Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  After tonight, we’re eleven and one. And the only game I feel responsible for is the loss. But with every game inching us farther into the post-season, it’s only a matter of time before I get us knocked out.

  I try to remind myself: structure and steps. Keep your head down. Keep fighting. That’s what they teach at my NA meetings. It’s gotten me this far in life, so I keep at it. I keep fighting every day to be the man I want to be, not the man I am now.

  But somehow, when I apply that determination to football, I just can’t seem to get there. No amount of practice and discipline relieves the anxiety I feel on the field. If my fuckups were just on me, I could stomach it. I’ve gotten through much worse. But I’m letting my team down. And that kills me.

  Fists bang on the glass door to my stall, breaking into my thoughts.

  “Can’t stop the stampede!”

  It’s Reggie, our center, pumped as ever after another win. He has a right to be. He did great tonight. Blocked two defenders long enough to let me recover my own fumble at a moment that we could not afford a turnover. He saved our asses. From me.

  “Get your ass out here, West,” he laughs. “Or I’ll start to think you’re higher maintenance than Megan.”

  “Go the fuck away, Reg,” I snarl at him.

  He doesn’t.

  “CAN’T STOP THE STAMPEDE! WE FUCKING ROCK THIS CITY!” he shouts. I can see his massive shape on the other side of the glass, his form flexed in stone-set victory. Then I hear his feet dancing away on the wet floors back toward the lockers.

  He was right. One minute longer in here and everyone will take it wrong. Like I can’t be happy for the team, just sorry for myself. And I am happy for them. They played amazing, incredible even. It’s me I’m pissed at.

  I turn off the water and wrap the towel around my waist, where bruises are already starting to purple my skin from being tackled so hard. Sacked. Six times. I am a fucking joke. At least the bruises give my tattoos some color.

  I make my way out to the lockers and marvel again at the room. Each locker is built of wood and hung with a brass plate engraved with our name and jersey number. It’s a far cry from the rusting metal cages that could barely fit my shoulder pads in Shiloh. The whole of Shiloh, Texas isn’t half as big as MSU’s campus and it has a quarter of the people. Before Mom got me recruited to that private high school and we moved to Dallas, I didn’t even know locker rooms could be anything more than smelly sweat buckets. And even Crestmoore Academy can’t hold a candle to the perks at MSU. My thoughts drift to my momma and my grandma. It feels like years since I’ve tasted Gran’s cherry pie, seen the laugh lines around Mom’s eyes that grow deeper with every hearty chuckle.

  I smile thinking about it, and that’s when the whistling starts. At first, I think it’s for me and it feels like a jeer.

  Then I see her: deep brown skin, short-cropped hair with a longer, angle-cut section on top, and a wry smile that turns her pretty face into a dare. Her ample curves are squeezed into tight blue jeans and a modern white button-down blouse that’s so sheer it shows the hint of her bra behind it. I get just a peek of black lace. And fuck me if it isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

  She walks through the crowd of naked men, her heels clicking against the polished floor, bold as dawn kicking nighttime to the curb.

  “Hey gorgeous,” someone shouts.

  “Come to give us our prize, honey?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Welcome to the party, baby,” another guy leers.

  “Why don’t you come over here and drop that sweet ass on this?” Dwayne Sheehan says, whipping off his towel and thrusting his pelvis forward.

  That one gets her attention, which makes my gut clench. She stops and turns her head slowly in his direction. A surge of anger rises in my chest. I’ve always known Sheehan is an asshole, but I feel the sudden urge to pound his head in. Before I can, she speaks.

  “Drop my sweet ass on what?” she asks, placing a hand on her tiny waist where it blooms into an ass that would fill my hands and more. She looks him up and down. “I don’t see anything worth my time.”

  The guys explode into laughter as Sheehan snatches his towel to cover himself.

  “Bitch,” I catch him mumble under his breath.

  Before I can stop myself, my body is hurling toward him. In half a second, I have him pinned against the wall.

  “What the fuck, man?” he says, writhing.

  “Apologize,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “Apologize.”

  “Sorry. Jeez,” he says.

