SNATCHED (A Sports Romance)

by Harper James

  Mom seems placated, at least temporarily. “Well. Okay. Mandy, I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Good, because he’s just ahead,” Mandy says, pointing. Bradley is at one of the stadium gates, looking shiny and well-groomed and like a poster for Harton spirit wear. He greets my mother enthusiastically, gives Mandy a chaste kiss on the cheek, and hugs me awkwardly.

  My mother gently hassles him for him B+, rather than an A, in Bio 101— she looked up his grades in the university system— but I can already tell she’s going to love this guy. Good hair and good conversation skills are my mother’s kryptonite.

  Despite the fact that I appreciate those things just as much, I have to admit, I’m still not thrilled about Bradley. Finn actually put it best this morning over the blueberry pancakes he’d made us for breakfast.

  “It’s because guys like that, they’ve always had everything. Money, power, girls, prestige, opportunities,” he’d said.

  “Well, yeah,” I’d replied. “But I’ve had a lot of privileges too. That doesn't make me the worst by default. But for some reason I think Bradley is sort of the worst.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Finn cajoled me, kissing the inside of my wrist. “It’s because Bradley doesn’t know he’s always had everything. He just thinks that’s how life is. He gets what he wants, because that’s just how it works. Guys like that wouldn’t make it a day back where I’m from.”

  I’d watched Finn speak, watched the way he stared down at his plate when he said all this. I’d begun to notice that whenever he spoke about his life before college, there was a bitterness to him, a hardness that I didn’t usually see. He seemed to be willing to talk about that time of his life— his mom, his dad, his home— but never exactly offered to talk about it, and so curious as I was, I never pushed him.

  At the game, I grow certain that Finn was right about Bradley

  Bradley didn’t have to fight to get my mother’s approval. He didn’t have to fight to get Mandy, even, or to get great seats, or to go get a professional hot shave before the game (which he tells a passing buddy about like it’s a necessity, not a luxury). This is just Bradley’s life, and as far as he can tell, it always will be. I watch Mandy hanging onto his arm, and in some small way, begin to understand part of Bradley’s appeal. It must be reassuring, after all, to hitch yourself to someone who always has things go his way.

  The game starts, and I can’t help smiling when I see Finn run onto the field with the rest of the team. The stadium is in a frenzy at this point, a total flurry of green and gold and screaming and confetti and air horns. Bradley joins in one of the stadium-wide cheers; my sister follows suit, as does my mother, who despite being a moderate football fan never really does that sort of thing. I get on board as well— having someone to cheer for on the field makes the whole experience feel a lot more personal.

  I don’t realize just how much more personal it feels until the game starts. Finn is starting. Adams had a horrible game last week, and rumor has it Finn might be taking over the quarterback duties fulltime.

  Harton starts on the offense, which means Finn is front and center straight away. I’m no football expert, but even from here, I can tell he commands the team like a general. He seems confident about where the other players are at any given moment, he passes with total certainty, he moves the ball down the field piece by piece, but it’s clear that he’s always looking for an opportunity to make a big play. Always waiting for the moment the other team makes a mistake, leaves a spot open, lets their guard down.

  “He’s good,” Mandy says quietly to me. I blink and tear my eyes away from Finn.

  “He is,” I agree.

  “At football,” she adds meaningfully, but there’s something forgiving in her expression. I have no doubt that she still doesn’t like Finn, or at least, the idea of me and Finn, but I can tell she’s appreciative that when Mom asked me about Bradley, I didn’t doom them out of spite.

  “Give him a chance. I’m giving Bradley a chance,” I remind her quietly.

  “I’m trying. Really,” Mandy says lowly, with a sigh, then lifts her chin toward the field. “Seeing him in those tight pants is helping.”

  “You should see him without those tight pants.” I joke, and while she looks appropriately scandalized, Mandy laughs.

  “What’s so funny?” Mom asks, turning to us.

  “Kenley’s life,” Mandy says, elbowing me.

