Looking to Score

by CoraLee June

  “I sense a but coming on,” I replied, making him laugh. Dale’s dark chuckle made my skin buzz.

  “But you brought your backpack to a bar. I can see your copy of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People sticking out of your bag. You have a pencil tucked behind your ear, and you carry yourself with confidence. You didn’t even bother getting dressed up when you came here, which means you don’t have to try hard to make your presence known.” That wasn’t exactly true. I just had a preference for comfort if I had to walk all over campus. “Oakley Davis likes easy girls that aren’t smart enough to call him on his bullshit, so if you’re looking to hook up with him, you’re better off finding someone else.”

  I didn’t let Dale see me falter. Although his words had affected me, I didn’t know how I felt about him pinning me down with baseline assumptions. “Well, good thing I’m not here to sleep with him. I’m here for work. I’ll just go introduce myself, thank you,” I replied with a wink, excusing myself before Dale could say or do anything else. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something off about him.

  Oakley was laughing with a short blonde girl when I walked up and introduced myself. I stared at his side profile longer than I should have. His jawline was impeccable. “Oakley Davis?” I asked before clearing my throat. Oakley turned to look at me, with confusion evident on his face.

  “That’s me,” he declared. God. Even his voice was sexy. Low and rugged. I cleared my throat again, begging a sense of professionalism to course through my veins. What the fuck was wrong with me? Justin Bieber once had dinner at my parents’ house—when I was fucking fourteen and overwhelmed with hormones. If I could handle the Biebs, I could handle a cocky football player. I was a grown-ass woman.

  I opened my mouth to introduce myself but stumbled when Oakley gave me a long, sensual perusal, similar to what Dale had just done. It was like the blonde at his side was long forgotten.

  But this felt different. This was like disarming a gun. I was standing there with my finger hovering over the trigger to my career, and he emptied the chamber at my feet. His dark eyes looked like deep pools of honey with specks of gold. A shadow of scruff covered his jaw. His hands rested on his chest, the veins in his arms thudded as he dragged his gaze up to my thighs, my stomach, my breasts, my chest, and finally landed on my lips. I shivered, then shook my head. Nope. Nope nope nope nope.

  “I’m Amanda,” I choked out while thrusting my hand out to shake his. I felt stupid. Oakley grabbed it with a grin and squeezed before pulling me closer. I tried snapping my palm back, but he wouldn’t let me. And up close, I breathed in the spicy scent of his aftershave and the booze on his lips. What the fuck was wrong with me?

  “It’s nice to meet you, Amanda. Have I seen you before?”

  I looked up at him through my thick lashes and shook my head free of the lust once more before pulling back. The pheromones this asshole was giving off were fucking with my ability to form coherent words and make good choices. “I’m a new student. A public relations major,” I said, hoping it would lead us into the part where I got to tell him I was his new publicist.

  “Public relations? I think I need some help with my image,” he rasped, stepping closer. His hold on me felt hot. I was trapped in his orbit.

  “Oh?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. Was he genuinely self-aware about his issue? I wasn’t sure what was worse: a client who didn’t know any better or a client who didn’t care.

  “There’s this rumor going around,” he began before releasing my hands and sliding his own to my hips. I knew right then that I should have stopped him and drawn a clear line of appropriateness. But I didn’t. Nope. It was like my vagina took control of my mouth and slammed that sucker shut. “Do you want to know what that rumor is...baby?” The pause before the nickname sobered me some. Oh my God, this bastard couldn’t even remember my name. From five fucking seconds ago. It was hard to tell if that was a reflection of his view on women or if it was the booze. He swayed a bit as he spoke. His eyes were heavy from drunkenness—fucking hell.

  I nodded. “People are saying I have the biggest cock in Texas.” Was this guy serious? No. He couldn’t possibly be serious. “Is that something you could help me with?”

  Oh my lanta, he was serious. He grabbed another shot from a nearby table and slammed it. Any more and he’d be passed out on the ground. “I suppose I could help. The first step would be to stop sharing nudes,” I replied dryly. His face lit up.

  “So you’ve seen it?” he asked, as if proud. I guess he had a right to be. His dick looked lethal. It honestly was brag-worthy, but as his publicist, I probably shouldn’t think about how it hung mid-thigh and looked like it could put an eye out when hard.

  “I don’t think there is a girl on campus that hasn’t,” I deadpanned.

  Oakley must have finally caught on that I wasn’t amused, because a slight sense of clarity poked through his drunken haze. “What was your name again?” he asked.

  I sighed in annoyance while peering around the room. Other girls were glaring at me for hogging the prime real estate. “Amanda,” I replied. Yeah. He was definitely drunk. There was no way I was letting him go home with anyone tonight.

  “Amanda,” he slurred. “How about you come home with me? I’ll let you ride my face until I’m drowning in your cum. Then”—he leaned closer to brush his whiskey lips against my ear—“I’ll fuck you until the entire city of Austin can hear your moans.”

  Okay. Oakley Davis was a pro at dirty talk. My panties were like the San Marcos river, and my nipples stood at attention. Damn. Even drunk, he was a charmer.

