Tackled: A Sports Romance

by Sabrina Paige

  It's been two weeks. Training – real training, not the summer shit – started up again and I am not in the headspace I'm usually at in the beginning of every other season. There's no focused Colton, the one who tunes everything else out, including all the academic bullshit, to concentrate on the game. In the fall, everything revolves around football. I eat, sleep, and breathe it.

  Except this time.

  This time, I'm not sleeping. I've driven out into the country in the truck a few nights at one in the morning and climbed into the back to lie underneath the stars in the space that always, without fail, calms me down and gives me clarity about things. Except that the fucking pillows and blankets smelled like her, and then I couldn't sleep because all I could think about was the fact that I royally screwed things up with her.

  But I don't get rid of them and I don't wash them because I want to bury my face in the pillows and breathe her in.

  It was only a summer fling.

  That's what I told myself the first two days. It's what I told my mother when she called to ask if I'd set things right with Cassie about the thesis. The thing with the thesis seems like the biggest fucking joke ever now, in comparison to everything else that happened after that.

  I told Drew the same thing when he called after my mother called him. Then I told him to fuck off.

  And Tank, who came to me looking for an explanation.

  It was just a fling.

  That explanation only held water for a couple of days before the stupid knot in the middle of my gut made it too hard to think.

  She's better off without me.

  That's the realization that came after that, the crushing awareness of my own limitations. I'm not the guy she needs. I can't be the guy she needs, the one who worships her, puts her before anything else.

  Football is it for me. My first love. I can't be distracted from it. I can't let her distract me.

  It will always be my priority, and she deserves better than that.

  I want her to have better than that.

  Better than me.

  That rationalization doesn't help a fucking bit. The knot in my gut keeps growing bigger.

  * * *

  "You look like shit," Tank says. "And this room stinks, man. And that's coming from me, which should really worry you. You need to get out of here before you develop scurvy."

  "I'm not going to get scurvy."

  "You can't just sit around in the dark."

  "I'm not," I say, my voice short. "I've gone out."

  "Yeah, to practice. Where you look like shit. And at night like a damn vampire," Tank says. "Driving off to wherever to do more sitting by yourself."

  "Maybe I'm driving off somewhere to get laid," I shoot back gruffly. "Ever think of that?"

  "Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? Did I mention you look like shit? You're not driving anywhere to get laid. And you smell like shit. When's the last time you showered?"

  Did I shower when I got back from the gym at lunch? I spent an hour beating a truck tire with a sledgehammer until my back and arms were screaming from the pain and I didn't want to punch anyone anymore. That part wasn't training. Was that today? Or was it yesterday?

  "Why don't you go nag Sable?" I suggest. Even speaking her roommate's name makes my heart feel tight, like an invisible hand reached in and put it in a vise grip.

  "Because, fuckhead," Tank says, "thanks to you, Sable's not answering my calls now either."

  "Why is she mad at you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe because you were an asshole to her best friend?"

  "I wasn't –" I start, then stop, the air going out of my lungs. Tank looks at me like I really was banging the naked chick in my room. "None of that was what it looked like."

  "What it looked like is that you were partying with some trashy chick and Cassie, the girl who's way the hell out of your league and a thousand times smarter than the stupid whores you used to bang on a regular basis, walked in and saw you."

  "That's not what happened," I say. "I wasn't even in my room when she walked in. I don't even think that's the part she's really upset about."

  She's upset because of what that cocksucker Dillon said. Because she thinks I talked about nailing her. She thinks I bragged about what happened between us to the whole team, like I ever want anyone else picturing her naked.

  The mere thought makes me want to hit something again.

  Tank holds up his hand. "Whatever," he grunts. "I just know that she deserves way better than you."

  "You don't think I fucking know that?" I ask, my fists balled up against the sides of my thighs. "Why the hell do you think I'm staying away from her? She told me she didn't want to see me again and I haven't."

  That's a big fat lie. The hell I haven't seen that girl.

  I've driven by her apartment a few times. Okay, I sat across the road from her place in my truck once. That sounds like I'm stalking her, but I just have this weird need to know she's okay.

  I know I shouldn't be doing it. I should let her walk away. I should put my attention back on football. I just can't seem to help myself.

  "For whatever reason," Tank grumbles, "she loves you. You need to figure out what the hell to do about that."

  "It was Dillon," I blurt.

  "What?"

  "That asshole sent the girl to my room."

  Tank gives me a "yeah, sure" look.

  "And," I go on, "he told Cassie that I'd been bragging to the team about screwing her, telling them stories in the locker room."

  "Jesus," Tank exclaims. "I'm sorry that he didn't have to get his jaw wired shut."

  I laugh. "That's exactly what I thought. 'Course, if that had happened, there's no way I'd be playing this semester once Coach found out."

  "Why would Cassie believe that? Dillon gives off skeeze vibes. She's not stupid. She would have seen right through it."

  I exhale heavily. "He said I was bragging to everyone about her being a –" I pause, not sure I even want to say the word to Tank. "A virgin," I finish. "You don't fucking tell anyone that either, or I'll kill you. Me and Sable are the only people who know that."

  Tank shrugs. "So, he figured it out."

