Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  She pulls a key out from her bra, giving me a tiny peek of cleavage, then releases my grip on her arm and prances up the steps to her sorority house.

  “And it’s a damn shame,” she says. “Because I like you too.”

  I start to walk back to my dorm, but I know sleep isn’t coming anytime soon. Instead, I head toward the athletic building. I need to get some energy out. Plus, I’m running out of time to prove myself worthy of the starting quarter back position that Coach has, for some unknown reason, decided to hand to me on a silver platter. I really want to feel the surge of pride knowing I helped my team rather than hindered it. I’m desperate for it.

  The place is closed to most everyone at 2AM, but part of being on the team is having a key card that gets you inside the football wing 24/7. They almost restricted our access after what happened with that girl last year—and maybe they should have—but they eventually decided it was better for us to have somewhere to keep us out of trouble. And hell, they put so much money into the state-of-the-art facility that it would be a waste not to use it as much as possible. It’s tricked out with absolutely everything our team could need to help us train: a full weight room, cardio stations that can monitor everything from heart rates to O2 levels, a full-size indoor field with cameras from every angle, cold soak tubs and hot tubs, a massage room, medical rooms, and my personal nemesis: a stats-enabled throwing tunnel that measures exactly how I’m fucking up every time.

  I hit my locker and change into the gym shorts I left in there a while ago. They kinda stink, but whatever. I’m not here to impress anyone.

  The weight room rumbles when I dock my phone and play my favorite playlist: a mix of classic rock and heavy metal. Everything that gets my blood running. It’s exactly what I need to shut my mind off. I go to the deadlift and stack it with the most weight I can handle. Maybe that will make me calm down enough to sleep tonight. After three sets, my shoulders and glutes are burning. I do three more.

  Exercise has never let me down. When I gave up coke I took up exercise. I can work myself so hard that everything hurts and there’s no room left to crave what I shouldn’t want.

  Lou’s words keep running through my mind. It’s fucking irritating that she thinks I’m scared of her dad. I’m not scared. I respect him. He’s been an incredible mentor, has pushed me to my limit time and time again. I may not be killing it on the field, but I’m in the best shape of my life. Not to mention the fact that he’s trusting me with the QB spot.

  No way am I going to risk disrespecting him just to get laid. Not a chance in hell.

  But even as I’m thinking it, I know there’s more to it than that. There’s something about Lou that intrigues me. I barely know her—only by stories that I’d never attached a face too before tonight. But I’ve never met anyone who’s half as bold. That kind of strength is so fucking sexy. Girls always think playing hard to get is what men want. And maybe for some guys that’s true. But not me. It always seems like such a stupid game. You know she wants you and is just putting you through your paces because she read some magazine that told her that’s the way to hook a man.

  Lou’s honesty is uncomplicated and refreshing. She has a reputation for having fun, sure. But I’ve heard a ton of stories about her smashing the egos of guys who could get any girl they wanted. The fact she wants me feels like winning the fucking Super Bowl. So why the fuck would I give back the ring?

  She’s Coach’s daughter. That’s why. I force my mind to shut the hell up and focus on my workout. Abs are next, then pecs, then calves. I work each muscle to its exhaustion point before I move on to the treadmill and do interval sprints until I can’t breathe anymore and my hair is soaked in sweat.

  By the time I’m done, I’m so tired I almost let myself skip the tunnel. The mother fucking tunnel always comes last. It’s stupid to do it any other way. When I’m fresh and there’s no pressure, I can hit any target. It’s easy, but practicing that way is like riding your bike to the library and saying you’re training for the Tour de France. I need to perform when my tank is empty, when my muscles are crying for a break.

  I grab a ball, step on the mat, and throw. Instead of the randomly-located flashing red X on the screen ahead, I imagine Ben Mayhew’s cocky British face in a wide open pocket at the 10 yard line. It hits at 44 miles per hour and is off the mark by two feet. Weak. My average is 51 and my personal best is 56. There’s no way I’m leaving this room until I break 50 three times.

