Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1)

by Caterina Campbell

  “Vance, I—I . . .” My release comes, my body slows, but I swivel my hips until his last thrust ends with a curse and he presses my hips down, holding me down over him until his climax ebbs.

  Vance rubs my back soothing me to slower breaths. “Brenna,” he whispers, kissing where his breath fans over my shoulder. “I will never let you go again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A week and a half after my reconciliation with Vance, I’m buzzed, overly friendly, and wondering what the hell has gotten into Uncle Rodney.

  Uncle Rodney’s idea of a party is ordering nachos and having his television on split-screen to watch the Renegades and his favorite hockey team, the L.A. Burn, play simultaneously. So the fact he has a beer pong table set up in the back half of The Seam, a dance floor in the middle, and Shawn Mendes on the sound system pretty much confirms he’s been possessed.

  “I’m not possessed!” he bellows, swatting me with a bar towel after I accuse him of it. “I just want to send you two off to college next week with a bang.” He replaces his friend John, who is playing part-time bartender, behind the bar. “And for the record, I’m not holding your hair back or bailing you out of your loose lips. That’s your mom’s job, and she’s not here.”

  I sip from my red Solo cup. “Uncle Rodney, you have no faith.”

  “You don’t need faith when you can see the disaster coming.”

  I giggle, a clear sign he’s probably not wrong, and swing around with loose, unencumbered limbs. Everyone I love, semi-love, or can tolerate is here tonight. Summer has burned its way through another calendar year, and for most of us, a good chunk of our savings, so we’re kissing another summer together goodbye. With only a few social summers ahead of us, it’s easy to want to cling to this one.

  Just shy of my alcohol tolerance, I look for Bristol, who, since deciding I’m public enemy number one for running off to San Jose to get Vance back, has started hanging out with Toolbag a lot more. Other than a stern warning that Vance will break my heart, she’s all but ignored me. So when she asked me for a Vance-free night tonight, I couldn’t tell her no. It’s easier to oblige her since he’s playing in New York, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to tune in to the game or video chat him after it.

  I spot Bristol and Toolbag dancing in an area Uncle Rodney cleared of tables and chairs for that purpose. Tori and Tracy are out there too, but my eyes are on my sister and Toolbag and the limited space between their bodies. With her dressed for Hollywood and him in gym shorts and a T-shirt that reads “Got Balls?”, it’s baffling to most of us how they remain attracted to one another.

  After ten minutes of mingling and carrying on meaningless conversations with people who want to know the scoop on Vance, I find myself looking for an exit, but Eli Perkins finds me first. Eli, two years older, recent college graduate, and the only guy to think he has my boob pic, eyes me with mistaken familiarity.

  I stop, ignoring the hand he places on my hip and the look that says he thinks it belongs there. “Bristol.”

  “Brenna!” My correction is sharp—rude even, and he grins, shrugging one lazy, uninterested shoulder. He’s had years to figure out our differences but never quite cared enough to do so.

  “Sorry. Maybe if I’d run into your tits, I’d have recognized you.” He laughs, gaining a glare and a sharp slap to his wrist. He pulls his hand back but doesn’t look at all offended or deterred.

  His reference to the boob pic Bristol sent him on my unknowing behalf pisses me off. If I wasn’t already irritated by him, this would do it. “You’re an ass. And I don’t recall inviting you.”

  “Did I need an invite? I thought you had a thing for me.” He oozes arrogance.

  “If by ‘thing’ you mean a fear of herpes, then yeah, but otherwise, not even in your dreams.”

  “Come on, let me taste Van Hatfield’s flavor of the month.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward him.

  I twist my hand out of his and take a step back, looking up at him with complete disdain. People who believe our reputation seem to think it’s okay to touch us. We’re like a pregnant belly. “Hard pass. I haven’t heard good things about your tongue, and I’m pretty sure you’re no better with it than you are with your dick.”

  “I didn’t hear any complaints from Bristol the other night.”

  “You may not recognize it, but barfing is a complaint.”

