Stallion: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Autumn Avery

  I put my computer to sleep and take a deep breath of the stale air of the office. I am ready to be out of here. This place can tend to get a little claustrophobic. If only the school wasn’t so cheap and actually invested in some decent sized cubicles. You’d think a college newspaper would have a trendy, fun office, but not the Orient.

  I stuff the Walker file into my bag, switch off my light and leave the office, stepping out into the cold air of the corridor. It seems to have better air conditioning than any room in the building, which feels good as I’m starting to feel flushed. I get this way when I’m irritated.

  Walker. Johnson. Everything about this guy is just so typical. Parties, girls, booze, more girls. It’s like these guys buy a book on how to be the perfect college douche, attend the optional seminar, watch the How To videos on YouTube, and then put it all perfectly into practice.

  What kind of girl honestly falls for their shit? I mean, yes, he’s an objectively handsome man, but God if he doesn’t make me want to ralph. I guess he’s the male equivalent of the generic big boobed blonde that always makes it onto the cover of men’s magazines. Which is fitting, because those are the kind of girls he seems to date. Well…sleep with. Walker Johnson doesn’t date. Everyone knows that. Even I know that.

  How am I supposed to do a story on him when I can’t even stand to look at him?

  He’s probably partying right now – probably throwing a raging kegger at the football house, that dump of a wannabe frat house, with every sorority girl on campus hoping to be the one to land the Stallion.

  “God,” I say out loud.

  The Stallion!

  Is he serious with that? How dehumanizing. There’s rumors about how he got the nickname, but there seem to be two common, accepted reasons behind it. One, he’s a “great ride,” and two, he’s hung like a horse.

  Of course he is, I think bitterly, shouldering the door open into the quad. What isn’t perfect about Walker Johnson?

  Perfect? Did I just think that? Perfect on paper maybe. But in person is a whole other issue. I haven’t even met the guy yet, but I’ve run into enough jocks on campus to know what to expect. Girls are like different cuts of meat to these guys, and they want to try them all.

  The quad is crazy, as per usual on a Friday night. A group of freshmen who have obviously just discovered alcohol come stumbling past, shouting song lyrics I don’t recognize as they pass. I wonder what it’s like to have a big group of friends like that. I’m not lonely, but sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out. I have an overactive brain, especially at night, and right before I go to sleep I find myself thinking about all the what-ifs in my life. It’s really maddening.

  Luckily, my building is pretty quiet. Everyone must already be out. I swipe my keycard and take the stairs to the second floor. Abbey’s still home and sounds like she’s arguing with Brett.

  “Okay, so is it Carriage House or the Lacrosse house? No, you pick. You’re the one who brought it up! Fine. Fine! Ugh, whatever!” Abbey hangs up and tosses her phone on the bed as I come in.

  “Trouble in paradise?” I joke, dropping my bag on my desk.

  “Ugh, he’s such a jerk,” she sighs, running her hands through her straight blonde hair. “What’s up with you? Working late again?”

  “Yeah. Finishing my piece on child labor in Asia.”

  “Ugh,” Abbey groans. “Make me wanna kill myself, why don’t you?”

  “Well, I’ve got a story you might like,” I say, pulling the Walker file from my bag and tossing it at her. “Peter assigned it tonight.”

  The second she opens the file, Abbey’s jaw drops. She looks up at me like I just told her I won the lottery.

  “Walker Johnson,” she says emphatically. “What – what’s the story?!”

  “He’s being scouted by the—“

  “Walker-fucking-Johnson,” she interrupts, obviously not concerned with the actual story. “You’re doing a story on Walker Johnson?”

  “Under protest,” I reply, leaning back on my bed with an enormous sigh.

  “What are you, insane?!”

  “Maybe,” I say with a pouty face.

  “Holy shit, you’re gonna lose your V-card!” She says, tossing her head back. “I’m calling it right now!”

  “What!?” I shout, rocketing up to a seated position. “How could you even suggest that!?”