  I throw and I throw and manage to get my speed up to my average. But my accuracy is about as good as a toddler’s. It’s all over the place. And that’s the whole fucking problem, isn’t it?

  I give up for the night, exhausted, and head over to brew myself an ice bath so I’m not destroyed for practice on Monday. They’re the worst, but at least having a hard-on won’t be what’s keeping me awake tonight.

  But before I make it to the soak room, I notice a light flickering from the meeting room—which isn’t so much a “room” as it is an auditorium that’s big enough to house all the players and staff. Who’d be in there at this time of night? I nudge the door open and see Coach outlined against the giant film screen. He’s sitting in the front row, remote control in his hand, reviewing tape of tonight’s game. My gut clenches as I see him watch the same play over and over and over again: me, throwing wide, causing the most embarrassing interception of my career.

  Before he notices me, I nudge the door closed and head back the way I came.

  I made the right choice, turning Lou down. And this time I won’t leave the damn tunnel until I can hit the target.

  Chapter Five

  West

  A WEEK LATER, I STEP onto the indoor track at the training center and see her. It’s 6AM, and I’m usually the only one here at this hour. College students aren’t exactly known for getting up at the crack of dawn.

  But there she is: back to me, earbuds in, standing on the mat, and stretching in ways that make me think so many nasty thoughts it should be illegal. Does the fact I can recognize her by her amazing ass alone make me a bad person? I don’t know. But I do know I’m immediately hard.

  She’s wearing tiny track shorts—that kind with the slit up the side that gets wider with every move of her thick, beautiful thighs. If she wasn’t wearing a sports bra, her thin, off-shoulder T-shirt would show me everything.

  I adjust myself, then walk up and tap her on the shoulder. She jumps so high I think I might have given her a heart attack.

  “Asshole,” she says, laughing as she pulls a blaring earbud out of her ear. She punches my shoulder playfully. “You scared the shit out of me.” Her face is fresh and clean and free of makeup. And she’s damn gorgeous without it.

  “You stalking me, Prescott?” I ask her with a grin.

  Her forehead cinches together. “Seriously, fool?” she ask. “You’re hot. But you’re not that hot.”

  I laugh. “Fair enough. So what are you doing here?”

  Her eyebrows shoot up, mocking, and she glances around the track. “Knitting a sweater, dummy.”

  “I mean, what are you doing here so early? That doesn’t seem like your style at all.”

  “How would you know what my style is?”

  “You just don’t seem like a morning person. You strike me as more of a night owl sort of girl.”

  “What I am is a work hard, play hard sort of girl. This morning is the work hard part. But—to answer your question—if my dad sees me running, he’s going to get the wrong idea. So I showed up early.”

  I’m not following her. “Get the wrong idea about what?”

  “I quit the track team after my freshman year. I loved running, but I fucking hated the track team. My body just wasn’t meant to be as small as they wanted it to be. I’m better with curves.”

  She does a little hip-out pose that makes me want to grip that soft flesh and pull her to me. She’d be hot at any size, but it’s pretty hard to imagine her hotter than she is right now, all supple curves and softnes
s.

  “Anyway, let’s just say my dad was a little less than pleased with my decision.”

  “Ah. So if he sees you running now, then—”

  “Then he’s going to measure me for a damn uniform and start calling me Flo-Jo again. And that’s something I cannot allow to happen.”

  I laugh, and she saunters over to the starting line and starts doing warm-up lunges and then bouncing in place. I know right away that this morning’s workout is already shot to hell. Hard-ons don’t exactly go hand-in-hand with peak performance.

  She looks back at me. “You just gonna stand there? Or are you gonna run with me?”

  I jog over to meet her as she takes off. At first, I think I’m going to have to slow my pace to stay close to her, but with me taking shorter strides to hide my boner, she’s keeping up pretty well. We do a lap side-by-side in silence before she says anything again.

  “So tell me something about yourself, cowboy,” she says.

