Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  “Stay,” Reggie pleads, and his voice is so sweet and hot that I nearly give in. He’s still massaging my back, deeper now, and I can’t help thinking about how it would feel to have those strong hands rubbing me everywhere. His mouth moves to my other collarbone, licking and sucking, and I come perilously close to swooning.

  But I don’t swoon. I’m not the sort of girl who swoons. “It’s late,” I say, trying to be firm even though my voice has gone breathy. “You have practice in the morning,” I say before I suddenly remember the whole reason we’re here: his injury.

  I scramble over him, getting to my feet, and practically run across the room to flick on the light. Reggie is sprawled out on the futon, looking so delectable that, for a heartbeat, I’m tempted to throw myself on top of him again. Then I glance down and see that all the buttons at the top of my polo have come undone under his busy hands, and a wave of embarrassment washes over me. I’m practically spilling out of my top, my hair is loose, and I can tell that my lips are swollen from his kisses. This is so not me.

  I sweep my hair back and tie it in a ponytail, then quickly button up my shirt without meeting his eyes. This is not where my night was supposed to go. Study group, exam prep—that was my plan for the evening, not making out with Reggie. God, what was I thinking?

  “I still have to study, remember?” I say, trying to be cool about the fact that I was just all over him. I sling my bag over my shoulder and half bend to kiss Reggie goodbye, then realize what I’m doing and chicken out, so it just looks like I’m sort of bowing.

  Strike my high school homecoming dance, this is now my most embarrassing moment. My skin is still burning from the pleasure of his lips, and I feel so confused. I have to get out of here and think before I do anything else stupid.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I blurt while walking out the door. I almost run right into Reggie’s suite-mate, Ben Mayhew, on my way out. He gives me a sideways glance, but I keep my head down and don’t stop.

  Chapter Six

  Megan

  WATER CASCADES DOWN MY BACK as I rinse off the day.

  There are a million things that I should be thinking about in this moment—my exam tomorrow, for instance—but the only thought that keeps insistently crawling back into my mind is Reggie. My body feels a physical ache at being torn away from him too early, and I imagine what it would be like to be with him. To really be with him. I’m twenty-one and still a virgin, and the years of pent-up sexual energy are exploding inside of me, creating wild fantasies that I can’t control.

  My physical lust for Reggie is clouding my ability to think clearly. I’m Reggie’s physical therapist, which makes romantic entanglements a conflict of interest. But Reggie kissed me, and if we’re both students, how bad of a conflict of interest is it, really? I’m not taking advantage of him in a weakened state. But I have no plans of having a boyfriend this year. It’s my last year. It pointless to start dating someone when I’ll be in graduate school next year with no guarantee that I’ll get to stay at MSU. Once I’m in grad school, then I can meet someone. Someone smart and serious, an equal, not the class clown. Reggie will never be anything more than just a hook up. And hooking up with your patient is unethical.

  As my brain runs around in circles, my body keeps calling to me, wanting. As I run soap over my breasts, I feel my nipples hardened with thoughts of Reggie. My body eager to finish what he started. I slide my hands over my chest and run the soap down my stomach, lingering at the edge, where Reggie’s fingertips grazed just under my shirt. His large hands were so warm and rough, even though his touch was soft.

  I’m never going to be able to think clearly with this much lust hazing my brain. I may be a virgin, but I’m not a prude, and I have a deep and passionate relationship with the pulse setting on my detachable showerhead. Bracing myself against the wall, I angle the water so it hits me just where I’m yearning to be touched. I let out a groan that echoes against the shower tiles, letting myself fantasize for just a moment that the hand sliding up to my breasts is Reggie’s, not my own.

  I pinch and stroke my nipples, pretending that the water coursing over my body is Reggie’s mouth on my skin. Giving myself over to the fantasy, I prop one leg on the edge of the tub so the spray of the water can massage my clit. A subtle wave moves up my belly, building pressure and momentum.