  Eyes wide, Abbey stares back at me. “How could I not!? This is Walker-fucking-Johnson we’re talking about!”

  I sigh again, rolling my eyes as hard as possible. “Yes. Walker-Fucking-Johnson. The Stallion. Lover of sluts, sorority girls and strippers, none of which am I.”

  Abbey bursts out laughing. “Bah! Yeah, he only likes sluts, sorority girls and strippers. Are you crazy? He’s a guy! Guys like girls, and guys like Walker like all girls.”

  “Abbey—“

  “Do you know why they call him the Stallion?” Abbey interrupts me, the answer already on the tip of her lips.

  “Because he’s a good ride?” I say sarcastically.

  “Because he’s hung like a fucking horse!” She practically shouts, her eyes wide.

  “God, Abbey,” I reply. “Is that all anybody cares about? The size of this guy’s dick?”

  Abbey leans forward, both hands on her knees like she’s the journalist now and I’m being investigated for a story. “Emmy, that’s not all anyone cares about. He’s a football star, he’s insanely hot, and supposedly hung like a horse? You have to find out if the rumors are true!”

  “What!?” I shout, feeling myself blush. I don’t know why I’m surprised. This is basically how I’d expected the conversation to go.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t act all innocent. Underneath all that good girl image of yours, I know there’s a freak just waiting to get out!”

  “What!?”

  “That big Walker dick is going to turn you into a cock-crazed slut.”

  “My God, Abbey!” I say, so stunned by this I don’t even know what to say. None of those words even remotely applies to me, and couldn’t in any world I could ever imagine.

  I mean, sure, okay, maybe I’d thought about Walker before, but who hadn’t? He’s practically a celebrity around here, and I am a girl. But that doesn’t mean I want to ever act on any of my most basic animal urges.

  He’s tall, broad-shouldered, has a great head of hair that’s always perfectly cut, and a body to show for all the hours he spends in the gym. It’s easy to objectively see why girls find him sexy and all want to jump into bed with him. But that doesn’t mean I want to be one of them.

  I’m focused. I have my classes and my career, and those take up more than enough of my time. I can’t be fraternizing with the star of the football team, especially when I’m supposed to be doing a piece on him. Not only would that be insanely unprofessional, but it wouldn’t even be me.

  I’m not that kind of girl, whatever kind of girl that is. If I told my mom I’d slept with someone like Walker Johnson, she’d just laugh. As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’s anyone on this Earth that would believe me.

  Not that that’s going to happen. I actually can’t believe Abbey thinks it’s going to.

  “Christ, I’m actually jealous here,” Abbey says, swapping her oversized t-shirt for a tank top that’s one size too small.

  “Stop it,” I tell her, waving my hand dismissively, ready to be done with this conversation.

  “I am! I mean, I think even my ex would have been okay with me sleeping with Walker while we were together – just to say I did it.”

  “Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

  Abbey shrugs. “You can’t tell me you don’t find him sexy. I mean, you literally can’t, ‘cause I won’t believe you.”

  “Look, even if I found Walker sexy, I can’t have sex with him! This is my job! I can’t just go around sleeping with every good-looking guy I do a story on!”

  Abbey adjusts her top for maximum effect and turns around. “Oh, Miss Professional! It’s a colle
ge paper, Emmy! Not the fucking New York Times!”

  “It doesn’t matter, Abbey. I take my job seriously, okay?”

  “And the fact that you have a boyfriend. Right?”

  Right, there is that. I look back with a stupid look on my face.

  “Yeah…”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” she says, primping her hair in front of the full length mirror. “But don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

  She was right. I won’t deny that. What girl on campus hadn’t at least thought about what it would be like to sleep with Walker? It’s like wondering what it would be like to be filthy rich. Sure you can fantasize, but not everyone is willing to do everything it takes to get there.

  Besides, do I really want my first time to be with some meathead whose only concern is adding another notch to his belt? And if he is packing what they say he is, would I even be able to handle that? I mean, how would that even work?

  Why am I even thinking about this!?