  “It’s cool,” she says. “Every time a douche calls me a bitch, my ovaries get bigger. It’s like that thing with angels and bells.”

  The smile spreads across my face and I let him loose.

  “Fucker.” He says. “If you could show half that strength on the field, cowboy, maybe the country would take our program seriously again instead of laughing us off. Weakest ass quarterback I’ve ever seen.”

  My jaw sets into a firm line, but I say nothing. My fists twitch, desperate to get into a fight, to feel the satisfying break of my knuckles on skin. But that’s not who I am anymore. I choose the high road and step back. He’s my teammate and he’s right. But it doesn’t make the desire to punch him lessen any.

  I turn away, and as I do, he rips my towel off. My hands fly to cover myself, and then I notice I’m standing right in front of her, buck naked. The laughter around me grows muffled as our eyes meet.

  “Sorry about that, Miss,” I say, my southern twang sounding full-on country-bumpkin all of a sudden.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, smiling that devilish smile again and scanning me top to bottom. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  My cock twitches like I’m not a grown ass man, but a pimply teenager spotting his first set of tits. This girl has my blood running hot, but I don’t even know her name. If I’m not careful, I’ll be standing in the middle of a crowd of football players, rock hard for her. I turn and snatch my towel back from Sheehan, shoving him into his locker as I cover myself.

  “What the hell is going on?” It’s Coach Prescott, his voice booming as he strides into the space. “Lou? What the hell are you doing in here?”

  Lou. Her name’s Lou. Something about that rings a bell, but I still can’t place her. It feels like I’d remember having met a woman like this. The whole room goes quiet when they see Coach. There aren’t supposed to be unauthorized visitors in here, much less unauthorized female visitors. Suddenly, people are turning away like they never even looked at her. But me, I can’t seem to take my eyes off her still.

  “Hey, Dad,” she says, and my heart sinks. She’s Coach’s daughter. Fuck. That’s how I know her.

  I’ve never met her before, but I’ve heard all the stories: that she’s crazy-fun at parties, taking over the DJ booth and getting everyone—even the DJ—to bounce. Or stealing a dunk against some of the basketball guys while she was barefoot and in a dress. Or treating an entire diner to breakfast the morning after just because. There’s even a rumor that she was the one who hit-and-run glitter-bombed that freshman English class on a dare. If even half of it is true, she’s a damn icon of living life to the fullest.

  “There’s something we need to discuss,” she says to Coach Prescott, and she looks mad. And maybe a little bit sad too, just around her eyes.

  “Then we can discuss it in my office. And you know perfectly well where that is. Go,” he says, pointing her out of the room.

  Her jaw sets and she marches down the hall. I can feel Coach’s stare on me and I have to force my eyes away from the way her ass bounces as she walks.

  “And as for all of you,” Coach says, his face going all hot as a bead of sweat forms on his forehead. “You know my rules. Go have your fun with somebody else. Lou is off limits.”

  A hundred mumbled “yes sirs” tremble through the air. He might still be new around here, but no one would dare to defy Coach, especially about s
omething like this.

  “Good. Now get cleaned up. The reporters are waiting.” He stomps off down the hall, and it’s so quiet in the locker room that we can hear every step.

  I hear the door slam and think I make out the words, “You don’t get to do that.” And “I’m your father, I can do whatever the hell I want.” Then I turn away. It’s not my business. And I have a feeling I need to stay as far away from Lou Prescott as I can.

  I go back to the showers, but I choose cold water this time. She’s a firecracker, and already I feel like one spark away from big trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Lou

  I STOMP INTO MY DAD’S office, trying to get the image of that hot, naked, and extremely well-endowed QB out of my head. Weston Sawyer, number three. Everyone knows who he is, but he almost never goes to the parties. I’ve never seen him so close-up before. From afar, he always looked like the wholesome-boy-next-door type: tall, muscled, dark hair, classically handsome. And all the rumors I’ve heard about him back up his good-guy looks. But those tattoos—artfully placed on his biceps and muscled chest—make me think he’s a man with secrets that are begging to be exposed. And I want to be the one to uncover them. Damn. It’s so not the time to be thinking about sliding my hands all over those tattoos. There’s way more important business at hand.

