no matter how unlikely.
And this is no exception.
Jessa
I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, straightening up with a handful of weeds clutched in my other hand. Taking care of this garden is going to be hard work with just two volunteers on hand, but I don’t mind. I’ve sort of missed hard work since I’ve gotten back to the states. This will be a much-needed diversion during the first part of this semester, I’m sure. Of course, the peaceful early morning was slightly marred by the sounds of my dad’s football practice. But now that his pack of broad-shouldered boys is stomping back toward the locker rooms, it looks like Blaire and I will have some quiet once more.
“Thank god,” Blaire says, watching the football players trudge away, “If I heard one more whistle or grunt, I think I might have lost it.”
“Yeah. I feel you,” I reply.
“I don’t understand what the obsession with football is,” she says, shaking out her mane of red curls, “What do people see in that heinous sport?”
I shrug my shoulders, feigning ignorance. What with my dad’s line of work, I was brought up consuming as much football as any red-blooded American. When I was little, I loved the sport without question. Watching a game was like watching the ancient knights in story books do battle. It wasn’t until I got older that I started to question the violence, especially the risk to the sometimes very young players. And don’t even get me started on some of the sexist nonsense that comes into play with football culture.
My dad tried to get me to be a cheerleader more times than you can possibly imagine, but I always turned him down. My big sister Allison was the perfect, obedient cheerleader in our family. With her flowing chestnut hair, big dimpled smile, and sunny demeanor, Allison was more than happy to cheer on the boys as they crashed into each other on the football field. She only hung up her pompoms when she decided to go to college for pre-med. She’s in her senior year of undergrad now, up in Boston, and my parents couldn’t be more thrilled to have a cheerleader-turned-doctor in the family. Now it’s just their transient, writerly younger daughter they still have to worry about.
I go to turn my attention back to the garden, but Blaire’s alarmed face gives me pause. Following her baffled look, I turn and see one of the football players gunning it in our direction. A football sails in the air toward us, spiraling unevenly as the player pursues it. I squint up at the projectile, knowing at once that it’s headed right for the garden. I look back and forth between the young man sprinting toward us and the ball overhead. He’s paying no attention to what’s in front of him, and I realize with a jolt that he’s going to tear right through our garden as he goes to catch this pass.
Hell no. Not on my watch.
“Hey. HEY!” I yell at the guy sprinting toward us, “Back off, I’ve got it!”
That gets his attention, at last. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him dig his heels into the ground and come to a halt just before he reaches the low garden wall. I plant my feet, train my eye on the descending football, and catch it in the basket of my arms. Let it never be said that I haven’t picked up a thing or two from my dad’s coaching along the way.
With the ball safely in hand and our vegetables un-stomped, I finally turn to face the football player standing before me. He gazes back at me through chocolate brown eyes, his sand-colored hair tousled after a long practice. The number 23 stands out in white against the crimson of his jersey. Even through the haze of my extreme annoyance, the power of his presence stops me dead in my tracks. The guy is incredibly handsome, with smoothly tanned skin and the defined muscles of a natural athlete. He’s about six feet tall, 170 pounds if I had to guess. By the toned look of him and the pace with which he came flying at our garden, I’d guess that he’s a running back on the team. I do my best not to ogle him as I step over the garden fence and thrust the ball in his direction.
“I
think this belongs to you,” I say shortly, holding out the ball.
“That it does,” he says in a rich baritone, staring raptly down at me.
“Well?” I prompt him, holding out the ball.
“Right,” he says, taking it from me. Our hands brush against each other ever so lightly as I pass the ball to him. Sharp sparks of electricity trace up all along my arm at this slightest touch. “Nice interception, by the way.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” I reply, tucking a lose strand of blonde hair behind my ear, “You were about to run right through our zucchini.”
“I’d make a joke about squashing the squash, but you already look pissed off enough,” he observes, “I wouldn’t want to make things worse with a terrible joke.”
