by CoraLee June
“And what am I supposed to do?” I asked, sliding the phone back across the desk. From the looks of it, Oakley Davis needed a complete overhaul of his image. It was the type of job that would require a lot of hours and a lot of patience.
“Do what you’ve been taught to do—polish his image. Find opportunities to put him in a more favorable light. I’ve taken the liberty of enrolling you in the Intro to Sports Media class. It’s a freshman course, but it’ll help you this semester. Coach Howard will be grading you. He’s your boss. Keep him happy with Oakley’s progress, and you’ll graduate early just as you planned.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I still didn’t know. Working with Oakley truly was a fantastic opportunity, but it wouldn’t give me the learning experience I’d envisioned. I wanted to work with people already in my field, not teach myself how to babysit a grown-ass man.
“If you don’t want to take this on, we will have to try again to find you a placement next semester. It’ll push you back, but you’ll get it done.”
I shook my head. I wanted to be done with college. I took eighteen hours this summer because I was ready to leave school behind. I worked my ass off to graduate early, and I didn’t want all of that to be for nothing. I was ready to start my career and my life.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But I want Dr. Haynes to mentor me through it.” My voice sounded strong, but I was nervous as hell. Dr. Haynes ran the Public Relations department and was well-known in the PR world. He had the most connections and would be invaluable to learn from. If I had to do this, then I was going to get a glowing recommendation from the top professor at this school, dammit.
“I’ll see if Dr. Haynes has room in his busy schedule. You aren’t asking ’cause you have a crush on him, right? His last TA became a little obsessed, so I have to ask.”
Dr. Haynes was a hottie, a total silver fox. I’d only seen pictures in the campus newsletters, but holy fuck. I could learn a lot from that man. “No,” I choked out. “I just want to make sure I have a good mentor and the support of Coach Howard. From the looks of it, Oakley Davis will require a lot of work, and I want to be set up for success.”
“Of course,” Mr. Tuesday replied, though he didn’t sound convinced. I didn’t really care. I was doing the university a favor. Most universities had PR reps for the campus, but if they wanted to assign an intern to their star player, then they must be desperate.
I briefly wondered why Oakley was willing to throw his life away. I mean, how hard was it to keep your social media clean and stay sober? Did he not want to become a pro? Most guys on the team at this school were using the university’s influence as a stepping stone to the NFL. I didn’t know sports, but it didn’t take a genius to see that there was something else going on.
“I’ll make sure you have all the resources necessary to do this,” Mr. Tuesday said, drawing me out of my thoughts. I was already trying to think of how I’d help him. Maybe he needed to sign up for some charities. It would be easy enough to get his photo in the newspaper, kissing a baby or something. “Practice ends at seven tonight. Coach Howard said he would introduce the two of you afterward.”
“Great,” I said unenthusiastically. “Thanks for finding me something.” I had never been to the stadium before. I had a general idea of where it was, but I made a mental note to look it up.
“I only want what’s best for the students,” Mr. Tuesday replied before pulling a Twinkie out of his desk, opening it, and shoving the entire thing in his mouth. Disgusting.
I excused myself without a word and let out a long exhale in the hall. Glancing down at my phone, I quickly found all of Oakley’s social media accounts and followed him so I could start researching my client.
He was hot. I wasn’t going to deny it. But as I scrolled through every feed and tag and ridiculous comment, I grew sick to my stomach. Oakley’s wild life felt all too familiar. It was like staring at my old self. This was going to be a challenge—for more reasons than one.
Coach Howard was a short man with orange skin and chiseled muscles. He looked like your typical coach, with a university-issued polo shirt tucked into khaki pants. His tennis shoes were tied so tight that I wondered if any circulation could get to his toes. He was about my height but still somehow managed to look down at me.
“Are you the intern?” he asked when he caught me standing outside of his office. Their practice had been over for forty-five minutes. I had arrived about fifteen minutes early since I wasn’t sure exactly where his office was, so I had been standing there for about an hour. I smiled to hide my frustration. Was no one punctual on this campus?