  “Okay, maybe I’ve thought about it. But so what? I’ve thought about what it’s like to do drugs too. That doesn’t mean I want to do them.”

  “Yeah, but drugs are dangerous. The only thing harmful about Walker is the damage he might end up doing to your uterus.”

  “Jesus, Abbey,” I groan, putting a hand over my eyes.

  “So when are you going to go interview him? Ya know, get the scoop?!”

  I hadn’t even thought about that. I’ve been so concerned about Abbey putting all these thoughts in my mind regarding what’s going on in Walker’s jeans, that I haven’t even thought about how I’m going to approach this.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ll go by his place tomorrow or something.”

  “He’s throwing a big shindig at the football house tonight,” Abbey replies. “You should go. Do some investigative journalism.” She says with a wink.

  Images of drunken debauchery flood my mind, and I almost reflexively cringe at the thought of showing up at one of the football team’s infamous ragers. I’d stick out like a sore thumb. I already feel out of place here in the land of beautiful blondes and flawless tans.

  “I think I’ll stay in. Watch some TV shows.”

  “Uh huh,” Abbey scoffs, shouldering her purse. “I bet you’re out the door five minutes after I’m gone.”

  “I wouldn’t put any money on that,” I reply, defiantly plopping down on my bed and pulling my comforter over me. Abbey gives me that smile that she always gives me when she knows I’m bullshitting. But this time I’m not.

  I’m really not.

  I don’t even know why I’m trying to convince myself. I’m already convinced.

  I will not go to the football house tonight. I will not sleep with Walker Johnson.

  “Well, I’m going to Brett’s and we’re going to Carriage House. If I’m back it’ll be late. Say hi to the Stallion for me!”

  And before I can even reply, she’s out the door. The latch clicks shut and I’m left alone in the cramped dorm room, staring at the painted concrete block walls and a motivational poster I got at the start of the year: a sunset at beach with a quote saying Grab life by the reins. Don’t wait.

  The reins? Seriously? It’s like even the universe is on Abbey’s side tonight.

  The tick tock of Abbey’s pink kitty clock seems particularly loud and obnoxious right now, and I have the sudden urge to smash it. I’m not sure if I’m angry at Abbey for predicting it, or angry at myself for contemplating doing exactly what she said I would do – exactly what I said I would not do: go to the party. I can feel my anxiety starting to kick in.

  I don’t even have anything to wear.

  But so what? I don’t need to dress like one of the million other girls that will be there tonight. In fact, I shouldn’t! I should dress professionally, because that’s what I am. I’m a professional writer for the Tribune, and I’m going to go to the party to do my job – not to sleep with Walker.

  That’s my plan, and I’m sticking to it!

  I toss my blanket and head to the wardrobe. I can’t wear what I have on now, and I need a shower. I’ve been stuffed up in the office all day, and I’ve already worn these clothes two days in a row. I pull out a pair of black jeans, slightly trendy…I think…and a light blue blouse that’s not too formal. I strip out of today’s clothes, wrap myself in a towel and head for the bathroom.

  “Hey, Emmy,” my neighbor Donna says, passing me on the way out.

  “Hey, Donna,” I say, tossing her a friendly wave. The bathroom’s empty and that means I get the big stall. It’s not a spa, but compared to the mold-infested deathtraps in the freshman dorms, this place is heaven.

  The warm water feels amazing after the long day I’ve had, and I half contemplate staying here for the rest of the night.

  Walker Johnson…

  The party is for sure going to be completely out of hand. The festivities surrounding the football team are the stuff of legend, and here I am going to experience it first hand. I can’t even imagine how many girls have paraded themselves through those rooms over the years…how many of them gave themselves over to the Stallion…lying on their backs on his bed, his ridiculously strong arms on either side of them, his gym forged body pressing against them…

  Bitches! I think, feeling a bizarre flood of anger rush through me, followed by a rush of blood to my…lady bits. What the Hell am I thinking?

  The water feels suddenly too hot against my skin, and the air is thick. I grab the handle and turn it clockwise, instantly relieved at the flood of cool water.