  “Not much to tell,” I say. “Except that I’m definitely not a cowboy.”

  “Whatever. What’s your major?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Huh. That’s an unusual choice for a football player.”

  “It’s my back-up plan. If the NFL doesn’t happen, then I want to be able to do something good with my life.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this. It’s not something I usually talk about.

  “You’ve still got another year to prove yourself, though. Right?”

  “Only if your dad doesn’t draft somebody better,” I say. It’s true. Chances are I’ll be back on the bench my senior year, if I make the team cut at all. But after I say it, I realize I’ve put her in an awkward position. My future in football isn’t something I want to talk about right now anyway. “How about you? What are you studying?”

  “Business. Emphasis in finance.”

  “Really?” I say. I don’t mean for it to come out as surprised as it sounds.

  “What did you think my major was?”

  “I don’t know. Communications or Humanities or something.”

  “For real?” she asks. “Just because I’m in a sorority, you think I’m taking the easy academic track?”

  “No, Ms. Word-twister. I just pictured you doing something more social, less…boring.”

  “Um, excuse you,” she says.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine you sitting behind a desk all day.”

  “What makes you think I’m planning to sit behind a desk all day?”

  “Isn’t that what accountants do? Crunch numbers on those calculators with the long paper? Or pay bills on the computer or whatever?”

  That makes her laugh. “Well, I can see why you’re not a business major. But, for your information, I’m not planning to be an accountant. I’m going to start another business.”

  “Wait? Another business? You already started a business?”

  “Technically, I’ve started three. But I grew out of selling friendship bracelets online when I was ten and I got busted for hocking contraband candy out of my locker when I was fourteen. The lawn-mowing thing stuck, though. I started it when I was fifteen and it turned into a full-on landscaping business. I had to hire a general manager when I left for college, but it’s still turning a very decent profit.”

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s serious. “You run a business? Right now? You actually employ other people?”

  “Around thirty, yeah. But it kind of runs itself these days.”

  “That’s fucking incredible.” It’s not just incredible. This woman is a goddamn force of nature.

  “Not everyone gets a free ride. I had to pay for college somehow. And my dad wasn’t making real money until he got called up to the big leagues this year.”

  “You might be the coolest person I know.”

  “Are you kidding me?” she asks, turning around to jog backwards. “I’m definitely the coolest person you know.”

  Morning Lou is so different than the girl I met the other night. She’s still just as vibrant—she couldn’t not be—but she’s more relaxed. I’m pretty sure I’m seeing a side of her that she doesn’t show other people very often. And I like it. The other Lou is fun for sure. But this Lou is real. This Lou is mine.

  Mine. The word comes into my head without invitation, and I shove it out as soon as I think it. Coach’s daughter, I remind myself. Off limits.

  “Don’t push it,” I say, teasing her. “You’re cool. But you’re not that cool.”

  “Oh, but I am. And I’ll prove it,” she says. “I want a rematch.”

  “For what?”

  “Our race the other night. Only fair this time.”

  “Unfortunately for you, my legs are still the same giants they were before.”

  “And unfortunately for you, I’m not in high heels this time.” She looks at me with a smirk. I know what she’s going to say before she says it. “Go!” she yells. Then she takes off.

  And that’s when I realize she’s been holding back this whole time, maybe to play me for this very moment. She sprints ahead of me in a flash. No wonder Coach was pissed she quit track. She must have been a fucking rockstar on the team. From an athletic perspective, it’s hard not to think her talent is going to waste.

  But seeing her ahead of me like that only turns on my competitive drive. She might be a third my size, but there’s no way I’m just going to let her win.

  I go into beast mode and race to catch up. She might be fast, but my legs are longer. She fights hard, but I push myself and eventually start to close in on her. She looks over her shoulder, and I see the irritation in her eyes. I know that look. It’s the look of someone who’s determined to win.

  Just as I’m about to pass her, she tackles me, hitting me low to screw with my center of balance.