“Amanda Matthews,” I said while shooting my hand out in greeting. “It’s very nice to meet you.” Coach Howard looked down at my hand and reached out to grab it, squeezing a little harder than what was necessary. Based on my initial observations, I sensed that he was the type of man overcompensating for something. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he drove a big lifted truck.
“I’m assuming Mr. Wednesday told you everything that would be expected of you?”
Oh shit. I thought his name was Tuesday. I racked my brain, trying to remember if I ever called him by his name. I couldn’t remember. He never corrected me, so I probably didn’t? Oh well, I could obsess about it later.
I pulled out the folder from under my arm and started flipping through the notes I made earlier this afternoon. I wanted to be prepared, considering Coach Howard would be the person to decide my grade.
“I want to do a complete overhaul of his social media, sign him up for some charity events, and shift the focus to his talent on the field—”
Coach Howard’s snort interrupted me. “Oakley is the cockiest, self-absorbed, selfish, pompous, belligerent asshole I’ve ever met. If I had a decent second-string running back, I would have kicked him off my team last year when he was caught having a threesome in the locker room.” My eyes widened. My mouth dropped open in shock. “Oakley doesn’t care about anyone but himself. You can type up pretty little reports, but it would take an act of God to get him to cooperate. Period.”
It was an act of God that got me here. Maybe I could squeeze one more miracle out of the big guy. “I’ve got it handled,” I replied in a curt tone. “Why don’t we skip ahead to the introductions so I can get to work, hmm? I will send you a detailed email outlining my pretty little report for you to reference,” I added in a sickly sweet tone. I knew how to talk to men like Coach Howard. I just had to keep my cool and do my job. Then graduate. Easy, right?
“Good luck,” Coach answered. “He disappeared from practice early, saying he had a prior commitment.” Coach plopped down at his desk and scratched his head. “He’s probably balls deep in some unlucky coed right now. That boy’s dick is going to fall off one of these days. When you see him,” Coach continued, wagging his finger at me, “tell him that he owes me another hour of practice.”
I couldn’t believe this. The University of Texas was one of the most prestigious schools in the state—hell, in the country. People were dying to get in here. There was no way Oakley was that good. There were always better players waiting to prove themselves. I didn’t know anything about football, but even I knew that.
I should have excused myself, but instead, I sat down. “Why is Oakley still on the team?”
The coach rolled his eyes and asked, “Why do you care?”
“If you want my help, I need all the information. You and I both know you wouldn’t put up with this shit unless you were forced to,” I replied.
His brows shot up in surprise as if he weren’t expecting me to ask that. Coach leaned over his messy desk and lowered his voice. “You’re a smart girl. Let’s just say Oakley is very protected by higher-ups that want to see him succeed. One might even say they have no other choice but to keep Oakley happy.”
I nodded and wrote a quick note in my planner, then stood up. “I’ll find him and pass along the message. When is your next practice?”
“Oh six hundr
ed in the morning.”
Perfect. I loved to start my day early. “We’ll be there.”
He snorted. “Mr. Wednesday said that I’d be monitoring your progress? I’ll be watching you. I suggest you go ahead and plan on being here another semester because Oakley Davis is hopeless.”
I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I loved it when people underestimated me. It made proving them wrong that much more rewarding.
I walked out of his office with my head held high and my shoulders rolled back, making sure to pour confidence in my steps as I left. I looked like I had my shit together. I was getting a fucking A, come hell or high water.
But the moment the door closed and I was out of his line of sight, I squeezed my eyes shut and frantically picked up my phone, desperate to figure out where my client was. I pulled up his Instagram and checked his story.
Shit. Damn. Hell. Sonofamotherfuckingbastard.
He was clutching a towel and taking selfies in someone’s bedroom. The pink bedding hinted that it belonged to a girl. I took in the motivational poster on the wall and then gasped when I saw a purple vibrator left on the nightstand. Mother. Fucking. Shelby. He was in my apartment. He was with my roommate.