  My fingers join the cascade of water, stroking my arousal higher and higher. My touch is light, but I’m so sensitive, so overly turned on, I can barely take it. I can only imagine what Reggie’s electric hands would have done to me. As soon as the thought hits my brain, the pressure breaks, and my body rocks in spasms as the waves of pleasure crash and recede. I take deep breaths, hoping that my mind will be clearer now. Yet all I can think of is how the showerhead is a pale substitute for having a living, breathing, insanely sexy man beneath me.

  If just thinking about Reggie is getting me this worked up, it’s going to be a long and frustrating football season.

  Chapter Seven

  Reggie

  “BEN, ENTERTAIN ME. I’M BORED.” I’m in the shared kitchen between my room and Ben’s, popping wheelies in the chair that Megan left for me. I’m still refusing to leave the dorms, and I’m starting to get a little stir crazy. I know I’ll be better and back on my feet in no time, but I don’t do well sitting still.

  Ben finishes steeping tea in a thermos and stares at me for a long second. I actually had never heard the word “steep” or knew what it meant until Ben informed me. I don’t know why he can’t just make coffee like a normal person. Ben snaps the lid onto his thermos. “I’m not your little plaything.”

  I burst out in a laugh. Ben’s British accent makes the phrase hilarious, but he definitely isn’t laughing with me.

  “That might have a slightly different meaning in the U.S. But trust me, I don’t want you to be my little plaything.” Saying the words gets me cracking up all over again.

  “I’m going,” Ben says coolly.

  I was supposed to be sharing this suite with Jeremy Hudson, our old quarterback. We were going to have the best damn senior year ever. But then … well, that didn’t happen. Then I got used to having the place all to myself when I stayed on campus this summer … until Ben showed up. I probably could have made it easier on Ben, but what would be the fun of that? Messing with him has been the only good thing about having to share the space. He’s basically a walk-on and had never even played football until a few months ago. You’d think he wouldn’t be able to run so fast with that giant stick up his ass. No, me messing with him is doing a public service. Trust me, the guy could use some loosening up.

  “Don’t go! We’re having fun.” I’m whining, but I’m also desperate. If I’m going to be stuck in this dorm, Ben is better company than nothing. Our dorm rooms are no bigger than most, but we get the bedrooms to ourselves and share a kitchen and bathroom between two of us instead of four, like in the other dorms. Our suite feels almost like an apartment. Almost.

  Ben slips a leather satchel over his shoulder. He looks dressed up enough to be going to a funeral or something. I’ve only ever worn gym shorts to class, but I’m also not a stuffy British dude.

  “Reggie, we have class in ten minutes.” He’s all business.

  I let the chair fall with a thump to the ground. I look at my watch. “That was seven straight minutes of wheelie time. You have to admit that’s impressive!”

  “Class.” Ben will not be deterred. It’s just a business marketing class. I don’t know what the big deal is.

  “Go on without me, if it’s so important to you. Tell teach I said hi!” I spin my chair in a three-sixty then jam my hands against the wheels to stop. “Wait, Ben, don’t tell the teacher I said hi. That was a joke.” Since he doesn’t laugh at any of my other jokes, I’m never sure if he knows when I’m kidding. American humor seems to be pretty different from British humor.

  “You know, there’s really nothing funnier than explaining a joke.” The sarcasm comes through, but I
don’t know whether to glare or smile. But Ben cracked a joke! Maybe I’m wearing off on him after all.

  “Take good notes, sweetheart.”

  Ben shoves two fingers upward into the air, like a backward peace sign. Yup, I think I’m making real progress on our friendship.

  As annoying as he can be, he’s a good player and a fast-as-fuck wide receiver. But he isn’t much of a joiner, and his arrogance really rubs some guys the wrong way. Maybe I’m just too easy-going to get too riled up about Ben. Either way, if you don’t count all the weird food that’s now stocked in our kitchen, living with the guy is like living with a very tidy ghost. He’s always around, but I almost never see him. He spends most of his time in his room, and he’s hard to lure out. But his presence still floats around, and I’ve got to be honest, it makes me feel a little uncomfortable in my own place. Especially when I’m in my room and can hear him grumbling and washing up all the dishes.