  We both go flying into a thick mat that’s set up inside the oval—probably for the cheerleaders. It’s soft, but we land hard and roll.

  When we stop, she’s on top of me. Straddling me. Her hands pressing mine into the mat. From this angle, her breasts are practically gushing out of that sports bra and I find myself praying for an earthquake to give them an extra push.

  “What’s the matter, West?” she asks, taunting me.

  “Cheater,” I pant, still trying to catch my breath. Seeing her this way, it’s not easy to calm down.

  “You can’t cheat if there aren’t any rules,” she says.

  I’m so turned on I can’t form words. And she has to feel my arousal. Her soft center is pressing into my cock through my shorts. Her heat is delicious. She makes the smallest movement with her hips, but I know it’s intentional. She wants to torture me. She’s trying to push me to my edge. And it’s working.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she asks. “It’s okay. Most guys are intimidated by me.”

  Testosterone surges through me before my head can take over. In a flash, I’ve flipped her on her back and switched our positions, my hands pinning hers down this time, her legs splayed around me in exactly the right position to have her.

  “I don’t intimidate easily,” I say, taking in the rise and fall of her chest as her breath gets short.

  “That’s not what I heard,” she taunts. “Prove it.”

  I’m about to lunge down and bury my face in those gorgeous tits when I catch myself. What the hell am I doing? I don’t act like this anymore. I don’t give in to my idiotic urges. That’s the old me. And if I don’t shut this down right now, I won’t be able to stop him from surfacing.

  I free her hands and roll off of her, sitting up a couple feet away.

  “You’re a lot more fun when you let your instincts take over,” she pants, still on her back.

  “And you’re a hell of a lot faster when you’re sober,” I say.

  Just then, there’s a boom of laughter and I turn to see Riley and Reggie walking in. I’ve never been more grateful to see them. I stand, and she reaches out a hand for me to help her up too.

  “I guess that’s my cue
,” she says. “See you.”

  She jogs out, waving to the guys as she passes. The door thuds shut behind her.

  “Ooh, damn! Did cowboy finally pop his cherry?” Reggie laughs.

  “I’m not a fucking virgin, asshole,” I say. “And I wasn’t—we weren’t doing anything.”

  “Coulda’ fooled me,” Reggie says.

  “Were you seriously messing around with Lou, dude?” Riley asks.

  I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to explain any of this to them. It’s too complicated. And it’s none of their business.

  “Jesus, man,” Riley says, shaking his head in disapproval. “Are you trying to get bumped back to the bench?”

  “No. I’m not—there’s nothing going on there, okay?”

  I wish it were true. But right now it feels like one of the biggest lies I’ve ever told.

  Chapter Six

  Lou

  “COME ON. I DON’T WANT to be there all day,” Nara says as I pull on the most comfortable pair of leggings I own. “I’m hanging out with Ben later.” She yanked me out of bed at this ungodly hour to study. It’s just about the last thing I want to do right now.

  Last night was an epic foam party at the sports frat, Theta Xi—which I might have gone to in hopes of seeing stupid West Sawyer, who definitely was not there. Ever since our little surprise rendezvous at the track, I’ve been trying to think of places I might bump into him again. But it hasn’t happened. Since then there’s been another game and another win for the Mustangs. But no matter how long I hover on the sidelines, I don’t seem to capture his attention. I’m starting to feel like a goddamn jersey chaser.

  The pain behind my eyes flares as I bend over to look for my silver flats. I’m not sure if I ingested more foam or more alcohol last night, but it was a fun time. I’ve never danced harder. And my body is feeling all the effects of the whole experience this morning.

  I’d cancel on Nara and stay in bed, but I have a big presentation in ECON 301 on Monday that I have to make sure is perfect. There are going to be big-time investors judging us and awarding mock investment amounts based on our pitches. And the top three finishers automatically earn an internship with one of the judges next summer. So far, I’m a shoe-in for first place, but I want to make sure I step into that room and dominate.