Guess she found batteries for her vibrator.
I clicked through his story and paused when he playfully dropped the towel to cup his junk. I saw a flash of peen. Like, full-on flesh baton. It was quick, but there was no denying Thor’s hammer hanging out there for the world to see. I skipped back to double-check.
Yep. That’s his dick.
His massive elephant dick.
It was only a split second, but I knew that girls could screenshot slips like it was one of those fucking shoot out duels in the Wild West. His cock was probably already in spank banks all over campus.
Oh my lanta. Oakley was a sexy bastard. The way he bit his lip had me flushing. I skipped to the next post and frowned.
Headed to Longhorn Sports Bar for drinks.
I closed my phone and started heading out of the Athletics building and toward the bus stop. This wasn’t bad. Leaked nudes sometimes made a career—Kim Kardashian was proof of that. But this didn’t exactly promote the good wholesome vibe the school wanted.
I quickly ran through options, tapping my foot on the concrete and waiting for the bus to arrive. The quicker I got to him, the better.
3
It had been four months since I’d set foot in a college bar. I braced myself for the memories I knew would hit me like a punch to the gut. Outside, the Austin city lights illuminated the grime-filled sidewalk. I stared at the entrance for a moment, mustering up the courage to put my big girl panties on and waltz inside like the bad bitch I was.
It took ten minutes for me to feel like said bad bitch. I was a medium bitch. An over-easy bitch.
The second I walked through the front door, the stench of perfume and beer assaulted my senses. I curled my lip, and my stomach rumbled at the sight of plates filled to the brim with bar food. Hungry college students who weren’t worried about their slowing metabolism were devouring appetizers dripping with bubbling grease. I nearly drooled at the sight of a pitcher of beer and nachos. Fucking hell, I hated my diet.
This place was my ultimate weakness. Just a few months ago, I would have confidently stepped up to the bar and ordered a whiskey sour. Now, I was trembling.
I swallowed those nasty little nerves crawling up my throat like bile and walked up to the bar. I needed something in my hands. “Sparkling water, please. With lime,” I ordered once I could flag down a bartender. I tipped the hipster dude pouring drinks extra well to overcompensate for feeling embarrassed about my order. This was more of a beer and cholesterol type of place.
With my glass in hand, I made my way over to an empty table and looked around. It was surprisingly crowded for a Monday. The start of the semester brought on a flood of camaraderie and excitement. Students were greeting and hugging one another with broad smiles and loud squeals as if the summer break was more of a year-long sabbatical instead of two short months.
I felt a twinge of jealousy. There was no one here excited to see me. I didn’t get to hug my friends and pose for reunion selfies. Maybe if I were back in California, a few people would politely smile if I walked into a room, but here I was invisible. Most of the time, I liked that, but tonight it felt a little more lonesome.
I took a sip of my refreshing, fizzy drink and sighed in fake satisfaction as it slid down my throat. Fuck, I wanted some vodka. Something to dull the chatter in my teeth—something fulfilling, but the sparkling water would have to do. I was here for a reason.
It didn’t take me long to find Oakley Davis. In the corner of the large bar was a loud group of people cheering and slapping each other on the back. The guys were tall and muscular, obviously athletic. Some of them wore football shirts or other athletic wear, and the girls surrounding them were dressed up in tight little dresses, strappy high heels, and expertly applied makeup.
I recognized Oakley the moment I saw him. It wasn’t his signature dark hair or the way he towered over everyone else that made him stand out—though his classically handsome appearance helped—it was his very essence, his energy. He had this carefree power about him that was intoxicating to watch. The entire room seemed to shift to accommodate his presence. Girls craned their necks to stare at him, and guys nudged closer for the opportunity to rub elbows. When his drink was empty, another one replaced it immediately. When he said a joke, everyone laughed at it, like the world was at his fingertips.
