Fuck senior year, I want to say, but I keep that to myself. I could’ve gone pro in junior year. I shouldn’t even be here. The reason why I didn’t is nobody’s business, yet it weighs on me like a concrete block. The media was told I’d chosen to gain more experience and improve my game rather than declare for the draft. It made enough sense not to question it, but now I’m stuck, and there’s every chance I’m going to fail spectacularly.
“You think you can help me?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I don’t know.”
“At least you’re honest,” I mutter, and my eyes return to the ceiling. She isn’t filling me with empty platitudes of false hope like I’d anticipated. I respect her for that.
“Can I ask a question now?”
I turn on my side, resting my head on my elbow, and look at her. It’s hard not to. There’s something about her that makes it difficult to drag my eyes away. Not because she’s wildly beautiful, but more like she’s authentic, I guess. A deep-seated knowing that Jordan is someone I can trust. With anything. “Okay.”
“You wanted to know why me, well … I want to know, why now? Why wait to get tutored so late in the game?”
I shrug. “I’ve never been officially diagnosed. It’s not something we acknowledge in my house.” Instead, my parents have chosen to sweep the embarrassment under the carpet. “And I’ve never been tutored.” Her eyes widen, and I know she’s wondering how I got this far on my own. Sheer force of will, maybe? “What’s the point? My brain is wired all wrong. You can’t just rewire it to make it work like everyone else’s does.” I pause for a moment, my jaw tensing, and I tell her what I’ve been told for as long as I can remember. “You can’t fix stupid.”
Jordan’s brows draw together and her lips part, and I know she’s ready to protest my statement. She has to. She’s my tutor. But I don’t want to hear it. I just don’t. For a moment I hate myself. I hate the way I am. That I can’t meet someone like her and feel like an equal. My hands curl into fists. I’m the cliché dumb jock that everyone likes to joke about and it frustrates me beyond all belief.
Thankfully her phone starts blaring a song I’m unfamiliar with and diverts her attention. She lets it ring out.
“Kyle …” she starts and I wince, because I’d actually forgotten she thought I was someone else.
Her phone starts up again and she exhales with an annoyed huff.
I raise my brows. “You gonna get that?”
“Wait here,” she orders and leaves the room.
Not likely. That’s my cue to call it a night. To go home to my apartment and tuck those angry little demons into bed. God knows they need their rest. I check my watch. Our session was supposed to finish half an hour ago.
I roll out of Jordan’s bed and meet her in the kitchen where she’s arguing with someone on the phone. After slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I get her attention.
“I’m not wearing the purple dress,” she gripes into the phone and meets my eyes. “It’s too loud.”
“I have to go,” I mouth silently.
Jordan shakes her head at me, holding up a palm for me to wait. “What’s it saying?” she says into the phone. “Here I am. Fuck me. That’s what it’s saying.”
I wave and she frowns. “I have to go,” she says. “I’ll pick you up.”
That comment seems to cause a lot of loud protesting from the other end.
“Fine. Pick me up then. See you in a bit.”
I’m already at the door when she hangs up.
“Party?” I ask.
“My first frat party.”
Jordan says it with a grimace, and while she isn’t broadcasting naïve innocence, she doesn’t really have a party animal vibe about her either, meaning it’s likely she’s a bit clueless as to how wild they can get. I have to stop myself from offering to take her because that would be a lunatic move on my part. I’m on a girl hiatus. That means no dick near, on, or in, any girl’s pussy. It’s supposed to stop me from being distracted and keep me focused on football, but I’m a healthy, horny, twenty-one-year-old male. That pretty much means I’m a walking boner. So in actual fact, this break is going to kill me instead. Or blister my right hand.
Color floods Jordan’s cheeks, and I realize I’ve been standing there holding her eyes for longer than necessary. Her tongue darts out to lick along her lower lip and my gaze drops to her mouth. It’s lush and pink, like cotton candy, and my sweet tooth is craving a taste something fierce.