I consider the man standing before me. Despite myself, I feel a smile creep across my lips at his clever remark. I love self-aware bad jokes almost as much as I like a good play on words.
“I don’t think I caught your name,” he goes on, rubbing his sharp, scruffy jaw.
“I don’t think I gave it to you,” I shoot back, hooking my thumbs through my belt loops, “But it’s Jessa, for the record.”
“Good to meet you, Jessa,” the guy says, “My name’s Dean.”
He stares down at me after he’s uttered his name, as if waiting for something.
“OK,” I reply, unsure of what’s possessed him.
“Dean Carter,” he goes on, brow furrowing.
“That’s… nice?” I offer, confused by his behavior.
“Most people call me Crash,” he leads, almost seeming annoyed by the fact that I don’t know who he is.
“Duly noted,” I nod, turned back toward the garden.
“Are you new here or something?” he laughs, watching as I pick up a trowel and get back to work.
“I am, actually,” I say. I can feel his eyes charting the length of my body as I kneel down beside a tomato plant. Heat rises in my cheeks as I feel him watching me. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, I have to say.
“That explains it,” he replies, “Why you don’t know me, I mean.”
“What’re you, famous or something?” I laugh, teasing him.
“Around here I am,” he says without pause, “And around the world too, someday.”
“Is that so?” I reply.
“You’re damn right it is,” he says.
And gazing up at him, his perfectly muscled form silhouetted in the late morning sun, I have to say I may very well believe him.
“Crash!” another player with a mess of dark hair calls from a distance, “Let’s go, man!”
“I’ve gotta run,” Dean says to me, lingering beside the garden for a moment longer, “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” I reply. As much as I might like that, it’s probably better not to get my hopes up. Even from here, I can see a dozen cheerleaders’ eyes fixed on his chiseled back. Something tells me that Crash here will have all the female companionship he needs without seeking it in the school’s vegetable patch. And even if he did go out of this way to see me again, there’s no chance I could ever get away with getting mixed up with one of my dad’s football players. No way in hell.
Dean steals one more look at me before turning and loping away. My eyes rake down along this body, soaking in the sight of his perfect ass, his bulging calf muscles, the powerful grace of his body in motion.
“What was that about?” Blaire grumbles, scowling at the retreating football player.
“Beats me,” I shrug.
“You didn’t notice how hard he was hitting on you?” she presses, raising an eyebrow.
“I… I don’t know about that…” I demur, not wanting to get into it.
“These fucking guys,” she says, shaking her head, “They seriously think they can get any girl they want, just because they wear that jersey. It’s insulting, is what it is.”
“Totally,” I offer absentmindedly, letting my eyes flick up toward Dean’s retreating form once again.
I’ve been hanging around football players my whole life, thanks to my dad’s job. Honestly, I’ve never found them more attractive than any other kind of guy. Maybe I’ve just become immune to them through overexposure. But something about Dean Carter has snagged my interest in a major way. It’s probably ridiculous to even entertain the notion of seeing him again. As soon as school starts, he’ll be eating, drinking, and breathing football. The only thing he’ll have time for outside of that is a bunch of one night stands to blow off some steam—and you can count me out of that. Just because I’ve started having sex now, doesn’t mean I’m interested in casual, emotionless fucking. I don’t need true love to go to bed with someone, but I need something real.
But there’s no use thinking that far down the line now. For now it’s enough to know that if, by some chance, Crash and I should nearly crash into each other again… Well, I wouldn’t mind too terribly.
Chapter Two
Dean
During the two weeks of pre-season, my teammates and I are all about practicing by day and partying by night. Every day, more people flow back onto campus after their summers away. The dorms won’t fill up until school’s officially back in session, but the frat and sorority houses are already in full swing. Rayburn has a reputation for being something of a party school, and most of those parties go down on Greek Row—the long road of gigantic houses that have been taken over by frat boys and sorority girls.