  Mom looks over her shoulder to confirm Bradley is too caught in the game to listen to what she’s about to say. “Speaking of Kenley’s life…Mandy, do you think Bradley might be able to introduce her to someone on the rowing team? There’s got to be another single boy—”

  “Mom, ew, no,” I protest.

  “What! Bradley is a delight!” Mom says.

  “Rowers aren’t her athlete of choice,” Mandy says, laughing.

  “I don’t know why not,” Mom says, shaking her head. “Kenley, you know more than anyone that I hate women going to college just to look for a husband. But I also know how hard it is to meet people once you’re out of school, and—”

  “Mom, oh my god, stop. Please, stop,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Please stop,” I repeat, putting my hands over my eyes. Mandy is laughing harder now; she scoots around us to get closer to Bradley, starts cheering with the rest of the crowd. Harton, with Finn’s leadership, has driven the ball down the field, within ten yards of the end zone. The roar of the crowd peaks at the snap; it’s almost impossible to follow as players rush toward one another, bodies dash forward, to the ground, back. Finn passes the ball— no, it was a fake, he actually passes now to another player, and then—

  TOUCHDOWN TOUCHDOWN TOUCHDOWN the screens flash. The band plays a loud and brassy rendition of the school’s fight song, the crowd screams, I jump up and down with my sister and Bradley and my mother and the rest of the stadium.

  I’ve never been so excited about a football game before, but happiness is shooting through me as they zoom in on Finn’s face, his grin just distinguishable underneath his helmet. I wish he could see me, wish I could make eye contact with him, but of course, it’s a ninety-thousand person stadium, so that’s not going to happen. Still, I smile like we’re staring at one another, watching his face on the enormous screen, cheering him on with my heart just as hard as I am with my words.

  “He’s one of your clients, right?” my mother calls out, barely audible over the still insane levels of noise around us.

  “Yep!” I answer proudly, as if my tutoring him in math might have anything to do with his football acumen.

  “The one that got arrested?” Mom goes on.

  “Yep!” I answer again. Less proudly.

  “Well, he might be a mess, but he can sure play the game,” Mom says with admiration— I think.

  “He’s not a mess. Really. He’s pretty great,” I correct her as the crowd settles, and Harton goes on the defensive.

  Mom looks wary. “I’m just glad he’s not getting arrested mid-session anymore. But don’t you go getting all Stockholm Syndrome with these jocks, honey. I know Joshua Reams likes to assign you to his tough cases, but don’t forget that you’re the one with an actual future to protect.”

  I hesitate, unsure exactly how to respond— how I can respond. “They have futures. Just maybe not in academia.”

  “Sure, sure, I didn’t mean it like that,” Mom says, waving her hand a little to dismiss any other interpretation of her words. “I just mean, you’re saying he’s great, but right now the standard for greatness is not getting arrested. Or getting into fist fights. Both of which he had a reputation for in Florida, right? But your reputation for greatness is going to come from actual accomplishments, not just staying out of trouble.”

  “Mom, seriously, Finn is a genuinely nice guy,” I say.

  “I know! I’m sure he is. I’m sure they all are, deep down. Very deep down, with some of them,” Mom says, looking back
to the field and wrinkling her nose. “Like that Adams boy.”

  “Yeah, but they aren’t all like him,” I say. My words could not be timed more poorly— because right now, they’re filling a time out by playing interviews with the Harton players they took before the game.

  Adams is up first, talking about the importance of teamwork and brotherhood, but doing it all with a smile so dickish that it’s almost like watching a cartoon. A few other players go by, then there’s Finn, his face larger than life before me.

  “Who do you play for?” the faceless reporter asks, before shoving a microphone in his face. It’s the same question she’s asked all the others, and most of them have answered with some variation of family, God, or teammates.

  Finn looks at the camera; when he smiles, I know what’s coming— or at least, I’ve got an idea. “Today I’m playing for a girl.”