“Well, enjoy,” I tell her and wrench open the front door before I do something rash, like pin her to the wall and feast on her mouth like a starving man. I pause before I step outside her apartment. “Can I offer a word of advice from a guy who’s been going to frat parties since forever?”
“Sure,” she replies, and the solitary word comes out a little breathy, like she wants me feasting on her mouth too.
I bite back a groan. “Don’t accept a drink from anyone you don’t trust with your life. Okay?”
I leave then, already halfway down the hall when she sticks her head out and yells, “Wait! What about our next—”
Turning, I walk backwards for a second. “My uncle gave me your number. I’ll call you.”
After jogging down the stairwell, I open the zipper on my bag and take out my baseball cap and sunglasses, putting them both on. It’s early evening as I thread my way around the parking lot, but there’s still a tinge of light in the sky and the air is fresh. It’s just what I need to cool the lust punching through my body as if there’s an animal under my skin waiting to be unleashed.
The hand that tugs the keys from my pocket is a little shaky, and shit I need to get home and have a cold shower. Ice cold.
Students are coming and going everywhere, the area dense with partygoers in various stages of getting where they need to be. My car stands out amongst the others. A brand-new tricked-out Chevrolet Suburban in black. Pretty much everyone on campus knows it’s mine, as do most off campus.
“’Sup, Madden!” someone calls out.
I wave but move quickly to my car, pausing to take two slips of paper from beneath the windshield wiper. Wild squeals come from nearby when I pocket them. I don’t read the notes but I know they’re phone numbers with sexually suggestive words attached. A quick glance around shows a group of blushing girls staring my way. I wonder how long they’ve been standing near my car. Jordan is the sole focus on my mind right now, so all I can do is flash them an absentminded grin as I beep the locks on my SUV.
“Yo, Brody!” A couple of junior fraternity brothers jog over, and I pause. “You coming to the party tonight?”
“Can’t. Leaving for the away game tomorrow.”
They nod their heads in tandem. “Cool.”
My phone vibrates in my shorts, so I tug it out, glancing at the screen. My father. If I don’t answer, he’ll just keep ringing until I do. Self-absorbed prick. He can’t seem to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around people kissing his ass. “I gotta get this, guys. See you later, yeah?”
They jog off in the direction they came, and I slide inside my car as I answer the phone. “Dad.”
“Your mother says you haven’t been by in two weeks. Dinner at the house, Sunday at six.”
My jaw ticks. Hello, Son, how are you? I saw you kick ass at the game this weekend. I’m so fucking proud. “We have an away game. I’m not sure I’ll be home by then.”
I will be, but I’m going to be too exhausted to deal with family drama.
“Monday then. Make sure you win,” is his parting comment before hanging up. I toss it angrily in the center cup holder and start the car, backing out quickly. When I arrive back at my apartment, Jaxon is spread out on the navy leather couch, scrolling on his phone, and Eddie’s there yelling at a game of baseball playing out on ESPN. He’s one of our outside linebackers and the biggest guy on the entire team. His elbows are resting on his knees, and he’s leaning close as though they can actually hear his screaming insults.
Eddie tears his eyes from the screen to glance at me. “Where the fuck you been?”
Jaxon looks up from his phone, the same question in his eyes.
“Sorry, Mom. Is it past curfew?”
“Not yet, Son,” he replies, smirking, and returns his eyes to the television as he speaks, “because Damien bought beer and we’re all going to the house tonight for the party.”
“I’m not going,” I tell them and veer off, dumping my bag in my room. It’s a toss-up between a cold shower or jacking off, when my stomach growls. I head for the kitchen to make a sandwich instead.
Damien’s in there. He’s got a girl pressed up against the counter, his hands up her tiny skirt and his lips attached to her neck. Her head’s thrown back, one leg around his waist as he grinds himself against her.
I reach around them and grab a loaf of bread. My head is stuck in the fridge when the girl lets out a deep moan. I turn, my arms loaded with cheese, tomato, and thick slices of ham. Damien has his fingers shoved deep inside her, and it’s all on display.
