Out of Line: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

by Juliana Conners

  “It’s nothing too hard, or at least it’s not supposed to be,” he says. “The academic department upgraded its software across the board and they want me to rearrange my files according to their new fancy system. But I’m a dummy when it comes to computers. I feel really behind, and I haven’t had a lot of time to try to learn the new methods due to… personal factors.”

  “Of course,” I agree.

  “So I got home a bit early tonight and decided I’d try to catch up over this weekend, so I don’t have to go hat in hand to the administration and tell them I don’t know what I’m doing and haven’t bothered to learn it yet. But this thing is so damn tricky.”

  “Okay, let me see what you’re supposed to do,” I tell him, walking up behind his desk chair and peering at his computer screen.

  “This database has a folder for each player, and I’m supposed to move all their documents into each folder,” he says. “Their physical exam results, medical records for check-ups and injuries, their contracts, their disciplinary warnings, their stats, that sort of thing. I’ve always just kept everything together in one big file that I search when I need something. It’s worked just fine for me in the past, but no, now everyone has to follow this same system.”

  He’s visibly worked up, a bead of sweat appearing just above his brow as his face turns red.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I say, getting a bit closer so that I can see the database better.

  I place a hand on his shoulder. “I can figure it out.”

  “Do you need this chair?” he asks me, gesturing to the desk chair he’s sitting in. “Or the keyboard?”

  “Yeah, Dad, why don’t you go get yourself a glass of wine and take a little break. You can even catch a Cheers episode if you want. I’ll try my hand at this database and once I figure out how to use it, I’ll show you. That way you’ll know for the future, okay?”

  “Thanks, honey,” he says, standing up and stretching. “I knew you’d be able to help.”

  He leaves the room, whistling the Cheers theme song, and I sit down at his desk. It only takes a few points and clicks for me to figure out the database, which is much easier than the way my dad has been “organizing”— or not— his files.

  I can see why the administration wanted him to upgrade to the new system. They’d probably never be able to figure his out if they needed something.

  I decide to type up instructions in terms of steps he can follow when I’m not around. That only takes me a few minutes, and I don’t want to disrupt his Cheers episode.

  I lean back and sigh, thinking about Wesley’s hands all over my body…

  And then I see his name on a folder in the database, ready to accept his documents. Maybe I should just do one as an example, I think, my palms feeling sweaty.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I run a search on his name to find his files the way my dad says he does it. Sure enough, a few documents come up: a short physical fitness file, some other boring and generic procedural documents that all the players have to sign, a contract, and then quite a few disciplinary files, which appear to have transferred with Wesley from his former college.

  My heart pounding, I click on the contract and read as much as I can as fast as I can.

  …due to the severity of the disciplinary actions incurred at Huningdale, included to but not limited to the following…

  I scan down the document, my eyes picking up the important parts right away.

  Fraternizing with the cheerleading team after complaints of mistreatment from several cheerleaders and despite warnings to cease contact with any and all cheerleaders…

  Failing grades in several courses…

  Selling of drugs on school property…

  Wait.

  What?

  I read that last line again.

  Selling of drugs on school property.

  I feel nauseous. I want to throw up. I can’t believe Wesley would do that. And, if he did, then I can’t believe I just had sex with him.

  I click the next page of the document, just being a glutton for punishment at this point.

  Coach of Calton has agreed to allow Player to play on team for a one season probationary period, after which time he will transfer back to Huningdale if there has been no breach of this Agreement…

  What?

  Wesley’s only at Calton for one season? He didn’t tell me that.

  Apparently he didn’t tell me a lot of things.

  And I don’t know why I’m so disappointed in this news, after having read that he’s a drug dealer. But the fact that he’s only here for such a short time is more shocking and upsetting to me for some reason.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I just forget about this guy, especially after seeing everything bad about him written out here in black and white?

  I’m still staring at that paragraph, reeling in shock when I hear my dad heading back down the hall that leads from the living room to his study. I quickly exit out of the document.

  “How’s it coming, Sweetheart?” he asks me, carrying two glasses of red wine and placing one down in front of me.

  I pick it up and sip on it, even though I’m tempted to down the entire thing in one gulp. I could use some mind numbing alcohol.

  “Fine, Dad,” I tell him, trying to compose myself. “This is pretty easy. I’ll show you how to do it and I already typed up some step by step instructions you can use when you’re in your office on campus or I’m otherwise not around.”

  “Thanks, honey,” he says, and I walk him through how to drag the files into the database, as well as other commands such as adding new folders, starting a new document, or linking documents together.

  “That is pretty easy, now that you show me how,” Dad says.

  I stand up and say, “Now you can go ahead and try it,” as I make my way to the door with my wine glass in hand. “If you have questions, just give me a holler. I’ll be up for a little while.”

  But I pause when I get to the door.