  I wheel into my room. It’s just a sprain, I tell myself again. A day or two locked up, and then I’ll be back on my feet. Still, I feel like I’m going crazy.

  I fish out my cell phone and call Riley. Voicemail.

  I hesitate for a second, then I call Megan. What happened between us last night … I mean, I’ve made out with a lot of girls. But something about the way her body molded to mine tells me that this is special, that she is special. It makes me nervous.

  She picks up on the second ring. “You didn’t show up for physical therapy today.”

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “Reggie, this is serious. You’re not going to be able to play in two weeks if you’re not working towards your recovery.”

  “That’s actually the reason I called you. I thought you might want to come over and stretch me out.”

  “I can meet you at the med office in ten.”

  “No, come over here. It’s just stretches and stuff, right?”

  There’s a pause, and my heart starts beating faster. It’s not just that I’m lonely. I really want to see Megan. Hanging out with her has been the only good thing to come from the injury. She’s not just hot, she’s funny. And adventurous. It’s addicting to be around.

  But she’s hesitating to come over, and there’s a bad feeling niggling at me. After our conversation last night about sexual assault, I feel even shittier than I already did about showing her my dick at that party. The kiss we shared last night was consensual—hell, she started it—but I hope she’s not regretting it. I’m definitely not.

  Trying not to sound desperate, I fall back on a joke. “I can show you how good I’m getting at doing tricks with my wheelchair. I think I’m getting close to joining Cirque du Soleil.”

  “Fine.” She still sounds annoyed and a little guarded, but I’m just happy she said yes.

  “Great!” My voice is too loud and enthusiastic. But that’s kind of how I feel—like a big dumb puppy who just wants to play with a kitten. I have to do something to make sure it’s worth her while to come over.

  I scrounge through the refrigerator. Ben has his name plastered over everything, even though I only use the kitchen to heat up freezer stuff in the microwave. I barely recognize half the stuff in there, so I play it as safe as I can manage. I grab eggs, some fancy lettuce and fancy ham and two croissants from a bag that says Erhard’s European Bakery on the bag. I’m sure he won’t mind if borrow some of his stuff. Well, no, he will definitely mind. It’s just that I don’t care.

  I crack, whip, and scramble the eggs, fry the ham, and pile it all onto the croissants. It takes longer than it should, having to get in and out of the wheelchair, standing on one leg, using the countertop for balance. I top it with the small lettuce—it says “arugula” on the bag, whatever that is—and fresh tomato. It looks pretty damn good, but it’s kind of small for the big plates. I rifle around in the refrigerator and find some dark cherries, plump to bursting, and arrange them on the plates next to the sandwiches.

  Just as I’m putting the cherries back in the fridge, I hear a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I shout.

  Megan walks in, her hair windblown and her face pink from the walk here. Her freckles pop out even more when she’s flushed, and she looks so damn cute, I want to fall back into the kiss right where we’d left off the night before.

  “I hope you haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Nope,” she holds up a bag of Lucky Dog Sandwiches, the best grilled subs in Granite. “I figured you’d be starving, knowing you haven’t left the room since last night.” Am I imagining it, or did her cheeks flush even more when she said “last night”? Then she sees the plate and realizes we’ve had the same idea. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

  She walks over to the fridge and places the bag inside. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my egg sandwiches. There’s no way it’s going to be better than what she brought, but she’s already sitting down at the little table in the corner of the kitchen and has her hands wrapped around the croissant.

  She takes a big bite. I like that she digs right in, not dancing around the sandwich pretending not to be hungry.

  “Mmmm, this is really good.” She covers her mouth with her hand, trying to talk around the food. She swallows. “I’m sorry, but wow. I’m impressed.”

  It is good. Really good. I’ll have to thank Ben and maybe find out where he got the ham. It’s salty and soft and practically melts into the eggs. It’s the ingredients more than my cooking that’s making breakfast-for-lunch taste so good.