  Growing defensive, he chuckles bitterly. “Funny.” He leans in sort of close and whispers like he has a secret. “I wonder what the media would say about our local celebrity having a tit pic.”

  “I think they’d tell you to check Pornhub because those tits belong to Misty Steele.”

  He looks confused, and he should because the boobs are Bristol’s. But if I can get him to believe they’re Misty Steele’s, a name I pulled out of my ass, then I can hopefully avoid Bristol’s boobs showing up on the front of Candid magazine tomorrow with my name attached to them.

  “Who’s Misty Steele?”

  “I don’t know. I found her boobs on the internet and sent them to you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Look at these things.” I point at my chest, rethinking it only after it’s done. Unable to take back the command, I power through, convincingly cavalier. “Why on earth would I send anyone a picture of these? And to you of all people?”

  “Why on earth would you say they were yours, then?”

  I roll my eyes. “Would you have believed me if I’d said they were Misty’s?”

  I’ve stumped him. Scratching his head, he curls his lips in. “I don’t know that I believe it now. I find it hard to believe those tits were famous.”

  I should be insulted, but it’s Eli. “Look it up. Misty Steele. Trust me, she’s not famous for her tits.”

  He starts to say something, but I skirt on past him leaving his two cents behind me. I shimmy onto the dance floor with Tori, awkwardly thumb some pre-goodbye tears off of her cheeks, and move on through until I find Uncle Rodney pouring a shot for Dawson Crane, my one-time fake boyfriend.

  “Make that two.” I hold up two fingers, ignore Uncle Rodney’s wide, judgmental owl-eyes, and bump hips with Dawson. “I heard you were in town.”

  He grins, pulling his shot in close to him and scooting mine closer to me. I hold it with two fingers and a thumb and lift it up as Dawson prompts a toast.

  “To my favorite ex.”

  “And mine.” I tap my glass against his before downing the clear liquid. I cough, nearly choking. “Tequila?” I eye Uncle Rodney with one eye because I think my other is permanently seized.

  “You said make it two.” He shakes his head, figuring his wide owl-eye warning was enough for me to have known better.

  I glare at him and then return my focus back to Dawson before the tequila really blurs his features and corrupts mine.

  “What’s up with you these days?” He grins, waiting on my version of events from the summer scandal.

  “Don’t believe what you read.”

  “I never do.” Dawson’s forehead crinkles beneath a tuft of brown bangs. “But is the Van Hatfield thing true?”

  Sighing, I reply, “Yes. But it was Bristol who put it on the media’s radar. I didn’t want the world to know.”

  His smile falters, empathy pulling his lips downward. “You always did get the short end of that stick.”

  Uncommitted, I shrug. “The hazards of being a set, I guess.”

  He’s equally evasive, knowing better than to degrade Bristol, though he’s made his opinion known a time or two in the past. “I hope it works out for you. Maybe if it does you can kiss this town goodbye and finally separate yourself from all the shit.”

  He means the Sloan reputation that hasn’t yet lost its grip despite our moving away for college, our community involvement, and the lack of a major scandal in several years. Dawson knows the mouths of a small town all too well. When he looks at me, his boyish grin makes me smile back at him. He’s come a long way since his football da
ys, and I like his new confidence. He pats my shoulder. “I gotta hit up Carl for a bit. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The night wears on with more shots than I can handle and friendships that suddenly become more important to me the more I have to drink. It also makes me miss my nightly conversation with Vance a bit more.

  It’s after nine when I sneak out to call him, midnight on the east coast. His game ended two hours ago, so he’s either back in his room or at the hotel bar. He answers on the third ring, and when his face takes over my screen, my emotions take over me.

  “Hey, you!” He’s propped against the headboard of his hotel bed, tattoos in full view, hair tousled, eyes on me.

  “Hey.” My voice is at an octave I don’t think I’ve used this year, or any year for that matter, and I clear my throat. “How’d it go t’night?”

  “We won because they played worse than us, not because we were on fire. How’s the party?”