  I slam the door, shutting out the image and feeling exactly like I did when I was six and Dad wouldn’t let me watch TV until I finished my homework—which is exactly the problem. I’m not a kid anymore, but he’s still treating me like one. It’s infuriating.

  “Showing up at the restaurant last night? You can’t do that, Dad. I’m a grown woman. I’m going to go on dates.”

  There’s something else I want to tell him. Something bigger that I’m hoping I’ll work my way up to eventually, but right now I’m all anger and fury. I’m taking it out on him and it feels good to just blow up on someone, especially when I know he’ll forgive me.

  “It’s a goddamn free country, and I was in the mood for Italian food.”

  When Dad took the coaching position at my school I was actually happy I’d get to see him more often. I just didn’t realize it would be quite this often. He hates that I’m in a sorority. He hates that I quit the track team. And he hates every single guy who looks at me for more than two seconds.

  “We both know you’re full of shit. That’s the third time you’ve “just happened” to show up on one of my dates this month. It has to stop.”

  “I’m your father, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

  I pause, trying to steady my anger. My eyes drift around his office—nothing like the one at his last school. Back then, there were awards and worn posters and lame-but-adorable knick-knacks crowding the beat-up shelves: a Magic 8-Ball, a plastic lei, a vintage Hulk figurine, a collection of toy soldiers—each item with its own story. This office is a lot bigger and fancier: a sleek walnut desk, rich leather chairs, and stainless steel accenting the lamps and side tables. Even some MSU pennants hung on the wall. But aside from a picture of me and my mom, there’s nothing personal anywhere, nothing that’s his. It’s almost like he’s choosing not to put down roots. At least not yet. I worry, not for the first time, that the pressure of leading a top-tier program is doing more harm than it’s worth. But who would he be without it? That thought worries me more.

  I perch on the edge of his desk, trying a softer approach. “You taught me to kick a guy in the nuts when I was eight, Dad. I think I can take care of myself.”

  “Maybe you can, but you’re clearly choosing not to. Who was that jerk-off last night?”

  “Brett. He’s the President of SigEp and he has a 3.8 GPA,” I say. I omit the fact that Dad is kind of right. He’s not a jerk-off, but Brett and I weren’t a match at all. I shifted him into the friend zone almost immediately. But that’s not the point.

  “Well, he looked shifty to me.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes. “What are you? A detective from the 50’s? He’s not “shifty.” And neither is anyone else I’ve dated. Give me some credit. I have decent judgement.”

  “You’re telling me that guy at the bar the other night was a winner? He couldn’t even talk straight. He was half drunk and so were you. There’s no telling what he might have tried if I hadn’t come along. Which is another thing. Since when did you start drinking?”

  “Um, since Katie McIntyre’s 13th birthday sleepover, Dad.”

  “What?” he says, looking genuinely shocked. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Her parents had a fully stocked tiki bar in the basement. It’s how I learned to hate Tuaca,” I say, shivering. “Especially with strawberry Kool Aid.”

  “What the hell is a Tuaca? And why the hell didn’t her parents lock it up?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m 21 now. And it’s college. You partied in college. Even mom partied in college. I know she did.” Mentioning her sends a prickle to my eyes. I blink it away.

  “You know what this school is like. It’s why I’m here. Besides, that was a different time. We didn’t have Facebook.”

  He’s really grasping at straws. Nobody I know is even on Facebook anymore. I’m grateful he’s said something so unbelievably stupid, though. A sound that’s part snort, part giggle bubbles out of me and my anger comes back, refocused. “I can’t imagine what Facebook has to do with me acting like a perfectly normal college student. But whatever. All I’m trying to say is that drinking isn’t a big deal. And it definitely doesn’t mean a guy is, like, a rapist or something.”

  My dad shudders, as I knew he would at my choice of words. Sometimes the only way to get through to him is the shock factor.