  Obviously, this wasn’t the right setting for a professional meeting. Right now, my only priority was getting Oakley home. “Sure,” I replied. My lack of enthusiasm made him pause. “I’d really, uh, like to be fucked, please,” I choked out awkwardly. A couple of people nearby snorted at my lame attempt to seduce him.

  He chuckled. “I’ll order us an Uber to my place.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and struggled to unlock it. I memorized the code.

  6969

  What a fucking tool.

  “One more shot before the road?” I asked with a grin while handing him a glass.

  “Bottoms up!” he slurred, tossing it back.

  With any luck, he’d be passed out before we even got to his place.

  4

  Oakley was snoring. I stared at him like a fucking creeper while he slept. His shirt was crumpled on the bed next to him, and his pants were halfway off, leaving his skin-tight black boxer briefs on display. My eyes lingered on the tight bulge that looked like it was about to tear through the fabric. I allowed myself to indulge in just a moment of fantasizing about what I saw during towel-gate on his Insta yesterday. Hell, it was better than indulging in that double chocolate caramel brownie. Right?

  The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but I knew we only had a few minutes until he needed to get up and head to practice. It was time to snap out of it. Oakley had an early morning practice, and he was going to make it if I had to drag him there myself. “Rise and shine, princess,” I called out in a cheery tone.

  I waited. And waited. Nothing. Oakley didn’t even stop snoring. The steady rise and fall of his chest just annoyed me. I walked over to the bed that we definitely did not share last night and timidly poked him. Again, nothing.

  Come on, Amanda. You’re waking up a football player, not playing Jenga. “Oakley, get up,” I said more firmly as I shook him awake.

  “You ready for round two, baby?” he asked through a thick haze of alcohol breath and cockiness. He obviously didn’t have a clue that he passed out about five minutes after we got out of the Uber last night. I blushed as I remembered him trying to do a striptease as he fell into bed. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I took advantage of having unsupervised access to his cell phone and his room, and got to work, pausing only for a quick nap on his chair.

  In five hours, I managed to clean up his social media, ch
ange all his passwords, and sync his calendar to mine so I could make sure to attend all of his activities. I also sent an email on his behalf to Coach Howard, apologizing for leaving practice early and promising to make up the hour. There were a few privacy laws broken, but all in all, I didn’t really give a fuck. If Oakley had a problem, he could bring it up with his coach.

  “There would have to be a round one in order to experience round two, and I’m not sure your morning whiskey dick is up for the challenge,” I deadpanned, scrolling through his email.

  He sat up in bed, eyebrows raised as he looked at me. “Who are you?”

  “Amanda Matthews, your new publicist,” I replied, taking off my reading glasses and handing him back his phone. He grabbed it out of my palm and immediately peered at the screen. “There is an email from Coach Howard validating my claims. I cleaned up your social media, deleted your apps, and changed your passwords. I’ll give you access again once I’m convinced you won’t share any more photos of your dick.”

  “What the fuck?” he groaned.

  “You have ten minutes to do whatever you need to do to get your ass out the door for practice,” I said in what I hoped was a convincing tone.

  “I don’t have to listen to you,” he argued, scratching his head.

  “Yes,” I began. “You do. If you won’t do it because your spot on the team is in jeopardy, then you’ll do it because I found poems you wrote to your high school girlfriend, and I’m not afraid to share them.”

  He swallowed. “You’re bullshitting me. Who even are you?”

  “Your breasts are like playdough, molded perfectly for my large hands,” I recited, eyebrow arched. When I was going through his phone, I wasn’t expecting to find prime embarrassment for blackmail, but luck was on my side. “Your flowery pussy smells like pistachio ice cream.” The poem was bad with a capital B. He stared at me like he was still trying to understand what was happening, and his eyes widened when he realized I wasn’t bullshitting him.

  “I was fifteen when I wrote that. You can’t just break into people’s personal property,” he argued.

  “When I think about coming inside of you, I get hard as a baseball bat,” I added. “I will say your dirty talk has improved.” He finally shook his head and started to get out of the bed. I watched his back as he walked into the bathroom, and I snuck one last look at his tight end, then looked down at my own phone.

  Two new texts. One from my mom and one from Shelby. Shelby wanted to know why I didn’t come home last night—she made sure to include a suggestive winky face. My mom was still seething about Lacey implying that she looked over fifty. Apparently, Lacey slipped some samples into her mailbox. I didn’t bother replying to Shelby, and I had just sent a reply to my mom, telling her where Lacey could stick it, when Oakley came back out looking ready for practice. I didn’t know what football players wore to practice, so I was just guessing.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “I’m going to practice. But only because I need to have a conversation with Coach. I don’t want or need a fucking publicist.”

  “Your legs are as long—”

  “Enough with the teenage poetry. I was fifteen. Fifteen! Let’s go,” he replied, looking pissed and still a little confused. Since Oakley lived in an apartment on campus, the practice stadium was only about a five-minute walk. As we were walking out of his building, I debated whether or not I could trust him to get himself to practice.