  I smile wide, my face bright and happy in the upper right corner of the screen, with the Captain Morgan and Bud Light neon signs in The Seam’s front window as my backdrop. “Iss been fun.”

  “That’s good.” He grins, sitting up straighter in the bed, abs, for a short time, in clear view. “Did you see everyone you hoped to?”

  Nodding more times than is necessary to answer him, my smile falters as I think about the reminders from Eli and Dawson that I haven’t quite beat Milagro Beach’s opinion of me—us. “Too many.” I take a deep breath. “I don’ wanna make thingss worse fer you. I kind of have baggage.” I lower my chin, hanging my head.

  If he’s noticed my slurring, he doesn’t let on, but he does quirk an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what’s bringing this up, but your baggage can’t be any worse than mine.”

  “The Sloans aren’t saints.”

  “Neither are the Hatfields. What happened, Brenna? What’s driving this?”

  “Nuthin’ really. Someone just reminded me that people have loooong memories, and I wasn’t always as perfect as I am now.” I grin sheepishly, teasing.

  He’s laughing as he answers, “I can’t imagine a day you weren’t perfect.”

  “Ask anyone here. They’ll tell you.”

  “Those aren’t friends, then.”

  “Most aren’t.” It’s true. I have a few good friends; the rest would sell me out in a heartbeat. “What if I ruin your career? I couldn’t live with myself.”

  He chuckles his reply. “Don’t sell me out, and we’ll be good. If I haven’t ruined my career by now, you can’t. If you’re worried, we’ll keep us private. I don’t want you hurt. Can you handle the scrutiny you’ll be under by dating me?”

  “I was born under scrutiny. I’m used to it. Mush shmaller audience, of course. What about yer image?”

  “Fuck my image. They’re going to print what they want anyway, Brenna. Don’t give ’em anything you don’t have to, and we’ll weather the rest.”

  “So, you don’t care at all about my family’s dirt?”

  “Not even a little.” He adjusts himself on the bed, his phone shaking as he fluffs the pillow beneath him.

  “You’re beautiful.” My eyes land on his chest. “I want to kiss home plate.” The truth escapes my lips unapologetically.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “A lil’, but the truth isss the truth.”

  “Okay, lush.” He chuckles, shaking his head like I’m crazy, and averts the conversation away from himself and completely clear of my skeletons.

  The front door to The Seam opens, and Bristol’s voice, heightened by irritation, filters out, startling a jump out of me.

  “I asked for one fucking night. One . . .” The rest of her sentence is cut short by the closing of the door.

  “Everything okay?” Vance asks.

  I nod, looking back at him, pulse pumping in my neck from being caught. “I haf to go. Bristol’s s’on a warpath.”

  Vance’s chest rises with a deep inhale. “Be good. Call me in the morning.”

  I nod, but I don’t know if my finger on the “end call” button beat the response.

  I slowly open the door to The Seam, entering with caution and the inadequate sleuthing of a drunk. For once, a Sloan is stumbling into a bar without causing a scene since everyone is preoccupied with themselves and unconcerned with me. I stop short, seeing Uncle Rodney with a finger in Bristol’s face, his expression grave.

  “Maybe if you spent a little more time on that guy over there,” he points to the back of the bar where Toolbag is hanging out with Dawson, “you’d have less time to spend meddling out there.”

  Bristol’s spine straightens. “Without a job, I have a lot of time these days. I can do both. And I’m not meddling. She owes me a night.”

  I hunker, cowering inside the entrance to spy on a conversation neither wants me to hear.

  He grabs her by both shoulders, his touch affectionate but controlling. “Maybe you owe her this time. You have to let it run its course, whatever that course may be. He’s a good kid, Bristol, and they deserve to see where this goes without your interference, even if they can’t have your blessing.”

  “Someone has to look out for her. You’re obviously only in it for him, and Mom’s too busy trying to get Joe to put a ring on it, evident by her no-show tonight. While you’ve been fawning all over your new baseball toy, I’ve been trying to figure out how to pay for college without a job. Like you, Brenna’s too caught up in him to give a shit about the little things like money.”