  “And even if he was, I can handle myself. Look,” I say, pulling out my keychain to show him. “Pepper spray. Personal alarm. And see this key? Not a key.” I push the small button and watch his eyes go wide as the blade flips out. It’s tiny but strong. “Like I said, I can handle myself.”

  “Where’d you get all that?”

  “After what happened last year, the Kappas hosted a self-defense class to raise money for RAINN, an anti sexual-violence organization,” I say proudly, trying to prove two points at once. “They’re our philanthropy project this year.”

  “Don’t you think it says something about that sorority of yours that it has to give its members pepper spray in the first place?”

  “Ughhhhhhh!” I half-scream, half-growl at him. I’m getting nowhere. Sometimes I think that he tries to over-protect me enough to make up for the fact that he couldn’t protect Mom. I want to tell him that, but I lose my courage. It’s too mean and too hurtful. It’s not his fault she’s gone—there’s no protection from cancer.

  “You’re not listening. You never listen.” I snatch my keys back and head toward the door. “Stay out of my business or I swear I’ll transfer to a different school.”

  I slam the door and leave. It’s an empty threat, and he probably knows it. I love MSU, and I wouldn’t leave my sorority sisters for all the money in the world. But I don’t have anything else to bargain with, and this conversation wasn’t going anywhere good.

  Today, it turns out, is not the right time to talk about the other thing, the bigger thing. Maybe it’s better to tell him after the season’s over anyway. At least that’s what I try to tell myself—that I should wait for a better time. But deep down? I know I’m just scared. It will hurt him so much.

  And telling him will also make it real. I don’t want it to be real.

  This day has gone from crappy to shitty and I’m trying to drink it away. I’m on my fourth shot of Jack Daniels, but I haven’t forgotten any of my troubles. Maybe I need something stronger than Jack.

  That’s when I see him. West. The party thumps around me. Everyone is hyped about winning the game and far past remembering to care about anything but having a good time. Some people dance, some find a corner to make out, some are playing beer pong on the pool table. Mostly, students crowd together in groups, laughing and tryin
g to talk over the music. Everyone seems so happy, but there’s no smile on West’s face. He looks awkward here, wrong somehow, and sort of like he’s going to punch the next person who slaps him on the back and mentions the game. I have the sudden urge to go over and run interference for him, but I don’t.

  At my side, Brooke is half into her favorite story about drunkenly breaking into a mini-golf range and puking in the putt-putt palace.

  “So I’m like, literally dying. But everyone else was like, having such a great time, so …”

  It’s a funny story, but it’s also her only story. She’s told it about a thousand times and I’m bored. Maybe another shot will make me chill enough to enjoy it. I down shot number five.

  My eyes drift back to West. I watch as he dodges the attention of first one girl, then two, then three. Most guys are here specifically for the girls, and it makes me wonder why he showed up at all. He’s not even holding a drink. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see him glancing over at me. Then flat-out staring. Could I be the reason the elusive Weston Sawyer finally showed up at a party?

  That’s when I decide I’m going to sleep with him. Getting laid will definitely turn this night around. Besides, he’s the hottest person I’ve ever seen, even fully clothed. And having hung around football fields my whole life, that’s saying something. He has the stature of an all-American football player and the solid jaw and steady gaze to go with it.

  My mind shoots back to seeing him in the locker room after the game. Freshly showered with droplets of water still dripping down his neck and clinging to his bare, tattoo-covered chest. I’ve never felt more thirsty in my life. His abs were so chiseled they could have been carved out of stone. Even before the towel dropped, revealing his … ahem … other gifts, I could feel my body responding to him in the most basic, feminine way. I wanted him. And now, I’m determined to have him.

  West, I can already tell, is the perfect gentleman. He’s the kind of guy you take home to your parents, not the one-night stand type at all. So this might be a trick. But on top of being super-hot, he’s also a football player. And a football player seems like exactly what I need tonight. The fact that Dad is so utterly, infuriatingly wrong about what I should be doing and who I should be dating only fuels me further. Not only do I want to break his rules, I want to see what else lies under West’s all-American charm. A wild, carefree romp with his cock is just the thing to make me forget about my problems. If only for a night.