  Going through the different technical steps with him calms me to some extent, since it’s a distraction that requires focus. But as soon as I’m done, I realize I just have to know more about what I just read.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes honey?” he asks, looking up from the keyboard where he was hunting a key to peck.

  “Why did you let Wesley Reynolds on the team?”

  He stares at me as if he’s not sure he wants to talk to me about this. Or maybe he’s wondering why I’m asking.

  “Because he’s a damn fine football player,” he finally says, with a resolute shrug. “And because of my loyalty to his dad.”

  “To his dad?”

  The image of Ronnie Reynolds shouting at Silvia Reynolds in their living room pops into my head.

  “Yeah, he and I played together for the Wildcats, way back when.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  The timing would make sense. Wesley’s parents did look about the same age as mine.

  I just never put two and two together until now. And Wesley had neglected to mention his connection to the string that was pulled in his favor.

  Or I suppose he did mention it but I didn’t understand its importance at the time.

  “What was he like?” I ask.

  “Ronnie Reynolds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was a damn fine football player. But an asshole of a guy. His son clearly inherited some of his genes.”

  I laugh, and he does too.

  “But seriously,” he continues. “I feel kind of bad for Wesley, or anyone having to grow up in Ronnie’s shadow. It can’t be an easy life.”

  I think about Wesley tumbling down off the playground structure, thinking his dad was going to catch him, only to have no open arms awaiting him at the bottom.

  And how he’d shared with me the difficulty of growing up as his father’s son. Especially after the loss of his grandfather, who had accepted him unconditionally for who he was rather than trying to
mold him into something else.

  “But you just let Wesley on the team despite…”

  He looks at me, and I just say, “…I’ve heard rumors.”

  “I guess his hometown is only an hour away, so that was bound to happen,” my dad says. “But so far he’s done nothing but proven himself. Even though he’s a tad headstrong for my taste.”

  “But…”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dad says, shrugging his shoulders. “His reputation precedes him. The thing that worried me the most was how he supposedly ‘mistreated’ those cheerleaders. What did that mean? I wondered. You know my feelings about how a guy should treat a lady. Since I have a princess like you.”

  “Ha.”

  “Seriously, Chelsea. It bothered me. So I did ask his former coach about that aspect of his file specifically, and he said it was all blown out of proportion. He’d date a cheerleader and she’d think they were serious— ‘going steady’ or whatever you all call it these days— but then he’d move on to the next and the first one would get upset.”

  This account matched up pretty well with what Taylor had told me. I guess I should have listened. Now I’m the cheerleader who had thought we were getting serious.

  “His coach told me that he would have had as much right to complain about the women's behavior as they did about his. He’d call it off with them— or not, because I guess he thought there was nothing to call off— and they’d pester him with calls and voicemails and whatever messaging stuff you all do nowadays. When he didn’t respond, or when he asked them to stop, they’d run to the administration and say the star player was too much of a… player.”

  “Ha.”

  “It’s funny, you know? A lot of women— not you, because you’re too smart— want the bad boy, but they want to be blind to the fact that bad boys can’t be bad boys without a reputation. And that there’s a reason for that reputation.”

  Good point, I think, but I say nothing.

  “Anyway, I just decided to give Wesley the benefit of the doubt,” my dad says. “In that regard, it didn’t sound to me like he’d done anything too serious.”

  “But what about the drugs?” I exclaim, and then wish I hadn’t, because my dad is looking at me as if he’s wondering how I know about that.

  Dad finally just says, “I guess word got out about that too.”

  He sighs before continuing.

  “And I know it sounds bad. I don’t want you to think I condone drug use, or the sale of drugs of course. But the coach wasn’t too helpful on that front. He said a deal had been struck and that the terms were confidential. He did mention that it was a weird situation that didn’t seem to match Wesley’s character, and that there was never any indication of erratic behavior on his behalf or anything like that. As part of his contract Wesley gets drug tested regularly and he’s always turned up clean.”

  I knew about the drug test requirement, having read the contract. It’s good to know he seems reformed now, but I still can’t wrap my head around him having done it in the first place.

  “You’re really taking a big risk letting him play,” I tell my dad.

  As if I’m one to talk.

  “And for what? One year of having a star quarterback? Then he’ll just ditch you and go back to his old team?”

  It’s as if I’m talking to myself instead of him.

  And I probably should be.

  “Well, I’d never admit this to the guy, since he’s already got such a big ego, but I think the rest of the team can learn from his experience and his intuition. Plus their morale will be bolstered by all these wins.”

  “It’s still really nice of you,” I tell him.

  He shrugs.

  “I owed his dad a favor. A few years after we graduated, when the football team had started to go to shit and they started looking for new coaches, he and I were both being considered for the position but he stepped down to coach at Reardon. Said I was a better fit here. Sure, Reardon ended up being the better team so he got the better end of that deal anyway,” he laughs. “But whatever. Even leaving his dad out of it, when it comes to Wesley, I guess I just feel that even the baddest of bad boys deserves a second chance sometimes.”