Me, I never rushed a frat. I don’t have much use for one, since my teammates have always been like my brothers. But the football players are treated like royalty at this school, and no one more than the stars of the team’s offensive line—namely myself, Buck, and Royce. That means that everyone wants us to make an appearance at their parties, and are willing to do anything to ensure our presence. They’ll provide anything from open bars to open legs—and I’ve always been happy to take them up on those offers.
It’s Saturday night, the last weekend before classes start. That means every single frat and sorority house is going all out to throw the best house party of the summer. Tonight, Greek Row is going to be one gigantic throw down—a boozed-up block party to last us through the coming year. Me and the rest of the team will roll up and take the place by storm, just like we always do. I could really stand to act out a little after this week of grueling practices. I was right about Coach Cahill being a drill sergeant. I can’t say I like the guy much, but the new plays he’s bringing to the table are pretty inspired. With the powerhouse offensive line of me, Buck, and Parker executing new and improved strategies, I have a feeling the Red Birds are gonna be unstoppable this year. Rayburn’s a somewhat new addition to D1 college ball, but we have every intention of holding onto our position in the best division now that we’ve arrived. Our plan is to win ourselves a championship this year come hell or high water.
At about 10 P.M., Buck and I are sitting in our shared apartment knocking back a few pre-game beers. We found a place just off campus, right across from the football field. Living in a dorm was never really our style. There aren’t too many apartments around this neighborhood, but landlords are always eager to rent to football players. This entire town is obsessed with the college team, and with good reason. We may be newer to the Big 10 than schools like Northwestern and Indiana, but we’ve already put away a few national championships. The last time was the year before I came to school, when my brother Tom was still the star running back of the team. He brought the team to victory when he was a junior—just like I am now. I’m trying not to let my own expectations get to me, but I don’t mind admitting that I want my own fucking championship win this year. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.
“Which sorority house should we hit up first tonight?” Buck asks, crushing his empty beer can against our scuffed kitchen table. “What kind of Pi are you in the mood for?”
I toss my own empty can at Buck’s head, groaning at the terrible pun.
“Let’s j
ust go over and see what’s happening,” I say, grabbing my phone and keys. I’m wearing my favorite jeans and an old Red Birds Football tee shirt.
“God, I fucking love pre-season,” Buck sighs, “Greek Row is gonna be an all-you-can-eat pussy buffet tonight.”
“You do know there’s something to be said for quality over quantity, right?” I remark as we head out the door.
“I know Crash Carter isn’t knocking quantity right now,” Buck says, eyes wide, “You’ve hooked up with more chicks than anyone else on the team.”
“But I never sacrifice quality along the way,” I grin back at him, stepping out into the September night.
I admit, my bedpost has so many notches in it by this point it’s about to snap in half. I’ve had my fair share of fun since arriving at Rayburn, that’s for sure. I guess I started having sex sort of young, back when I was fifteen. So by now, at 21, I already have nearly six years of experience behind me. I’m not some kind of deranged titty hound like some of the guys on my team, though. I rarely have to work too hard for sex—or even at all. When I’m in the mood, I can pretty much just turn around and find a line of girls waiting for a ride. It’s a pretty sweet arrangement if I do say so myself.
The one thing I don’t really go in for is relationships. I had one serious girlfriend for most of high school. Rebecca. I was so fucking in love with her. Like, I wanna-marry-you in love. We probably would have stayed together into college too… if she hadn’t gone and fucked some older guy the summer after high school graduation. That really fucked me up. So much so that I haven’t had a girlfriend since. I keep things causal now. I can’t afford to be worrying about relationship drama when I have football games to win, you know?
I can feel the bass vibrating through the air before Greek Row even comes into view. A wave of music and laughter rolls over me and Buck as we make our way toward the debauchery. Two dozen massive houses stand facing each other across the wide street, representing the fraternities and sororities of Rayburn University. Every lawn and porch is filled with people, each house party spilling out into the street and combining to create one massive event. It’s a block party meets Girls Gone Wild out here. I take in the raucous scene, my blood pumping with excitement. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling that tonight will be one for the history books.
Beauty and the Running Back Page 2