  Would Walker really try to sleep with me?

  Abbey had to be just messing with me. Out of the two of us, she’s the one guys like that always go for. I’m the shy one in the back playing around on her phone while the guy with the tan and the tank top tries out his best pick up lines. I’ve actually never been approached since I’ve been here. If Ronald’s mom hadn’t introduced us, I wouldn’t have even met him.

  Ronald used to row crew, but the team was too demanding for someone who takes his grades as seriously as he does. Between being on the team and studying, he basically had no life, so he quit. He’s a lot happier now not having to get up at four in the morning, but he’s not exactly in the best of shape anymore. Not like Walker.

  Stop thinking that!

  This is ridiculous. Am I really thinking about Mr. Meathead right now while I’m in the shower? So he’s hot. Okay, I’ll admit what. But so what? He’s a fantasy. Or maybe it’s actually my fantasy that he’s not the blockhead I already know he is. His reputation precedes him. Every girl on campus knows what to expect from Walker, and here I am pretending he might not be that bad, because I’m about to go do a story on him.

  Focus on the facts, I tell myself. Ignore the height, the broad shoulders, the muscles, the tan, the jawline and cheekbones. Focus on the story!

  My inner voice is doing nothing to calm my inner animal. I finally admit to myself that the thought of Walker being interested in me has me excited. What is it like to have a guy like him put the moves on you? What do I do when he flashes that smile at me? Giggle? Twirl my hair? Wave my hand like a ditz and pat him on the arm?

  You’re an idiot.

  I can just see him chatting up some sorority girl in hot pants and a Colts hat, sipping casually from a beer when he tells her he wants to show her his room or something equally stupid, and instantly my stubborn anger rears its ugly head.

  I flip the water off and grab my towel.

  You will not sleep with Walker Johnson! I tell myself.

  Not only is he not going to be interested in you, but you have a boyfriend, and on top of that, you’re a professional! This is a story, and nothing else. In fact, it’s a story I didn’t even want! I’m going to get in, get the story, and get out. I’ll put it on Peter’s desk and tell him I’m done. That’s all he’s getting.

  And all Walker’s getting is an interview!

  Football house is a warzone. There must be more testosterone
flowing on this half-acre lot than there was on a Viking invasion ship. I half expect a frat boy in a horned helmet to come out of the bushes and kidnap me. Suddenly I feel like a young maiden being paraded through a medieval town for all the men to ogle over.

  As I step off the sidewalk onto the lawn I there’s two – two keg stands going on either side of me, and some girl holding her friend’s hair back while she pukes in the bushes. This is one classy place.

  Lovely, I think as I carefully navigate the cracked brick walkway to the front porch. I can already smell the party and I’m not even inside yet. Unfamiliar pop music blasts from within, mostly bass, but I don’t recognize the song, which isn’t surprising.

  Is this the college life I’m missing out on? The party culture on campus is as foreign to me as life on the other side of the globe. I instantly feel like a black sheep as I take the steps to the front door.

  I knock, but the door swings easily open and the roar of the festivities threatens to overwhelm me. The scent of beer and smoke rushes my nostrils like a hard-hitting offense. It is seriously loud in here. The music is blasting from a pair of speakers laid out in the living room, which has been converted to a beer pong…arena. Someone takes this stuff very seriously.

  A guy who looks like he was born to charge people on the thirty-yard line lands a shot to win the game and his friends go wild, slamming their chests together and slapping each other hard on the shoulders. Male bonding at its finest. I search the hordes for Walker, but he doesn’t seem to be here. I turn back and thread my way to another room that’s been converted to a very primitive dance room.

  Those cheesy lights you can buy at the mall are setup everywhere, bathing the room in a disorienting combination of little colored globes spinning across the ceiling, and blinking neon bouncing off the walls. I have no idea how anyone can even see each other in this environment, but I guess when you’re drunk and grinding against each other it doesn’t really matter.

  “Walker!” I manage to shout. “Walker Johnson!”