  When Megan stands and gathers the plates, taking them to the sink, my head is eye level with her stomach. Reaching over the table has hitched her shirt up a bit, revealing a little patch of creamy white skin, bordered by her low-slung jeans. She has light freckles there, too, on the curve of her hip, like a field of tiny strawberries. I want to touch that spot, it’s so close and tempting, and it looks like the perfect dessert. But Megan’s face has gone back to business only. The easy smile from lunch all but gone.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ll get it,” I offer. There’s got to be dish soap and a scrubber around here somewhere, right?

  Megan smiles at me. “The chef never does the dishes in my house,” she says, before washing the two plates and the pan from the eggs.

  Megan massages my ankle, working her fingers in small circles and rotating my foot to the left and right, being sure not to move it in the one direction that makes me cry out in pain. She’s sitting in a chair with my foot in her lap, while I sit on my futon. I had to turn it into a bed last night since I couldn’t make it up the loft. As she leans forward, her hands running over my ankle,, I can just see the swell of her breasts under her shirt. I am starting to become a little obsessed by how covered up she is. If her lips and hands are any indication of the rest of her body, she’s one long expanse of pearly softness, sprinkled with gold flakes.

  The massage is probably supposed to relax me, but it only gets me worked up more and more. I keep thinking about the hot kiss we shared last night, and I want her lips on mine again. Her brow is furrowed as she concentrates on my ankle, almost like she’s trying to avoid eye contact or something. But my eyes are all over her. Her hands, her long hair falling in front of her face … Her perfect breasts moving under her loose shirt.

  “You know, it would probably help if you got some new cleats.”

  I manage to tear my eyes away from her tits and see that her gaze has settled on my ancient cleats lying next to my gym bag. “New cleats? Never.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still wearing those.” To my disappointment, she stops massaging my ankle and crosses the room to look at my cleats. “They are in terrible shape.”

  “Those are my lucky cleats,” I say. “I’ve worn them for every game I’ve ever played with the Mustangs.”

  “Every game?” She starts to peek into the shoe, then recoils.

  “Those probably don’t smell so great,” I say apologetically.

  “The arch is flat, and you’re starting to poke through
the toe,” she says, digging her pinky into the hole that has started along the seam of the jaunty blue stripe I like so much.

  “Hey, don’t make it worse,” I say, starting to rise to my feet. The words are cut off in a hiss of pain as I put weight on my ankle.

  “Don’t do that,” she chides me, hurrying back over. I let her help me back down—not because I need it, but because I like it when she’s close to me.

  “If you want to play again this season, you have to follow my instructions. Stay off this ankle, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say glumly.

  “And get some new shoes,” she says, then hesitates. “I’m sure the school can provide a pair if ….”

  I can hear the end of that sentence. If you can’t afford them. I’m not ashamed of growing up poor, but this isn’t about that. “They’re my lucky cleats,” I say again. “The school has given us all shoes. I have a pile of them in my closet. Every winning season the Mustangs have ever had, I’ve been wearing those cleats. I’m not going to give up the magic now.”

  She shakes her head at me, then grabs the Ace bandage that she’d removed and expertly wraps me back up. She disappears into the kitchen for a second, then comes back with a fresh ice pack that she lays on my ankle.

  “There,” she says. “You’re all set. It really looks pretty good. There’s significantly less swelling than I expected.” She grabs her bag to go, and I feel an irrational panic rise in my stomach.

  “Wait, you’re not going, are you?”

  “Yeah, I need to study.”

  She still isn’t looking at me. I could be imagining it, but it seems like she’s purposely avoiding eye contact. But I’m purposely trying to force it. How am I supposed to kiss her again if she won’t even look at me?

  “I’m sure you’re acing your classes. You can take one day off.”

  “I did. Remember, last night. And I’m pretty sure I bombed my physiology test today because of it.”

  “One quiz. That’s no big deal. You know how many quizzes I’ve bombed in my life? And look at me, I’m still standing … sort of.”