Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4)

by Jen Frederick

  “It's more like Ara feels bad for Matt and just wanted to lend a friendly ear when he needed to talk. Nothing more,” he says.

  “She was jealous,” Fleur suddenly chirps.

  My back stiffens. “Jealous about what?”

  “About the girl.”

  “What girl? You mean Maribeth?” I ask, peering over the car seat.

  “Sorry. She's out of it again,” Leon says.

  Sure enough, Fleur's slumped over her seatbelt.

  “I better get these two home before one of them decides the booze in her belly doesn't feel so good.”

  Leon pulls his Nissan Leaf onto the street. The girls' apartment is only a five-minute drive. Leon's able to rouse Fleur enough to get her up the stairs. I throw Ara over my shoulder and carry her up the three flights and into her room.

  “Why'd you get so drunk?” I swipe her hair out of her face and lower her into the bed. She moans something inaudible.

  Leon knocks on the door. “Do you need help? Fleur's halfway awake.”

  “No, I got this.”

  I tug Ara's sandals off. Her toes are painted with a glittery polish that sparkles even in the dim light. She rolls over onto her stomach, one arm tucked under her body and the other slung over the side of the bed. I toss the comforter on top of her and shove a pillow under her head.

  She looks damned uncomfortable, and I stand there for a moment, torn. I scratch behind my ear. I've seen Ara in swimsuits smaller than her underwear. And she's stripped me down to my boxers more than once. After the Championship game, for example. I woke up with nothing but my underwear on and all my clothes were carefully folded on the couch. If I'd undressed in the drunken state I was in post game, the pants would've been kicked under the desk and the shirt would've been hanging from the light.

  While I'm considering helping Ara off with her clothes, she scissors her legs wide. The silky comforter slides off the bed, leaving her ass exposed.

  I nearly choke on my tongue. Her panties are a thong.

  “Fuck.” This is wrong. I shouldn't be looking at her in this state. I shouldn't be looking at her ass in any state.

  Quickly, I throw a blanket over her legs. She kicks it off again.

  “It's too hot,” she moans.

  My balls tighten again. Get a grip, I order myself. “No, it's not,” I say.

  She flashes me again. Sweat breaks out across my forehead. Ty. This is your friend. You don't lust after your friends. That's a line you don't cross.

  “Yes, it is.” She flips over and starts to wrestle her skirt off.

  I dive for the bed, pulling her hands away from her body.

  “Get off,” she grumbles, her slim body wriggling underneath me.

  My dick gets iron hard. I shift the lower half of my frame off the bed so I'm not grinding against her. The irony of the situation hits me. Here I am with a hard-on the size of my truck and a warm, sexy body writhing beneath me, and all I'm trying to do is cover her up.

  “Ty,” she moans.

  It's terrible when she moans. The husky sound goes right to my dick and it becomes impossibly harder.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to marry Kathleen?”

  “Marry who?” What the hell is she talking about now?

  “Business Barbie? Are you going to marry her? Have two point five beautiful babies? You are, aren't you? You'd be dumb not to. She's so pretty and smart.”

  “Kathleen's more interested in managing my money than sleeping with me,” I say dryly. The entire dinner the other night was spent talking about stocks, bonds and something called real estate investment trusts. She also advised me to play only until I was thirty so that I wouldn't be too mentally damaged by all my concussions in my retirement. She talked more like an agent than a woman interested in me as a man.

  “Don't date her,” Ara whispers. “I don’t like her.”

  “Okay.”

  “You won't?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Ara's voice is getting weak and faint. I have to lean in close to hear her. “She's perfect for you.”

  “Not really.”

  “She's not perfect if you don't like her. Because any girl I end up with has to be friends with you, too.”

  “You promise?”

  Ara's small hand flops around looking for mine. I grab her fingers and tuck them inside my palm. “I promise.”

  My response must've been sincere enough for her, because she doesn't say another word for a long time. I start to let her go only to find her hand gripping me tight.

  “Stay,” she mumbles.