  "No, I told him. It was that other time we got into it. He was talking about how her mouth was made for sucking cock." I can hardly say the words out loud. The thought of what came out of his mouth makes me livid, even now. "I – blurted it out. Before I hit him. He was just running his mouth, basically calling her a slut and it – I couldn't think straight."

  "Ah, shit. So Sable thinks I knew about the locker room bragging."

  "I guess."

  "So, what are you doing sitting in your own filth in here feeling sorry for yourself? Tank asks. "Go tell her."

  "I tried. She doesn't want to see me again. Ever," I mutter. "And anything I say now is going to just sound like I'm trying to cover it up."

  "Well, then stop being a whiny-ass pussy and try harder."

  44

  Colton

  "Another box," Sable says, dropping it onto the growing collection on my desk. "Want me to open it?"

  "Nope," I say. "I'll…find somewhere to donate them or something." I know what's in the box, and I know they're from Colton. They started appearing on my doorstep like clockwork every day starting a week ago when the semester started. Dildos with notes inside the boxes —

  I know you think I'm a dick, but please let me explain.

  Give a dick a chance. Please let me explain.

  I dicked up and I'm sorry. Please let me explain.

  Please let me explain. What explanation could there possibly be?

  I stopped opening the packages after the first three. He's obviously a dick. Who the hell thinks that sending a girl dildos is an appropriate way to begin to apologize for something of this magnitude? Especially a girl you're trying to apologize to for bragging publicly about punching her V-card? Could he be any more tone deaf?

  This kind of crap is exactly why not continuing something with Co
lton King is the right move.

  He is a dick.

  Dicks don't change.

  Sable snorts, and the sound jerks me out of my thoughts. "You're going to donate dildos to the needy?" she asks. "I'm sure there are a bunch of dildo charity organizations to choose from."

  "Whatever, I'll throw them away."

  Sable puts one of the boxes under her arm. "I'm not letting a perfectly good dildo go to waste. Especially because I'm not getting any anymore."

  "Sorry about that."

  "It's not your fault, honey, so don't you dare apologize for it." Sable considers the box under her arm. "Better off single and horny than screwing an asshole."

  "You should write fortune cookie fortunes," I suggest with a halfhearted smile. "Or a self-help book."

  "I'm full of good advice," she agrees.

  "You're full of something," I say. "Anyway, I have to go. Do I look okay? I have to go turn in my resignation to Coach Walker and then teach after that. It's only the second class. I can't fuck this up. I lucked out that Anne got mono."

  One of the graduate students a year ahead of us got mono and had to take the fall semester off, which left Professor Richards with no teaching assistant. I was his first call, which was nothing short of a damn miracle, since I'd already typed up my resignation letter to give to Coach Walker. He left a message a few days ago on my voicemail asking if I was still teaching this semester. I felt I needed to suck it up and go quit in person, at the very least. Or in writing.

  "Gorgeous, doll," Sable says. "I didn't really like Anne anyway."

  "You're a bitch."

  "An honest one," Sable corrects me. "You want moral support at the athletic center?"

  I shake my head. "I'm fine. Totally humiliated, but what the fuck ever, right? What a bunch of stupid jocks have heard about me doesn't define me."

  I sound far braver than I am.

  Walking up the stairs and into the athletic center makes my stomach twist into knots. I won't see him. I won't see him. I won't see him. I chant it to myself in my head, over and over, like a mantra.

  Coach Walker isn't in his office, which is honestly a relief. I can avoid an awkward conversation about why I'm resigning after only a summer.

  I'm moving on.

  That's what I'd planned to say. And that's honestly the truth, I think to myself as I slip the envelope under his door and turn to walk down the hallway.

  Moving on, going to forget about Colton King.

  I run straight into Creepy Guy — literally, as I round the corner. I jump away from him immediately.

  This guy is the last person on earth I want to see, much less run into in a deserted hallway.

  He grins at me, and I think it's supposed to be charming, except it's not. It's like a version of Colton's crooked cocky grin, except without the magic. I wonder if Colton is around here and the thought makes my heart race faster than it should.

  The guy's face is bruised, dark purple on his cheekbone and his jaw. It looks like he has stitches in his forehead.

  Colton got into a fight with him?

  "You're not still tutoring, are you?" he asks, stepping in front of me, far too close to be comfortable. I step back, aware that if I go much farther I'm going to be against the wall. "Because I could use a little of the kind of help you gave Colton."

  He puts his hand on the wall above my head, towering over me, and I consider whether or not I'm able to scoot to the side and get away from him. "Back the hell up," I warn.

  Do I have that pepper spray in my bag or did I toss it in my desk drawer? Sable gave it to me, one of the many objects she possesses that can be used to assault people. She practically forced me to take it.

  He laughs, leaning closer to his right, angling his body like he knows I just thought about slipping away from him. "Or what?" he asks. "You're going to push me out of the way?"

  "Don't touch me."

  "When Colton told me you were a virgin, I thought there was no way someone who walks around the way you do — like you're just asking for it — was actually a virgin."

  Like I'm just asking for it?

  Okay, now my blood is boiling.

