Sacked: A Novel (A Gridiron Novel Book 1)

by Jen Frederick

  He shoulders aside the freshman playing bartender, pulls out a Coke for me, and refills his empty bottle from a pitcher of water in the refrigerator. He really is drinking water.

  I find that both charming and strange. My brother is a serious athlete, but he enjoys tying one on. Masters is on another level. I don’t doubt for a second that I’ll be watching him play on Sundays in the next few years from my living room. As if I needed to find something else more appealing about Masters.

  “Thanks,” I say when he hands me my drink. I’ve got to get away from him. Somewhere in this house is my older brother and I should go find him. I head toward a dark hallway I spotted off the living area that’s serving as the dance floor for what seems like all thirty thousand students, but I’m stopped by the tether at the end of my hand.

  “Going somewhere?” His eyebrow arches slightly and we both know there’s nowhere I can go in this house that Masters won’t find me. The place is too small. He’s too big.

  “To find my brother.” I tug, but he doesn’t release me. I could twist my wrist and stomp off. In fact, that’s what I should do. I shouldn’t enjoy the feel of his rough fingers around me. I shouldn’t tingle in my private places at the thought of that touch elsewhere on my body.

  Why is it so hard to do what you should do instead of what you want to do? Maybe the better question is: Why do I want things that are bad for me? Because there’s no question that Knox Masters is bad for me. While I may have daddy issues—who wouldn’t with my old man—ever since Travis, I’ve made good decisions when it came to guys. Granted those decisions primarily ended up being avoiding males, but even if Masters didn’t play football, he’d be someone to stay away from. I don’t like overconfident players and despite—or maybe even because of it—Masters’ virginity claim, he’s as confident as they come.

  He knows he’ll be playing on Sundays and he has to know that he’s the king of this campus. If he crooked his little finger, 99.9% of the women and maybe half the men would be at his side saying, “Yes, please” to any request he may have, no matter how degrading or ridiculous.

  This time when I move away, I do the tug and twist, and my hand comes free. The music changes and Silento’s “Watch Me” plays. Watch me disappear. I wave to him before I let the crowd swallow me up. He stares at me, a thoughtful expression on his face. I’m afraid of what he’s thinking, afraid that his interest might draw me back in, so I turn and dance with the nearest drunken student, hoping that somewhere in this mass of people is that chess player I told Jack I would date this semester.

  But my plan is waylaid when a circle opens up in the center of the room, and the football players that aren’t hiding in some room playing Madden egg each other on to show off their whips, Nae-Naes, and Dougies. You can barely hear the music over the shouts of the crowd. Matty Iverson, the All-American Mid Conference linebacker, starts it off, swinging his hips and grinding low to the ground before jumping back up with one foot in the air. His mop of curly black hair shakes with him.

  Another player follows up with his teammates hollering for him to get low. His arms pop and lock, and then he places a hand behind his head and wiggles his elbows as he bounces in a wide circle. I can’t help but smile and cheer along with everyone else as one after another gives us a short display of their moves.

  The part of me that loves football is the same part of me that responds to this show right here—the pageantry, the athleticism, the energy of the crowd. The beats of the music, the synchronized shouts, all thrum throughout my body.

  “You want to dance?”

  I didn’t even sense him. Masters bends low, his hands finding a perfect resting spot on my waist. His lips are so close to my ear that one could classify it as a kiss. Realistically, though, it’s loud in here.

  “Not really.”

  “Yet, here you are. On the dance floor.” His mouth curves up by my cheek. He starts to turn me around into his embrace when I’m saved by a shout.

  “Masters! Get your white, unrhythmic ass over here!”

  Masters shakes his head and laughs, and it’s like before, deep and rumbly, as if he does everything with his whole self. My stupid body tightens in response because I know he’d be a beast in the sack. He’d throw every ounce of his energy and enthusiasm, and it’d be dirty, loud, and exhausting. Girls would walk funny for three days.