  The reporter laughs off camera. “What girl is this?”

  “I don’t really do names,” Finn says, wolfishly and there’s a howl of laughter from the rest of the team, who must also be just off camera. The stadium laughs as well— except for my mom.

  “Seems just like Adams, if you ask me,” my mom says crossly. “Seems just like every other privileged man I’ve ever come across. Does he talk to you this way, Kenley? You know better than to allow that, right?”

  I grimace. “I think he’s just— it’s just a show for the cameras.” Right? Yes, of course, don’t be stupid, Kenley. You know Finn. You know he’s just avoiding the name and keeping up his football rep. Plus you’re the one who wants to keep your relationship a secret, and he’s just respecting that.

  But why couldn’t he have just said “I’d rather not say” and been polite about it all, instead of making it look like he’s fucking some faceless vagina for kicks. Which is not what I am. Right?

  Right.

  Right.

  But for the rest of the game, my stomach is uneasy.

  Chapter 11

  We have to delay our next tutoring session— Finn played so well during the game on Sunday that he’s been having to spend almost all of his time outside of class on the field practicing or with his coaches, catching up on learning all the plays.

  I miss him, but hearing him on the big screen at the game has made me feel a little…weird. Like I’m his Thursday afternoon booty call. The more I think on it, the more frustrated I am. Yes, I want our relationship to stay secret, but that doesn’t mean he has to put on a womanizing, asshole sort of front. Those are two totally different things.

  It’s Friday around lunch when we finally manage to carve out time for a session. We meet in his dorm room rather than the Ansley Park house, since neither of us has time to get off campus.

  I know that it’s technically against the rules, me tutoring him in his dorm room, but I want to see him so badly that I can’t resist.

  I arrive before him, and linger in the lobby, which is a shrine to all things football. Alumni renting the expensive hotel rooms on the top floors rustle through, on their way to local restaurants or meetings or speaking engagements or whatever else has brought them to town. At a quarter to twelve, Finn appears, pushing through the doors and dwarfing the small crew of suit-wearing men scurrying past. Finn smiles the moment he sees me, and even though I’m feeling weird about everything to do with him, I feel myself smiling back.

  “Have you been here long?” he asks as he walks up.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “I have Etruscans in the morning. It’s the only class I can actually go to regularly so…I go.”

  “Uh…” I’m not familiar with the word “Etruscans”, but it sounds like a disease, or a therapy to fix a disease.

  “It’s one of the classes for my major,” he says, sending my confusion. “Major in classical culture and you have to take a whole mess of ancient Greece and Rome classes. It’s interesting. I like it. If I could just take my major classes, I’d be solid academically.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” I say, remembering how annoyed I was to discover that as a math major, I’d still have to take a gym class. He motions to the elevator with his head, and I follow him into it.

  Once the doors slide shut and we’re enclosed in the stainless steel box, he reaches for me. He wraps me in his arms before I know it, and my chin instinctively tips back so his lips can meet mine. He kisses me gently for a moment, then lets a hand slide down my back, onto my ass—

  I pull away, the action jarring me— and, from the looks of it, him. “Sorry,” I say. “I— sorry.”

  “Everything okay?” Finn asks carefully. We arrive at his floor and get off, me hurrying ahead so I don’t have to make eye contact. Even as annoyed and self-righteous as I was feeling before he arrived, I feel cowardly and stupid now. A little girl complaining that her boyfriend said something mean. That wasn’t even that mean. And he might not even technically be her boyfriend, since they don’t really use those words all that often. Finn frowns as he unlocks his door and lets me in.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks as we walk in, dropping his bag on the floor. The room is far more lived-in now than it was the first night he brought me here. There’s a steady pile of stuff at the door— his bag now tops it— and the bed isn’t made. It smells entirely like his musky cologne rather than fresh paint. It’s not gross in the way some guy’s rooms are gross but rather, comfortable.

  I turn to face him, fiddling with my hair as I do so. “I’m sort of…you said something I didn’t like.”

