Looking to Score

by CoraLee June

  Looking to Score

  CoraLee June

  Carrie Gray

  Looking to Score

  Copyright © 2020 by June Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Helayna Trask with Polished Perfection

  Cover design by Black Widow Design

  Created with Vellum

  For all the bold people who read motivational quotes in their spare time and embrace the yoga pants.

  Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Author

  About the Book

  He’s, like, literally the worst.

  Oakley Davis is the star running back at our university—and the reason I’ve broken my vow to avoid the college party scene. Thanks to a mix-up with my advisor, I’m now serving my Public Relations internship as a glorified babysitter to the party-hard football players.

  Specifically, Oakley.

  He’s impossible to manage. His Instagram is full of pictures of him half-naked and drunk, and he’d rather attend parties than practice. His brand needs some serious work, and when he’s not driving me insane, he’s sleeping his way through the entire female population.

  But I’m determined. I have plans to graduate a semester early, and nothing or no one will get in my way. I’m a Virgo, after all. Oakley Davis might be a privileged, cocky football star, but I’m Amanda Matthews, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get my A.

  I just have to make sure I don’t end up falling in love with the idiot, first.

  1

  My breakfast consisted of Klonopin and Diet Coke.

  I didn’t need an alarm clock. My quarter-life crisis woke me up at the ass crack of dawn with a slight panic attack and a craving for carbs. I didn’t give in, though my damn mouth watered at the idea of a toasted bagel slathered with cream cheese. I ignored the temptation and feasted on cardio instead. Fucking delicious. And for dessert, I did an online manifestation meditation video guided by an Instagram influencer with big breasts and a bleached smile. She was good. By the end of the video, she had me half-convinced I could manifest the perfect life and the perfect man.

  Apparently, if you genuinely believed that your pussy deserved to be thoroughly fucked, then mother universe or Oprah would dropkick that motherfucker right into your lap. And I lived by that.

  I rolled my razorblade-thin shoulders back, threw my strawberry blonde hair up in a bun, and slipped on an oversized shirt and some navy LivyLu yoga pants before going out into the kitchen to greet my roommate, Shelby. “Morning,” I said in a painfully cheerful way.

  Shelby was barely awake and fumbling through the kitchen in search of coffee. “Why did I move in with a morning person?” she groaned.

  “Because you are a strong, independent woman who likes to challenge herself,” I replied sarcastically. “You took a chance on a Craigslist ad, and the universe gave you me. It’s quite serendipitous.”

  “You’re watching those manifestation meditations again, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I’m going to manifest a more positive conversation by not responding to that.” Shelby and I had a unique relationship. When I transferred to the University of Texas for the summer semester, there weren’t any housing options for a last-minute transfer student. I checked Craigslist on a whim and ended up moving in with her the next week. We were opposites in every way that counted. She was a few years older than me, and a local photographer. Shelby was impulsive and disorganized. She wasn’t unmotivated, per se, she just couldn’t keep set on one particular thing. She changed her mind like the Texas weather and had the financial freedom of a trust fund to do whatever she wanted.

  She didn’t even need a roommate. Her skyrise condo in the heart of Austin was easily worth more than my entire undergrad degree. She just wanted the adventure of “sharing her life with someone” and got me. I wasn’t sure if she regretted that whim or not, but I’d take advantage of my oversized room and walk-in closet for as long as she’d let me. I wasn’t exactly hurting for money either. My dad was an executive for Plotify, a music streaming service, but he wanted me to get at least a semblance of the college experience—which meant a healthy dose of ramen noodles and a strict allowance every month.

  “Well, if we’re talking about the universe, Mercury must be in Gatorade or something, because my vibes are all off. Like literally, I ran out of batteries for my vibrator last night and I’m ovulating, so you know I’m horny as hell,” Shelby said. I rubbed my temples. There was so much wrong with that statement that I didn’t know where to begin. “Did you use the last of the coffee?” she complained, with a loud sigh.

  “Nope. My body is a temple,” I replied. “I don’t do instant coffee.”

  “A temple of anxiety meds and Diet Coke,” she snapped back. Damn, she was on the struggle bus this morning. I made a mental note always to keep the kitchen stocked with caffeine.

  She continued to wrestle with the kitchen cabinets, looking for her instant coffee. I personally didn’t understand her obsession with the crap. It tasted like fermented dirt—and I might have known what it tasted like because I stole the last of it just yesterday.

  “Are you sure you didn’t take it?” she asked again. This time, she spun around to scrutinize me, boring those mud-brown eyes into mine as she twisted her bright, box-dyed, red hair on her finger. I gave her frumpy black pajamas a once over before answering her.