  I hesitate.

  “Please.”

  Because I'm weak. Because her voice sounds so pitiful. Because she's my best friend and I can never say no, I lie down beside her.

  “Just until you fall asleep. And I'm staying on top of the covers because it's too hot.”

  “You're always hot,” she says. Her words are slurred together. “I love sleeping with you because you keep me warm.”

  “It's been a long time since we've slept together.” Sleeping with Ara is dangerous. I never get any rest because I’m always afraid of what I’m going to do when I fall asleep. Probably dry hump her, which would ruin our friendship. I don't know why I'm lying here now, but I can't seem to summon the strength to move away.

  She digs her nose into the side of my neck and throws a leg over my thigh. I reach down and gently nudge her knee away from the family jewels. Into my neck, she says something else, something that sounds like, “I've been cold for so long.”

  16

  Ara

  I wake up to voices, plural, in the kitchen. Leon must've stayed over. There are a hundred elves pounding hammers inside my head and another legion of them running around in my stomach. I need some coffee and protein. I roll over slowly.

  The room is still dark and I contemplate lying in bed all day. Then I remember that Marissa asked me to stop by the gallery sometime to help re-arrange some of Thompson Moore's pieces. The gallery showing didn't go as well as she’d expected. Unsurprisingly, not many liked his grass work.

  Van and I shared a rare moment of I told you sos, which neither of us gave voice to. Marissa was too bummed, but she has rallied and is now convinced that she just chose the wrong pieces. Plus, Ty's got his interview today and I should see if he wants to do a dry run before he goes on camera.

  Gingerly, I drag myself upright.

  My knit miniskirt is bunched up around my waist like a belt and my thong is uncomfortably tight. Holding on to the edge of the dresser, I change clothes with as minimal movement as possible. Dressed in sweatpants and a baggy SU sweatshirt that I stole from Ty, I stumble out into the hallway.

  Instead of Leon and Fleur, though, the only person I find in my kitchen is Ty, sitting at our tiny breakfast table, drinking coffee. My mouth starts to water and not just because of the coffee in his cup. He looks delicious this morning in his vintage tee and joggers.

  “Tell me there's some for me,” I croak.

  He jerks his head toward the coffee maker. I drag my hungover ass to the counter and pour my mug to the brim. I don't wait until it cools off before gulping down a healthy swallow. Who cares that it's burning my tongue? I need my caffeine fix.

  “Do you know how hard it is to sleep with a chub all night?”

  A stream of coffee comes spewing out of my mouth. “What?”

  “You heard me.” The tone's belligerent.

  He's nice enough to wait until I'm on my knees, wiping up the coffee spit, when he lands the next blow. “Want to tell me what happened Bowl night?”

  I flush red and then white. “B-b-bowl night?” I stutter.

  He gets up on his size fifteens and stalks over to me, planting those big feet next to my knees.

  “You talked in your sleep,” are his ominous words.

  Hangover gone. I’m awake, alert, and panicky as I shoot up to my feet. “Oh gosh, what is that? It's my phone. Be right back.”

  I sprin
t to the bedroom, race to the bathroom, and lock the door. Once inside, I turn the shower on full blast and climb inside. Fully clothed. Wet clothes are survivable. Talking about Bowl night with Ty is not.

  As expected, he pounds on the door. “You can't hide in there forever.”

  “You'd be surprised,” I mutter, sliding down to sit on my ass. Bowl night was one of the worst and best nights of my life. It was a rollercoaster of emotions. The elation of the win. The giddiness of the after-game celebration. The drinking. Lord, the drinking.

  I was drunk. Ty was drunk. Everyone was drunk. It took us a half hour to walk five blocks to the hotel. Nichole hit her head on the handle of her hotel room. Ty couldn't make it to his room. He collapsed on my bed and refused to move. So I lay down next to him.