  “Okay,” Finn says, face going more serious. “What was it?”

  “At the game. I was there with my mom and sister, and on the screen you said something about not really doing names…” I trail off, waving a hand as if I can’t remember the exact words, when the truth is that I could quote them with newspaper-efficient accuracy.

  Finn’s eyes widen a little; he nods, then takes a step toward me. I notice that whenever he approaches me— whenever he approaches any girl, actually— he keeps his hands where you can see them, his posture friendly, open. I think about what he said once about his hometown, about the crime and the drama, and wonder if he’s used to a world where men have to prove themselves safe. “I can see how that would bother you. I didn’t think about that when I said it. I was just trying to get the reporter to change topics so we wouldn’t get found out.”

  “Yeah, I know. I get that. But it just made— makes— me feel so…disposable.”

  Finn takes another step toward me, close enough now to take my hand. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re disposable. Actually, you’re the only girl I’ve ever been with that I think is totally not disposable.”

  “That’s the most misogynistic compliment I’ve ever heard,” I say.

  Finn sighs. “Fair enough.” He runs his hands through his hair. “When I think about you, Kenley, I’m only thinking about ways I can keep you around, not ways I can push you out. Shitty as it sounds, most girls I look for ways to push out as soon as they start…I don’t know. Asking questions. Wanting to get close. Wanting things that I just give to you without you even asking.”

  This makes me smile— ugh, everything he does makes me smile, basically. “Really?”

  “Trust me, I don’t usually talk about my affinity for Hercules with girls. It’s not exactly a panty dropper.”

  I scoff. “That came up naturally.”

  “I don’t usually tell girls about my family.”

  “I hardly know anything about your family!”

  “But you know some things. You know my dad is a deadbeat. You know my mom had it rough. You know about the town I come from. That’s a lot more than anyone else knows,” Finn says, seriously. There’s a hesitance to his voice, and I can tell that saying all this out loud stings. “Look— I put things in boxes. I put myself in boxes. When I’m with you, it feels like I’m a different person than I am when I’m with the team.”

  “But you’re not. You�
�re great, as a football player and as my…”

  “Boyfriend?” Finn asks cockily.

  “Sure,” I say, flushing. “You’re the same person, and I like that person, and I know you didn’t mean it and that you were keeping us quiet, which we have to do, but still. It sucked.”

  Finn pulls me to him now, and puts his arms around me, letting his hands rest on my hips. “I’m going to make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to make you lunch.” His kisses my forehead. “And then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.” My lower belly clenches in anticipation, and heat rushes to the spot between my legs.

  “Sit down,” he says, and as I turn, he smacks me on the ass hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to hurt. I giggle like a schoolgirl and bound over to the couch as Finn begins opening kitchen cabinets.

  “You really can cook,” I sigh as we eat at the coffee table, my feet pulled up onto the couch and resting on his lap.

  He’s made green bean casserole, which I know is super easy and basic but it’s also insanely delicious and one of those things that I always want for a meal, but then feel guilty about not eating a vegetable sans cream and butter. He ordered dinner rolls from the cafeteria; one of the freshman players brought them over, along with a gallon of sweet tea. Everything had to be photographed and sent to the team nutritionist, of course, who hassled him about it via text.

  “She says I have to eat all protein rich stuff tonight and tomorrow morning,” he says, shaking his head. “Which is fair.”

  “But this is a vegetable. It’s healthy,” I say, springing extra fried French onion pieces on my serving. I am shameless. “So this is… I mean, you know how to cook because your mom wasn’t… she wasn’t around much?”

  For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to shut down on me, but then his strong jaw twitches and he starts to talk. “There were a lot of nights where my mom hadn’t made dinner, and was worried because my father was on his way home, so I was left to fend for myself . But other times she wasn’t really in any condition to cook.” He lets the words “any condition” to hang in the air, and though he hasn’t specified what he means, it’s clear it’s something dark— drunk, or high, maybe.