  “Do I need to make sure you get to practice, or are you capable of getting there on your own?” I asked. I mean, there was only so much trouble he could get into at the ass crack of dawn, and I had to get back to my place so I could shower and get ready for my own classes.

  “I think I can handle it,” he growled. “I’m feeling pretty motivated to talk to the coach. I think he should know about the girl that broke into my apartment and started blackmailing me.”

  I grinned. “You invited me over last night, don’t you remember?” I watched him scowl as he tried to recall the moments leading up to this instant. “And yes, please do. Also, be sure to mention that I got you scheduled with the physical therapist for this afternoon. I saw that he’s been trying to get you to talk to the specialist about your shoulder, and booked you an appointment online. Their online scheduling system is very convenient.”

  He fumed, and the vein in his forehead throbbed. “You’re fucking insane. And I’m too hungover to do something about it right now, but I will get to the bottom of this. You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

  I smiled. Despite my feeling exhausted, pissing off Oakley Davis made the late night worth it. I felt alive. This was better than my morning manifestation meditation. “Practice hard, and maybe I’ll give you your Instagram login back. I know you like the attention.”

  “Fuck you,” he growled. His chest heaved as he looked me up and down. He was so angry that he looked wild. I met his stare with an equal level of determination.

  “It’ll be a pleasure to work with you,” I replied with a polite smile.

  He stormed off, and I watched him disappear around the corner in the direction of the practice building. I went toward my home with my mind reeling about everything I needed to get done, but when I got to the next intersection, I sighed in resignation and turned in the opposite direction of my apartment, toward the Athletics building. I didn’t trust Oakley Davis one bit.

  “You can’t do this. I woke up to some strange chick in my room, going through my phone,” I heard Oakley complain as I walked toward Coach Howard’s office.

  “Sounds like a typical night for you,” Coach replied with a chuckle.

  I couldn’t hold back the quick snicker that escaped my lips. I slowed my steps, composing myself, and then leaned in to listen to their conversation before making my presence known.

  “I did not consent to this.”

  “And I don’t give a fuck. You’ve been reckless. Belligerent. You put this entire program at risk. Just because you don’t care about going pro doesn’t mean that you can fuck off all season. You might be good, but you’re not good enough to act like this. The university wants to see you get your act together, and they aren’t afraid to exploit a public relations intern to do it. Now suit up for practice.” The coach dismissed Oakley. I have to say, it was super fun for me to hear Oakley get his ass handed to him.

  I cleared my throat and walked into the office just as Oakley was about to leave.

  “Good morning, Coach Howard! Oakley Davis hand delivered and on time for practice, just as promised!” I said in my most chipper voice and flashed the coach a colossal smile. “I trust that you’ve got it from here unless you need me to type up that report for you?”

  Coach Howard glared at me and then barked, “Oakley still owes me another full hour of makeup practice. I’ll be impressed when you make that happen.” That was Oakley’s cue to storm out.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” he snarled as he practically stomped out of the room.

  I turned to follow, and the coach called my name and handed me a piece of paper.

  “If you are going to have a snowball’s chance in hell, you are going to need this,” he said as he gave me a dismissive wave. After I left the coach’s office, I looked down and saw that he had given me a schedule of practices, games, and other various things that Oakley was expected to attend.

  I started the walk back to my apartment when I spotted a cute little coffee shop. I figured one small skinny, low fat, no sugar latte wouldn’t hurt. I promised myself I would only drink half anyway, and I needed the caffeine boost if I was going to make it through the day. That would be sixty calories and eight grams of sugar. If I power walked, I could easily burn that off. After ordering, I sat down and loaded Oakley’s schedule into the new shared calendar that I had created on his phone earlier this morning, complete with alarms that would go off when he needed to start getting ready and when he needed to leave.

  I immediately got a text, and when I saw Oakley’s name flash
on the screen, I couldn’t help but think of him lying in his boxers this morning, and I could feel the heat creeping up my face.

  Oakley: What the fuck did you just do?

  I smiled to myself as I typed back.

  Amanda: Oh good, you found where I programmed my info into your phone! And aren’t you supposed to be practicing?

  I could almost see how pissed he was when his phone blew up with calendar notifications. Imagining him annoyed as hell gave me a deep sense of satisfaction. I didn’t wait for his response and sent another message.

  Amanda: According to the schedule, your last practice gets out at 7:00 tonight, I’ll see you then.

  I clicked the button to lock my screen and got up to head home, leaving my latte on the table untouched.

  5

  I was unstoppable. The universe was my fucking oyster. I was so tired that even the seven dollar concealer I splurged on two months ago couldn’t hide the dark circles under my eyes, and my hair was so full of dry shampoo it felt like a fire hazard, but nothing could get me down. Not a single thing.

  In one day, I managed to get Oakley to practice and completely overhaul his Instagram image. Coach Howard even sent me half of a compliment via email at 10:06 in the morning. It was backhanded and attached to a formal request to stop emailing him updates, but I took the “good” and rolled with it.

  Not to mention, Mr. Wednesday got me an advisory slot with Dr. Haynes. The Dr. Haynes. I was so stoked to be learning from the absolute best I could hardly contain my excitement. I was headed to a meeting with him right now.