He looked like the type of guy to cum down a girl’s throat in some frat house bathroom and expect gratitude. As if letting her swallow his Taco Bell-and-vodka flavored jizz was some sort of gift from God. I was not amused. It was like watching a documentary on Antarctica: fascinating to watch, but I wouldn’t be freezing my tits off to experience it any time soon. Oakley was, like, literally the worst kind of privileged.
His ego was huge. Gigantic. Heavy. I could already tell that he was a complete douchebag based on the way he treated his coach, but seeing him here, in action, furthered that belief. I started to wonder what exactly I had gotten myself into and if I could do this.
His strong jaw could cut granite. His defined Adam’s apple that bobbed whenever he swallowed down large gulps of his beer would forever be ingrained in my mind. He had a sense of swagger that couldn’t be duplicated. It was in how he spoke to people. It was also in the way he wore casual clothes that perfectly fit his body with name brands that cost more than some people’s rent.
Oakley even occasionally stopped to take photos with fans. He took requests, going as far as to pose in football stances or with his arms draped across a girl’s shoulders. It seemed almost expected. He didn’t seem annoyed by the attention—he thrived on it. Oakley Davis was a big fucking deal.
I watched him toss back drinks without a care in the world. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been here before I got here, but he wasn’t showing any signs of stopping after the fourth pint. Sorority girls with tequila in their shot glasses rubbed their breasts against his chest in the crowded area. He looked down at them with cocky pleasure but didn’t entertain anyone specific.
It wasn’t until someone jokingly asked him to sign her tits that I decided to intervene. It was important to watch him and get a feel for his presence, but now I had to do my job. From now on, autographing boobs was off the table.
As I walked over to him, I couldn’t help but think how much my life had changed over the last few months. Before, I probably would’ve been trying to get his attention for entirely different reasons. I would have been wearing Spanx and an uncomfortable dress that clung to my body like a second skin. Just a few short months ago, I would’ve worn heels and caked-on foundation and smoky eyeshadow just to feel a little bit pretty. I would’ve ordered a couple of pitchers of margaritas for myself and drowned my insecurities so that I could be the life of the party.
Now, I was still wearing the leggings I put on this morning,
and my blonde hair was thrown back into a messy ponytail. I couldn’t even remember the last time I wore makeup. I knew that image was essential to be in the PR business, but I just couldn’t be fucked to impress anyone anymore.
As I made my way through the thick crowd, people barely looked at me. It was like I was invisible—something I used to fear but now welcomed. And it wasn’t until I elbowed a girl in the ribcage to introduce myself to Oakley that someone noticed I was intruding on their party. “Whoa,” a guy with olive skin and rust-colored hair said. I had seen him in quite a few of Oakley’s posts on Instagram, so I assumed that they were friends. I quickly scanned my thoughts to remember his name. Ah, yes. Dale.
“Excuse me,” I said politely with a smile.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you off to, hmm?” he asked while positioning himself in front of me. His breath reeked of cheap beer. I nervously tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear before answering him.
“I need to speak with Oakley Davis,” I asserted, trying to sound professional despite our environment. Dale frowned for a moment, then quickly schooled his face into a smirk. I stored the brief crack in his relaxed appearance away to think about later. I wasn’t really a fan of frenemies and needed to protect my client at all costs.
“I can introduce you,” he offered. “But fair warning, you’re definitely not his type.”
I didn’t honestly give a single fuck if I was Oakley Davis’s type or not. But I was curious about what his friends thought about him. If they were quick to loosen their lips and talk shit about their teammate, I needed to know. Any information I could get on the school’s star running back was useful, so I entertained Dale for a little longer.
“And why exactly do you think I’m not his type?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
He looked me up and down in a single sweltering swoop. I felt my cheeks heat, and I took the lingering moment to stare right back at him. Dale was kind of hot. He didn’t command the room quite like his teammate, but there was a playful energy about him that felt authentic and genuine. Dale was confident; his blatant staring was proof enough of that. He was also flirtatious. “Don’t get me wrong, you definitely look the part. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Legs for days, and lips any man with half a testicle would lose his shit over.” As he spoke, he took a step closer.