  “Positive,” I lied, making her huff in annoyance and drop the conversation. This was payback for stealing my Burberry sweater last week and spilling a strawberry margarita all down the front. That overly-sweet sugary shit was hard to get out.

  “Do you have class today?” she asked. I raised my eyebrow. She probably didn’t even know what day of the week it was.

  “Yep,” I said distractedly, eyeing the bright green apple on the kitchen island. “First day of the new semester.”

  “Nice,” she replied half-heartedly. I continued to stare longingly at the Granny Smith apple on our kitchen island, mentally calculating its nutritional value as Shelby continued. It looked to be about seven ounces. One hundred and two calories. Twenty-four grams of carbs. If I skipped the bus to class and jogged for about twelve minutes, it would be enough to burn it off.

  Shelby was rambling about something, but doing mental food math took all of my brainpower. My stomach growled, and I reached for my water bottle to take a drink. “Amanda,” Shelby said, drawing my attention back to her. “Did you listen to a word I said?”

  No. I didn’t. But Shelby took it personally when she felt like I was ignoring her, so I lied. “Yep.
”

  “So you don’t mind? Awesome! It won’t be full nudes. I’m thinking a couple of shots of him in a towel and—”

  “What?” I cut her off. I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d agreed to. Shelby sighed in annoyance before explaining.

  “I found the perfect subject for my next exhibition. It’ll make a huge statement about the human body and resilience.” Her voice had that faraway quality to it that she usually got when she spoke of her art.

  “So basically, you found a hot guy with a six-pack and lured him here for a photo shoot.”

  “You know me so well,” she deadpanned. “He’s an athlete actually. I’m going to do some commentary about how we sell our bodies for higher education. It’ll be great.” Shelby waved her hand for emphasis, and I forced myself not to roll my eyes at my eccentric roommate.

  “Well, I’m supposed to start my internship today, so I’ll be late.”

  “Perfect,” Shelby replied. “Can we use your room? The layout in there is perfect for my lighting kit and—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Right. Right,” Shelby said with a tight smile and a wink. She was totally going to take nude photos on my bed. My door didn’t have a lock on it, either. I was just about to yell at her when I saw my phone ringing. Mom.

  “I gotta go to class,” I told Shelby, swiping the apple off the countertop.

  “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here so I can go nap,” Shelby relented.

  Once I was outside of my apartment, I quickly answered my cell phone and made my way down to the street. “Hey, Mom.”

  “I need your help hiding a body, no questions asked,” she hissed into the phone. I could hear people chatting in the background, and I snorted.

  “Did Lacey McGuire try selling you anti-aging cream again?” I asked with a chuckle.

  My question released the floods of her fury. “That bitch had the audacity to tell me that I could look fifty again with a proper skin care regimen,” Mom snapped with a huff. “I’m forty-fucking-seven! I mean seriously, last month she was selling diet pills. I heard her garage is filled with boxes of pyramid scheme shit.”

  Mom hadn’t worked since I was born, and filled her life up with three things: my dad, me, and gossip. Her hair was so big because it was, in fact, full of secrets. She was a midwest prom queen grown up to be a Silicon Valley housewife. She drove a Range Rover, attended goat yoga, and called me every other day to complain about her friend circle. I fucking loved her.

  “That’s insane,” I replied.

  “You’re telling me. Do you want to know what else is insane? How fucking skinny you look. I saw your Instagram post yesterday. Have you just not eaten at all this summer, Amanda?”

  I cringed at her statement. I knew what photo she was talking about. I’d snapped a shot of me reading a new self-help book at the lake. I guess my legs did look a lot thinner. Diets were such a slippery slope. I read once that if you developed an eating disorder while you were fat, you were a success story. If you developed one while skinny, you were sick. I didn’t know what I was or what I had or what the fuck I was doing with my life, but I did know that I was avoiding shit.

  “I’ve just been trying to get healthier,” I explained. “Ever since the incident, I just…” My voice trailed off. We both knew what I was going to say. Traumatic experiences tended to make you rethink everything. In the spring, I was an overweight alcoholic. Now, I was...something else. A health nut obsessed with improving her life. We only had one body, after all. And I was all too familiar with how life can change in an instant.

  “Just be safe, okay? I’m going to come to visit you soon. Your father and I are worried.”

  I knew Dad was worried. He started having groceries delivered to the apartment last week and threatened to drag me back to California if I didn’t take advantage of this fresh start. He pulled quite a few strings to get me here. I needed something new. A new place. A new outlook on life.