I shake my head with disgust. I’m not a prude, but unless you’re participating in some kind of wild orgy, sex is best kept private, and it’s one of the reasons why I wanted this apartment off campus.
“Dude, that’s not sanitary,” I tell him, dumping everything on the counter as far from their sexual exhibition as possible. “I’m trying to make something to eat here.”
Damien’s lips detach from the girl’s neck, but he makes no effort to move. His conquest barely acknowledges my presence. Her pupils are heavily dilated and her body languid. She’s wasted and Damien looks no better off. “You want her after?”
I pause halfway through slicing a tomato to raise my brows at him. “Do I want your seconds? No thanks, I’d rather …” My mind immediately goes to Jordan and how I want to— I cut that thought off at the knees.
The girl squeals as Damien keeps up his ministrations. “You’d rather what?”
“I’d rather concede defeat to Oklahoma.”
“Dude!” Eddie yells from the living room as I slap ham and cheese on my sandwich. “I hear that from your mouth again, I’ll wash it out with soap.”
“Yes, Mom!” I shout back.
Leaving my mess on the counter, I maneuver around the sexed-up couple and make for my room, taking a giant bite as I go.
“Oh hey, I forgot tell you.” Jaxon looks up from his phone, and the smugness on his face halts me in my tracks.
“What?” I mumble around a mouthful of ham and cheese.
“I ran into that blond chick in our law class.”
My body snaps to immediate attention, each muscle tightening. Going by the gleam in Jaxon’s eyes, I know exactly who he’s referring to. Perching myself on the arm of the couch, I pretend interest in the television as I eat my sandwich. “What blond chick?”
“The one dad chewed out. She sat next to you, remember?” Jaxon’s grin is self-assured as he tosses his phone on the coffee table, prepared to give the conversation his focus. Talking about girls—who he wants to do, who he’s done, who he won’t do—is his favorite subject. I will never understand how he can party so hard, and sleep with so many girls, while managing to maintain a perfect GPA. “I think she likes me.”
Eddie snorts. “You think anything with a pulse likes you.”
Jaxon ignores Eddie’s verbal jab. “She’s going to the frat party tonight. I’m going to make my big move,” he announces, grabbing hold of his dick over his shorts and giving it a lewd squeeze.
I swallow down the last bite of sandwich like its sawdust, and with it goes the territorial growl that was rising in my throat. When I speak, my voice comes out like sandpaper. “Yeah? What’s her name?”
“Jordan. Cool, huh? We match. Jaxon and Jordan.”
The thought of my cousin’s hands all over Jordan makes me want to snap something in two. Namely him. And it’s odd, because Jordan’s nobody special. At least not to me. She’s just my tutor.
“Oh that’s so adorable,” Eddie interjects with sarcasm and an eye roll. “Next you’ll have cutesy matching his and hers outfits.”
Eddie’s in a mood, and when he puts his right leg up on the table to elevate it, I know his old football injury pains him.
Standing up, I brush crumbs from my hands and jerk my chin at his knee. “You should put a pressure band on that.”
“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. “I worked it too hard at the gym this morning.”
“Where are you going?” Jaxon calls out when I start for the bathroom.
“To have a shower,” I say over my shoulder. A cold one. “Looks like we’ve got a party to get to tonight.”
Jordan
I can hear muffled sounds of student laughter, shouts in the hallway, and parties in progress, all while I sit at my desk trying to study. A heavy textbook lies open in front of me, the macroeconomics model mocking me with its complexity. Paragraphs of text are smothered in blinding yellow. I know I made the highlights because the colored marker rests in my hand, but I don’t remember doing it.
Kyle Davis is like malware. He’s infiltrated my brain in a sneak virus attack. Every time I try and focus, he pops in my head the same way internet windows pop up faster than you can shut them down. You know when that happens you’ve opened something you shouldn’t have.