  “Oh, for the love of God, you have a job you’re starting in less than a week. Stop being so dramatic. You sound like one of those Kardashian housewives.”

  If I wasn’t so rapt with their conversation, I’d laugh at Uncle Rodney for ever thinking a Kardashian could be as mundane as a housewife.

  “That wasn’t dramatic. Dramatic would be telling you ‘our job’ in L.A. let us go because they don’t think Brenna’s recent foray into the media spotlight would be good for their business. And as of two days ago, it’s official; I lost my scholarship, Uncle Rodney. I’m going to have to sell myself on some street corner to afford first semester. So, sorry to burst your bubble, but it can get more dramatic.”

  Uncle Rodney’s surprised reaction is drowned out by music and laughter, so I miss it, and hearing only the last part doesn’t help me. “It’s a sinkhole, Bristol. What you’re doing is wrong.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “What are you planning?” I blurt out, tripping over my own feet and stumbling over air to wobble upright in front of her. Bristol collects her guilty look too late, and I pounce. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  She tries to storm off, but Uncle Rodney catches her arm, delaying her dramatic exit. “Tell her.”

  Bristol’s teeth clamp together as she huffs out her confession. “Candid offered me five thousand for an exclusive interview.”

  “No.” The one word I can manage is tacky on my tongue, and with my buzz now completely gone, I can’t even slur a stupid response.

  “I didn’t. Thanks for the faith.”

  “You haven’t exactly—”

  “Haven’t exactly what? Said I wouldn’t? Told you a hundred times that I was sorry? Oh, wait, I have said all that.”

  “Don’t put this on me. I’m not wrong. I heard Uncle Rodney tell you not to.”

  “Because, like you, he doesn’t think I’m capable of doing the right thing either.”

  She’s right. I was quick to think the worst of her after hearing only part of a conversation, but lately, she’s left no room for me to think anything else. For the sake of the party and to save a fight I’m not in any condition to win, I cave, with questions unasked. “I shouldn’t have assumed. But it’s hard not to worry, Bristol.”

  Bristol offers no reply or facial expression I can legitimately count as forgiveness before integrating herself back into the party.

  Uncle Rodney draws me into him, holding me tight against his side, kissing the
side of my head with the love of a father. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she would have done it even without our input.” Uncle Rodney’s faith in Bristol sounds a lot like mine used to. I wonder if I’ll ever get it back. I miss it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Two weeks after starting my third year of college, I’m making my debut at Red Hooligans as Van Hatfield’s girlfriend in a dress I borrowed from Tracy. As I step out of the car, I am immediately accosted by camera-wielding vultures hell-bent on picking my flesh to get their next meal. They swarm me, making it difficult to maneuver past the damn curb or to see anything beyond my toes.

  Looking around, I don’t know that they are as thick as they are relentless, but I can’t get through them without being thwarted at every opening I try. They shout question after question, some of which are cruel and bear no substance whatsoever. “Are you after his money or your fifteen minutes of fame? The Renegades struggled tonight. Do you think that has anything to do with you? Are you exclusive?” I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get used to this, no matter what lies I tell myself to convince me otherwise.

  Blooms of bright lights make the late evening sky seem like late afternoon. It’s a bit overwhelming for a girl whose only fame came from a bathroom wall that didn’t even get her cell number right. This is the biggest pool of photographers I’ve faced since Stray Charlie’s, and they shout at me from all directions. “What is Van Hatfield going to do with a virgin?”

  Where the hell do they get this shit from? Have they not consulted Milagro Beach’s archives? I’m sure the date and time of my cherry popping are listed there.

  “Just one question?” The guy blocking my path presses, but I keep my head down and welcome the entrance ahead of me.

  Once inside, I feel the relief of safety and the letdown of adrenaline that has me glistening in sweat. I want to catch my breath before becoming the object of curiosity at the top of the stairs. The last time I was here, I was of mild interest and probably viewed as a groupie. This time, based on the questions being flung, they’ll know I’m more than a story.