  What did my brother Daniel teach me? I rack my brain for the ass-kicking techniques my brothers were always forcing me to learn when I was a kid. None of those are going to come in handy with a massive football player.

  "Colton wouldn't tell you anything," I hiss.

  "Obviously," the creep says. "He blurted it out. Trying to make sure I knew you weren't a slut. Which, well, is clearly not true."

  He… blurted it out trying to defend me?

  "He didn't brag about nailing me," I say, the realization finally hitting me.

  A smile creeps across his face. "You're available now," he points out. "And right here for the taking."

  "Fuck you."

  He reaches down to my thigh and yanks the side of my skirt up, his other hand pushing my bag aside and squeezing my breast.

  "Get away from me, you pig," I say loudly, struggling against him. His face is close to mine, and then I remember.

  "Bottom part of the palm of your hand up to the nose," Daniel said. "If someone's bigger than you, you pull that hand back and fucking push their nose into their skull."

  "That's gross."

  "Whatever, brat," he said. "You'll thank me some day."

  I do it. I whip my hand back and I shove my palm upward just as hard as I can, colliding with his nose. I hear a crunch, and he stumbles back a step, his hand over his face.

  I make a mental note to call Daniel and thank him profusely.

  "You little bitch," he shouts, lunging toward me but I'm already out of the way.

  "Dillon Parker," comes a booming voice through the hallway. "Back the fuck up right now and sit your ass down!"

  It's Coach Walker. He looks at the guy with his hand over his nose, then at me. I'm slightly disheveled and clutching my bag against my chest. I don't know how much the coach saw, but he sizes up the situation immediately.

  Coach Walker takes out his cell phone and puts it up to his ear. "I'm calling to report an assault," I hear him say. "At the athletic department. By one of my players."

  "It was a fucking joke, and she broke my fucking nose," Dillon yells.

  "Nice shot," Coach Walker says to me. "You're all right?"

  I nod. "Totally fine."

  A couple of big guys who emerge behind the coach move in front of Dillon, blocking him from going anywhere.

  "Were you here for me?" the coach asks.

  "I came here to turn in my resignation," I say, my voice faltering.

  "Related to this?" the coach asks. "Because this isn't tolerated. Not at all."

  "No, related to…" I stop. Related to my believing this guy over what Colton said? I swallow hard. "Related to nothing. I'm…moving on."

  Shit. Moving on.

  I have to teach in fifteen minutes.

  "I need to go," I start.

  "You need to stay here until the cops take your statement," Coach Walker insists.

  "The cops?" I squeak. I thought he called campus security, the rent-a-cops with the beer guts who are a campus joke. I could just tell them I'd give a statement later.

  "I saw one of my players assault you, and assault is a crime," he says, matter-of-fact.

  "I have to teach," I explain lamely. Of course, I'd also like that guy to pay for groping me.

  "Can you call someone?" Coach Walker asks.

  I clear my throat. "Yes, actually."

  When I call Sable and ask her to teach the intro sociology class for me, she squeals. "What the hell for?" she asks. "You know I don't teach."

  That much is true. Sable has an allowance now that her parents have resigned themselves to the fact that she's in grad school. "I need you to do this for me," I beg softly into the phone. "You can download the syllabus from online. It's the second class. It's literally basic, basic stuff. It's intro sociology, Sable. Just bullshit your way through."

  "What will
Dr. Richards say?" she squeals.

  "He's not even here this week. He went to that conference. Please, please cover for me."

  "What's happening? Are you okay? You weren't in an accident or something, were you?"

  I walk around the corner, out of sight of the coach and the players. I hear Dillon groaning from the end of the hallway. "I wasn't in an accident," I tell her. "I'm at the athletic center."

  "With Colton?" Her voice goes up an octave.

  "No, not with Colton."

  "Miss Rae?" A uniformed man gestures at me from a few yards away. "We'll need to get a statement."

  "Shit," I mutter. "I have to talk to the cops."

  "The cops?" Sable asks. "What the hell is going on?"

  "That creep from Colton's team groped me," I whisper. "I have to go. Please cover for me."

  "What?" Sable's loud screech is audible even when I hold the phone far away from my ear.

  "I'm completely fine," I assure her. "I'll tell you the whole story when I get back."

  * * *

  It takes me an hour to get finished with the cops and then for Coach Walker to talk to me, assuring me that the athletic department takes sexual assault seriously and that Dillon will be kicked off the football team and, if he has any say in the matter, off campus. I don't know if he's worried I'm going to sue the athletic department or what, but he was serious as a heart attack.

  The cops encourage me to file a restraining order.

  I just want to go home.

  I'm walking out of the hallway, into the middle of the commons, when I see him taking long strides through the building, moving with a purpose.

  Colton stops short, just for a second, when he sees me. Then he walks over to me, his expression pained, and picks me up. He doesn't say a word to me or anyone else, just storms out of the athletic center with me scooped up in his arms like he's daring someone to ask what the hell he's doing.

  "Put me down, Colton," I order once we're outside.

  "I'm not fucking putting you down," he says. "I'm taking you to my truck."

  "My car is parked in the parking garage! Put me down. Why the hell are you here, anyway?"