I slam my text closed and toss down my marker with disgust. It skitters off the edge of the desk and flies under the bed behind me. When I spin in my chair to retrieve it, my eyes fall to the rumpled sheets where he made himself comfortable earlier.
My pulse gives a little leap at the reminder of him lying there with hooded eyes after my shower. If only I can pretend he’s the asshole he wants me to think he is, but I know he’s not. The professor has obviously forced him into this, and don’t we all lash out when backed into a corner? When someone knows our weaknesses and can so easily betray us with them? Maybe it wouldn’t be so obvious to anyone else, but it is to me. My brother used to lash out the same way.
Turning back around, I open my laptop and go to the tab where Facebook sits open. Clicking on the search box, I type in ‘Kyle Davis.’ It’s not stalking. It’s called research, and something we’re actively encouraged to do in college. I’m sure he doesn’t look as good as I remember him. If I can just look him up and see a few inopportune drunk photos, it will clear the distraction right up, and I can get back to my textbook.
I go to click on enter when Skype dings at me. The repetitious bell chime is loud and demanding, and why wouldn’t it be when it’s Nicky on the other line.
I answer the call and my brother’s face floods my screen, the gray beanie on his head reminding me it’s winter in Australia, and cold.
My immediate smile is warm. “Hey, Nicky.”
He returns it. “How’s my favorite sister?”
My smile evolves into an eye roll. “You mean your only sister?”
“And thank God for that.”
“Har, har.”
He leans back in his chair and stretches. Halfway through a yawn, he asks, “How was soccer?”
I do the math in my head. Sydney is fifteen hours ahead so it’s Saturday morning back home. Home. A wave of homesickness rolls over me, and I have to force it back. “Good,” I manage to get out.
“Good? Is that all I get?”
“We won,” I offer.
“And?” he prompts.
“I scored two goals. One was a header in the final five minutes that clinched the game.”
Nicky shakes his head, like he can’t believe it but can, all at the same time. He’s proud, but he always struggles to put his feelings into words. “You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he eventually says and looks away for a minute.
I don’t miss the flicker of sadness in his eyes that he tries to hide, or the way he swallows hard. It doesn’t matter how much he wants this success for me, or that he wants it even more than I do, it’s because every victory takes me closer to my dream and one step further from him.
We’re all the other has. It’s been the two of us against the world, right from the very beginning. And now it’s not even that.
A pang flares white-hot in my chest. “Nicky,” I whisper and raise my hand to the screen, placing my palm flat against its buzzing warmth. He raises his own, and for a brief moment we’re joined despite being half a world away. “You are too.”
“Aww shucks,” he says teasingly and drops his hand. The moment passes.
I tell him about getting hazed. It makes him laugh and hearing it warms my insides. In turn he tells me about his night out at an elitist party he went to with his best mate, Ben, and how they got kicked out when his wasted friend was caught peeing in the potted plant inside the house.
“Oh my god, that’s disgusting,” I screech. “And the guy works for a commercial landscaping business. Doesn’t peeing on plants go against every ethical code he works for?”
Nicky laughs. “I know, right?”
Before I know it, half an hour passes by and a sharp rap at my open bedroom door interrupts our chat.
“Why aren’t you ready to go?” Leah demands to know, and I half turn in my chair. Her dark brown hair is loose and curled, and she’s wearing a pair of black hot pants with a floaty top the color of ripe strawberries. It sets off her gorgeous mocha toned skin and lightly muscled shoulders.
When she see’s my brother on the screen she waves. “Hey, Nicky.”
“Leah,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“Could be better.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got a party to get to and a win to celebrate, but I have to wrestle your sister into a dress and get her out the door.”
“Good luck with that,” he says and yawns again. “I’ll leave you to it. Catch up with you later, Jords.” Nicky leans in, a finger hovering over the keyboard to end the Skype call. He looks up briefly, eyes the same clear blue as mine stare at me hard. “Be safe, okay?”
After his parting words, the screen goes black.
The End Game Page 7