  I don't know who made the first move, but our lips found each other. We went from nothing to tonguing each other as if we were searching for the answers to the universe in each other's mouths. Kissing naturally led to touching, which led to—I fan myself as the images of us rolling around with our hands down each other's pants, up each other's shirts, parade themselves in front of my eyes like a triple-X scene.

  A determined pounding on the door makes me jump. “Ara, come out here and talk to me.”

  The girl in the reflection mocks me. “Scaredy-cat,” she says with her eyes.

  “Damn right, I'm scared.” I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth.

  Ty pounds again.

  “You're going to break the door,” I yell.

  “Then come out.”

  “I'm taking a shower!” Hurriedly I undress so that I'm not actually lying. I'm already going to hell for hiding the post-Bowl night events and pretending nothing happened. “Besides, you have to get to your interview!”

  “Dammit,” he curses, because I'm right. He would never be late to an interview. He prides himself on being respectful of other people's time. “I'll be back later. Don't even think about hiding from me,” he threatens.

  Nah. It's a big campus. I can avoid him until graduation.

  I sit in the shower for a good thirty minutes until I deem it safe enough to exit. The coast appears clear when I peek out, so I scamper across the hallway and slam the bedroom door shut. What are my options today? I need to avoid being home as well as any of my regular stops like the Commons and the Row House. I can hide in the library. That place is massive and if I’m able to snag one of the study rooms to myself, I can plant my ass there all day and no one will be the wiser.

  Unfortunately, my roommate has camped out in the living room. There's no way I can get out of the apartment without talking to Fleur.

  “What happened last night?” she demands.

  “Last night? What are you talking about?” I ask innocently, adjusting my messenger bag strap.

  “When I rolled out of bed, Ty was sitting at our table, looking like he'd swallowed a black cloud.”

  “He had an interview this morning. Probably stressed about that.”

  Fleur looks unconvinced. “He's given so many of those, he could do them in his sleep.”

  “Then it must be the draft.”

  “You're such a bad liar.”

  I remain mum.

  She sighs and switches tactics. “Where are you going right now?”

  “I don't want to tell you, because Ty will ask and this way you'll be able to claim ignorance without lying.”

  “I'll get it out of you eventually. I'll just wait until the next time you're drunk.”

  The next time I'm drunk? What did Ty say? That I talked in my sleep while I was drunk. Oh God. Is this a regular occurrence? Am I a chronic sleep drunk talker?

  I place a hand on my hip and stare accusingly at my roommate. “How long have I been spilling secrets under the influence?”

  “Since forever.”

  “And you're just now telling me this?” I squawk.

  Fleur shrugs dismissively. “Why does it matter? I know everything about you anyway.”

  Not everything. Not the fact that I had almost-sex with Ty a few weeks ago and I haven't been right since.

  “Yes, you do,” I say and then sprint out the door before she can ask any more questions that I'm not ready to answer.

  I do not get a study room to myself.

  “You need to get here before eight to get a study room,” the snotty student worker informs me.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” I haul my tired ass up to the third floor and find the Anthropology section. There are two study carrels open. I throw myself down into a chair and drop my head into my arms. Nothing's gone right for me since I climbed into that bed with Ty. I'd known, from the very first time I met him, that falling in love with him would be my downfall.

  For four years, I've managed to hide my secret feelings. But then Bowl night happened. My defenses were down. My inhibitions were non-existent. Every single safety precaution I'd taken in the last four years ended up being as worthless as the trash under my sink.

  “Dumb. Dumb. Dumb,” I repeat, pounding my head against the desk.

  “Shut up, you stupid bitch. Some of us are trying to study,” snaps a stern voice two rows down.

  I don't even get mad at being called that by some stranger, because I am a stupid bitch. How am I going to face Ty? I can't even lie and say that I thought I was making out with his brother, like I did that first time I met his twin, because his brother is married. Ty would never buy it, anyway. They're both too honorable. Besides, Knox didn't even want to sleep with anyone until he found “The One.” And Ty would rather be celibate, too, than cheat.

  The phone in my bag buzzes. I pull it out to see Fleur calling. I know if I don't answer, she'll just keep redialing.