  “Okay. I miss you guys,” I sighed, squeezing the apple in my palm.

  “We miss you too, baby.” I could hear the emotions in her throat. We’d never been this far from one another, and she was worried about me. I hated that I needed this, but being at home just reminded me of everything. “Now today is the first day of the fall semester, right? Are you nervous? It’ll be different than summer classes. And when do you hear about your internship?”

  I smiled, thankful that we were back to chatting about other things. “I find out today about my placement. Since I transferred in the summer, they had to scramble to find me something. I’m guessing Dad helped?” I prodded.

  Mom laughed loudly, the sound like expensive bells hanging from a booming church tower. “Your father did not Lori Loughlin shit for you. Despite your excessive extracurriculars,” Mom began. Excessive extracurriculars was a politically correct way of saying I spent every night drunk off my ass and bouncing between frat houses back in California. “You have an amazing GPA and awesome recommendations from your professors. Everyone was shocked when you—”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. My whole purpose for running here was to escape what I’d done, not dig it up every time I spoke to my mom. I could hear her huffing on the other end of the line. “I’ll let you know about my placement and how the first day of school went. I love you,” I said while speed walking on the sidewalk past crowds of people. My stomach was rumbling, aching for some food.

  “Okay, baby. Go do great things,” she said.

  I hung up the phone with a smile on my face. A homeless man on the street was playing a battered and scuffed violin. His eyes were closed, and he had a look of pure joy on his face. His skin was burnt from the hot Texas sun, and his clothes were dirty with various holes in them. I paused for a moment to listen to the haunting song he expertly played before placing my apple in his box.

  2

  “We couldn’t find you a placement for your internship.”

  My advisor was leaning back at his desk, thumbing through papers. I had been waiting outside of his office for our appointment for two hours. I’d expected that the first words to leave his mouth would be an apology, not that.

  “Excuse me? What do you mean you can’t find me a placement?” I asked. “My program requires an internship for graduation. I’ve already arranged my Public Relations courses around this schedule. This is the final step to graduating early. What am I supposed to do for an entire semester?”

  My advisor, whose name I think was Luis Tuesday or some shit like that, let out an exasperated exhale, as if my freak out was dampening his mood. “I looked at your schedule. Have you ever considered Sports Media?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about sports. I want to work with artists.” My dad’s love of music had definitely been passed down to me. The whole reason I was looking to graduate early was so I could start working with him. His streaming service just formed an agency that focused on promoting independent artists. The future of the entertainment industry was through the indie community, and I wanted to lead that division for him.

  “I’m good friends with the head football coach. Since all the other internships were taken, I was wondering if you’d be open to working with one of the players on his image.”

  My eyebrow rose. Working with a football player? It wasn’t exactly on my projected career path, but that could work. In Texas, football was God, and that multi-million dollar stadium was church. They attended religiously. It was an entire thing—a thing I didn’t particularly care for. But, if I did a good job, it was a networking wet dream. Working with the football team could open a few doors. Yeah, I could get excited about that.

  But still. I didn’t know what this would entail. “I don’t know if I’m qualified for that. I’ve catered all my courses to brands and musicians.”

  “I think you’d be surprised how much crossover there is,” Mr. Tuesday began. “Public relations is about creating and maintaining a positive image—in this case, for the athletes or sports clubs they repres
ent. You’ll be responsible for coordinating the seamless flow of favorable information about this player. Monitoring his social media. Keeping him out of trouble and out of the news. Fans are more likely to buy tickets, purchase merchandise, and fill stadium seats when there’s a public interest, and right now, the good wholesome Bible Belt of Texas is not amused with our star running back.”

  “What’s the damage?” I asked.

  Mr. Tuesday slid his phone across the desk to me, and I picked it up, frowning at the social media feed I saw there. Picture after picture showed a tall, muscular guy with bulging muscles and thick lips in compromising photographs. He was kissing random girls and doing keg stands. There were even a couple of him cupping his junk. This was a media clusterfuck of epic proportions. He was kind of hot, though, if you were into that kind of thing.

  “Doesn’t the coach have rules about this?” I asked. “Is there a scholarship on the line?”

  “He does. But Oakley Davis is a god. There’s never been a player like him. He knows he can get away with anything because there is no one that can match his talent or his mother’s wallet, you understand?” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I never understood why a large bank account made you immune to rules. “Coach Howard’s contract is up for consideration this year. He wants to keep his job, which means he needs to keep Oakley playing.”