  “We’re playing this song on never-ending fucking repeat if you don’t come over here and throw down,” Hammer calls out. He turns to the crowd, waving his arms up and down, and starts to chant, Masters, Masters. The students pick it up and soon Masters—and I—get propelled to the front of the circle.

  He rubs a hand down his face and turns back to me. “Don’t forget I was an All American pick for both freshman and sophomore years.”

  Finishing his uncharacteristic bragging, he steps into the empty space and spreads his arms wide, like a ringmaster in a circus big tent. He bellows into the room, “We having fun yet Warriors!”

  Everyone jumps up and screams, “Yes!”

  He snaps his fingers, the music spins up, and we watch open mouthed as Knox Masters, soon to be professional football player, the pride of the Warriors national championship hopeful team, begins to dance. He’s…terrible.

  Knox jerks his arm between his legs followed a half a beat by his second arm. He doesn’t look like he’s whipping anything so much as attempting to get a hold of an out-of-control jackhammer. His teammates fall into each other laughing. It’s obvious they’ve seen this show before.

  Everyone howls and so does Knox. His grin is huge as he dances off beat and tries to grind low as everyone hoots for him to do more. His performance is short, no more than thirty seconds or so, but it’s long enough to crack my no-athlete barrier and melt my ovaries.

  He ends by falling into the arms of his other defensive linemen, who throw him back and he careens carelessly right to me. I hold out my hands to brace him, only he stops short, expertly back in control of his body once more. The DJ segues into Jason Derulo’s “Want to Want Me” and Masters takes advantage of the switch to swing me into his arms, his hips moving in rhythm to the music with much better timing than when he tried to hip flex in the middle of the circle.

  “Liked that, did you?” He taps the apple of my cheek that hurts from smiling.

  “Maybe.” We both know the answer is yes.

  “I can make a fool of myself regularly if it makes you smile like this.” He grins again and I can’t stop my own lips from curling upward. He’s ridiculously irresistible.

  Masters takes this as an invitation to slide one of his big hands around my waist, to rest at the waistband of my jean skirt. His long fingers rest at the top of my ass and he slips his other hand under my hair to palm the back of my head, as if he owns me. Masters tugs my hair back and his green eyes—almost black in the dark light of the dance floor—bore into mine as Derulo sings about needing to be with his woman, about not being able to wait, and getting high by just the thought of her.

  Again, there’s something in Masters’ face—a hunger or desire or need—that scares me. I want to run away from this, but he’s fastened me as securely against him as a sailor would lash himself to a mast.

  Derulo’s falsetto notes seem incongruous against the big, hard body pressed against me and his tones fade away replaced by an even slower, sultrier song. This time it’s Ellie Goulding begging to be loved the right way. Masters might be a virgin, but his erection feels huge against my stomach. Rock hard doesn’t begin to describe it. Whatever he has in his shorts crushes rocks, decimates them, and turns them into dust. Kind of like all my good intentions.

  I can feel them dissolving in the slow grind of our hips. This is a prelude to something, something horizontal and sweaty. I inch back, which is hard to do with a hand at your ass and the other in your hair.

  “I’m not having sex with you. Your virgin line won’t work on me.” I wish I had more conviction in my voice.

  “I know,” he murmur
s into my hair and pulls me back until again there’s no space between us.

  My God. Every denial that comes out of his mouth makes me want to prove him wrong. He presses his face into my hair and I feel his chest move against mine as he inhales deeply. Vainly, I’m happy I showered with my mango-scented shampoo before I came out, even though I swear I had no plans to have Masters sniff me.

  His unattainable status works overtime on me. I’ve become the girl I described to Jack. The one who wants to show Masters how amazing sex is.

  “Masters, this won’t go anywhere.”

  He draws back slightly and frowns. “Is that how you think of me? As Masters? I’m not your teammate.”

  “I’m not anything to you.”

  The side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what you think.” His arms go around me again. He leans down. “You're too beautiful for words.”

  I stumble but his arms hold me upright. I wish I had some resistance left, but my willpower seems to have abandoned me.