  In the library. Will call u in ten.

  I use the ten minutes in the bathroom, splashing water on my face and giving myself a pep talk. “Don't lie because that'll make it worse. Just don't say anything.”

  I take out my phone and call my roommate back.

  “Do you need something?”

  “I was worried about you,” she says.

  “I'm good.” Or rather, I will be. In like a year or so.

  “Okay. When you're ready to talk about it, I'm here. In the meantime, you got a certified letter delivered today. I signed for it.”

  “Oh God. It's from the Whitman House, isn't it?” This time my stomach flutters have nothing to do with Ty and everything to do with the job search.

  “Yup. Do you want me to open it or wait until you get home?”

  “Open it.” I can't wait and she knows it, which is why she called.

  “Okay. Hold on.”

  Fleur tears open the envelope. I hold my breath. There's a long silence. Too long. I already know what it says before she reads it to me.

  “Forget it.” I sigh.

  “I'm sorry. Do you want me to read the letter?”

  “Does it say anything other than I was a great candidate in a sea of great candidates and they wish me the very best in my job search?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then, no. Trash it.”

  “I'm sorry, honey.”

  I droop against the sink. “Me, too. I had my hopes up.” I'd flown to Dallas for a second interview and the hiring manager even took me to dinner before I flew back here. I figured if they were spending money on me, they had to be seriously considering me.

  “You still haven't heard from the Philadelphia gallery, right?”

  “Right. But that's the last one.” I’m running out of places to submit my résumé to. I shouldn't have gone into art. But, hell, it was all I knew. I'd grown up with art and artists.

  “You'll find something,” she reassures me.

  I’m not as confident. “In the meantime, can we kill the guy who interviewed me and use our warehouse supply of nail polish remover to melt the body?” At Fleur’s silence, I ask, “Too harsh?”

  “No,” Fleur replies with a little laugh. “I'm all in. I'll go buy another liter of acetone today.”

  “
You're the best.”

  “I know.”

  I start to hang up when she yells my name. “Ara!”

  “What?”

  “By the way, when you get home, we're talking about what happened last night.”

  “Oh wow, I'm losing you.” I activate the hand drier. “God, terrible reception. Bye!” I hang up while she's screaming that she knows I'm faking it.

  Yeah, so I am. I've been faking it for years. I can keep it up for a couple more months.

  17

  Ara

  “Nice of you to show up,” Van snarks when I walk through the gallery door that afternoon.

  “Leave me alone,” I reply sourly. My head still aches and now my heart is aching, too. I don't have the energy to pretend like I care.

  “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

  “No one.” I push a hank of limp hair out of my face. “Is Marissa here?”

  “No,” he responds tersely. “She's with Moore going over his inventory.”

  I can't keep a grimace off my face.

  “Oh, is Moore's art too down-market for you? Maybe you should leave if you don't like Marissa's choices.”

  “You don't like them, either,” I mumble and arrow for the coffee maker in the back room.

  “What'd you say?” Van seems intent on picking a fight today.

  I oblige him. “You don't like them, either,” I repeat loudly. “Only you're too far up Marissa's ass to say anything.”

  “Well, we don't all have famous dads who will get us jobs and pay for everything if our boss fires us for being insubordinate.” Van Asshole puts his nose in the air and sniffs. “No wonder you didn't get that Dallas job.”

  The coffee sloshes over the rim and onto my hand as I jerk in surprise. “How do you know I didn't get the Dallas job?”

  An evil smile spreads across Van Asshole's face. “I might've heard Marissa talking to them last week. She said that you were a nice girl, but didn't have a real eye for art.”

  “What?” I gape at him. “I have a good eye for art. No. Scratch that. My art eye is fucking phenomenal! Is this because of that stupid Moore guy? Because I said his work didn't belong in her gallery? I can't believe this!” I slam the cup on the counter, ignoring the mess I'm making. I'm too tired, hung over, and upset over the Ty thing to modulate my behavior.