  “Well, good luck with the database,” I tell him, heading to my room.

  And it’s about time I figure out whether I think the bad boy I willingly fell for deserves a chance now that I know all of this information about him.

  Chapter 30 – Wesley

  I scan the bleachers at the University swimming pool for Chelsea, wondering if she’s going to make it today.

  I’m already ten minutes late, and I don’t see her here so I doubt she’s coming. I look around one more time, and start to leave, only to see her bouncing in, breathless and in a hurry.

  “There you are,” she says, practically running into me. “I thought that if you had been able to make it at all, you might have already left by now.”

  Despite myself, I give her a huge hug.

  I’ve missed her.

  She smells like spring, but underneath that freshly showered scent is a slight whiff of the outdoors. I know that the scent is from her cheerleading practice, and then her walk over here. But there’s something mysterious— almost magical— mixed in with it too. I fucking love the way she smells.

  “Lucky for you, your dad kept us late after practice,” I tell her. “So I just got here myself.”

  I don’t mention all the other times I’ve come looking for her, hoping she’d show up, waiting too long and then feeling pathetic as I left.

  It’s been a few weeks since our literal roller coaster ride, and things have seemed shaky between us. We’ve barely been able to see each other. We’d arranged to meet here in what has become our secret hiding place as often as we can— every evening after practice, if possible. But more often than not, it hasn’t been possible for one or both of us. Usually her, it seems.

  There are plenty of explanations for why we haven’t gotten to see each other as much as we both would like. I’ve been busy with practice and games, since mid-season and the extra training is nearing its peak and the team is doing really well. We’ve been winning most of our games and it looks as though we’ll have a real shot in the postseason, for the first time in the school’s recent history.

  And I know that Chelsea has been just as busy, preparing the cheerleading squad for its upcoming competitions. Not to mention all the exam prep we’ve both been doing.

  But the fact that we have to sneak around— and not let Coach Thompson find out that we’re seeing each other— is one of the huge hindrances. It remains an elephant in the room most of the time, and Chelsea hasn’t brought it up since the first time she’d asked me to meet her here to essentially tell me that she wanted me to be her dirty little secret.

  I was fine with that, of course— and I’d told her so, trying to psych myself up with the excitement of that arrangement— but I can’t help thinking I wanted more. Then, and now.

  She pulls herself close into my hug and I lean down to give her a kiss. For a brief, passionate second, it’s just as if we’re picking back up the day after the amusement park, like we should have been able to do. If we were a real couple.

  But I have an idea that I hope will fix that problem. Sure, it won’t make us be able to properly see each other, but at least we’ll see each other again.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I tell her. “That it’s about time you watched me play something other than football.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She glances up at me, her beautiful blue eyes shining with interest. I love how big and bright they are. Especially when she’s looking at me.

  “Yeah. Did I ever tell you that I’m a member of the college Ultimate Frisbee team?”

  “What?” she laughs. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s because it just started up a couple weeks ago, and it’s not an official sport.”

  I wink at her.

  “I see.”

  Sh
e laughs, which was exactly my intention. I love the light guffaw she always gives me— goofy but natural, a contagious laugh that makes me want to laugh right along with her.

  “Yeah, it’s actually just a bunch of guys getting together to run around the field like idiots, throwing a Frisbee to each other and chasing after it. Much like dogs do.”

  There’s that laugh again.

  “I’d love to see that spectacle,” she says. “When is it?”

  “It’s this Friday night,” I tell her.

  It’s perfectly timed, because it’s the team’s rest week so there’s no game for me to play in or for her to cheer at. And even though I know the cheerleaders have a big competition coming up, it’s on Sunday, so my stupid little Frisbee game won’t be interfering with that.

  But her face drops.

  I realize what the problem might be.

  “The other guys on the team aren’t football players,” I hurry to add, to sweep aside any fears she might have in that department. “So your dad won’t find out we’re hanging out. Well, except for Christian, whom I’ve sworn to secrecy. These are mostly friends of his, and I’m trying to make some friends who aren’t in football.”

  “Too much alpha male competition?” she guesses.

  “Something like that. But anyway, a lot of these guys are soccer players, and it’s at the soccer field. Not the football field.”

  “That’s good,” she says, but she still doesn’t sound too promising.

  I assume she’s still worried about her dad finding out about us, no matter where we go or what we do. If it’s on campus, it’s probably a no-go for her. Guess I might have to endure another roller coaster ride at her beloved amusement park.

  “We’ll probably grab some drinks after the Frisbee game, as that’s what we usually do,” I tell her. “And you’re welcome to come to that too.”

  “I’ll try to make it, but that’s right before the conference competition…”

  “I know,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean…”

  Her phone vibrates, and she pulls away from me before I can explain that I hadn’t forgotten about her own weekend plans. She reaches into her bag to see who is contacting her on her phone.