  He massages my scalp as he uses a muscled thigh to part my legs. I lean into him, drunk off the beat that pulses from the soles of my feet up into my belly. His hands tighten against me, pressing my soft flesh into his harder frame. I feel everything—the jut of his hard-on against my stomach, the ridged abdomen barely disguised by his tight T-shirt, the bands of steel that clutch me close. Against my better judgment, I move against him and his thigh slips farther between my legs. The denim of my skirt rides up and the worn cotton of his shorts rubs against the newly exposed skin.

  His big hand drops from my ass the tops of my legs and a tremor unmoors me.

  “What are you doing to me?” I croak.

  “Shh,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my temple in a feather-light caress. “We’re just dancing.”

  Only we’re not just dancing. We’re pressed as close as two people can get. His leg is so far between mine that I don’t think my feet touch the floor anymore.

  “Masters, we can’t…We shouldn’t…” I can’t even finish my sentences because what are we doing? I don’t even know anymore.

  “I know,” he groans. The guttural moan travels through his body, reverberating against me. At least I’m not the only one caught in this strange thrall. He releases me abruptly, swinging me around toward the edge of the dance floor. All around us people do their own versions of upright sex on the dance floor, and no one notices as we sidle down that dark hall. I don’t know where we’re headed, but I’m going with him.

  The deep bass of the common room fades, but as we reach the end of the hall, a new noise greets us. Masters nudges a door open and my eyes blink at the brightness of the room. Inside, a bunch of athletes hunch over controllers attempting to beat the hell out of each other in a video game. Despite practicing all day, they’re competing to be the best video game football player. The bright light, the congregating jocks, the removal from the heat and sensation on the dance floor is exactly what I need to snap me back to my senses. This is the last place I want to be, and Masters is the last person I should be fooling around with. So much for my declaration of not doing any football player ever again.

  I spin and give Masters a bright smile. “I’m grabbing another Coke.”

  “There’s beverages inside. Plus, your brother is over there.” Masters pushes me into the room, and sure enough Jack sits on the wide sectional, tapping furiously on his buttons. “I’ll go take a piss and then I’ll grab you a Coke. Jack, don’t let your sister leave. We’re arguing over the best athlete of all time and I’m not done making my case for Bo Jackson.”

  “Oh, man, she’s a Jim Thorpe fan.” Jack pats the sofa without taking his eyes off the television screen. “Come sit down, El. Watch me waste this motherfucker.”

  Gee, can I? I plop down on the sofa. I figure that Masters will leave, Jack will forget I’m here, and I’ll be able to make my escape.

  “Don’t go anywhere.” Masters points at me and then jogs away.

  I wait for about thirty seconds and then stand, but before I can walk out, other members of the team stop me.

  “What’d you need?” one asks me.

  “Yeah, Masters said not to go anywhere.”

  Jack looks up. “You going somewhere, El? You can’t leave by yourself. Give me a minute. We’ve got a quarter left, and I’ll walk you home.”

  “Wait for Masters,” someone advises.

  I drop back by Jack, because clearly I’m not leaving until the oh-so-great Masters returns. The good thing is that any lingering desire or interest gets entirely eroded by his absence. In fact, the longer he’s gone and the more I’m forced to watch Jack have his onscreen Andrew Luck throw downfield, the less I care about ever seeing Masters again. I certainly don’t want to dance with him, pressed against his broad frame, or have his rough hands work me over.

  Absolutely not.

  So I focus on Jack and the fact he’s getting his ass handed to him.

  “Try an angle route,” I tell him. “Don’t go long every time.”

  He glowers, but in the next play runs an angle route for a completion. How long does it take to piss and get me a drink? Not as long as Masters has been gone.

  Jack’s opponent, a floppy-haired dirty blond who introduces himself as Eric—call me God—Goodwin, scowls. “Man, you can’t have a coach in here with you. Not fair.”

  Jack shoots his middle finger at Goodwin and mutters under his breath to me, “Pass or run?”

  It’s third and two, and he’s got Frank Gore. Duh. “Run.”

  Jack chooses a trap play, and when the defensive predictably runs toward the opening, Gore shoots through and runs all the way down to the end zone. The room erupts. Jack throws down the controller and starts slapping his hand in the air as if he’s spanking someone. His teammates start hugging him and Jack glows. Literally glows, with the broadest, happiest smile on his face. Eric drops his head into his hands in misery.

  Jack turns to me. “You ready to go?”

  “You have a quarter left.” I point to the screen.

  “Yeah, no quitting until this game is over. You owe me, man,” Eric protests.

  “My sister needs an escort home.”

  “Masters will walk her home.” Eric turns back to the screen as if that’s the only acceptable answer in the room.

  Jack looks uncertainly at me and then at the television. He wants to stay and play. This isn’t about the video game; it’s a bonding moment, and he’s being accepted into a fraternity more difficult to get into than any house on Greek row.

  “I can wait.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  I wink. “Of course, but I need to use the bathroom. Where is it?”

  “Upstairs. Third door on the left.” Eric waggles a finger in my face. “It’s private. No circulating that and no taking a bunch of chicks up with you.”

  “I swear to keep your little cum domain a secret.” I roll my eyes.

  The room howls and Jack shakes his head, as if to say that he can’t take me anywhere.

  I jog up the stairs. I’ll potty and then get the hell out of this place.

  Third door on the left reveals one bed, a desk, and an old-fashioned Coke machine, its iconic red and white lines visible even in the dimly lit room. I shut the door quietly behind me and walk past the soda dispenser. There’s a door slightly ajar and a sliver of light spills out.

  I hear a grunt, then a pant, and then a familiar voice let out a frustrated, “Fuuuuck.”

  I shouldn’t look. I tell myself it’s because I’m worried or maybe I want to prove to myself that Masters is a lying dog, sexing up some girl after dry humping me on the dance floor. Wouldn’t be the first player to do that. Won’t be the last. I reach around the frame and push the door open a tiny bit more.

  There, in a pool of light, stands Masters, one hand on the sink and one hand gripping the biggest, hardest, longest dick I have ever seen.

  10

  Knox

  When the door to Hammer’s bedroom opens
, I’m so close to shooting my wad that it’s criminal I’m interrupted. My free hand darts out to grab the doorknob and slam it shut when I hear a gasp, and then a set of pretty fingers nudge the door open a hair more.

  Aw, God. I don’t know whether to curse or pray, but this fap job just got a shit ton more exciting, because I know it’s Ellie out there, breathing heavy and eating me up with her big brown eyes. I shift slightly, and rest my hand on the counter so my weak knees don’t completely give out on me.

  “I can hear you.”

  “Holy mother of God. Maybe you're a virgin because you’re too frickin’ big for a girl,” she blurts out. Her gait is unsteady and she has to grasp the door to stand upright.

  A surprised bark of laughter escapes me. “You're not making it any smaller with your big eyes and your compliments,” I choke out.

  Her audible gasps are like lighter fluid on a campfire. Maybe I should feel embarrassed that I got caught rubbing one out in the middle of a party, but instead I feel myself swelling, hotter under her intense gaze. And she’s not going anywhere.

  Neither am I.

  Before I’d had a nice little fantasy of slipping Ellie’s skirt up on the dance floor and pushing my fingers into what I know is the wettest, tightest pussy ever. When she began riding my thigh, I thought I’d burn up right there on the dance floor. Here lies Knox Masters, turned to ash by his unsatisfied lust.

  My vaunted self-control slipped, and while I’m sure of her, I know she’s not sure of me. Not yet anyway. So I came up here to relieve myself, gain a measure of composure, and go back downstairs loose and ready for round two. Or three.

  Only, before I could finish, she appears like my fucking fantasy come to life. Her eyes devour me and her lips part as she struggles to catch her breath. I run my gaze over her gorgeous face and enjoy the sight of her sweet tits doing a little dance inside her sparkly tank top as she pants lightly.