wiggles his brows.
“Hardy-har-har,” I tease, giving him a look that tells him I know exactly what he’s referring to.
Pussy—not money—is the root of all evil.
“You’re quick.” He swings his chair around to my side of the table, straddles it, and rests his forearms on the back as he stares at me with laser-like precision. “Football or baseball?”
“Baseball all the way. Football sucks.”
His eyes widen, a frown dragging down his mouth. He looks like a lost, lonely puppy.
“What’s wrong?” I’m somewhat disturbed by the sudden change in his demeanor. “Are you an overwired, crazed football fanatic or something?”
“Captain.”
“Huh?” Now it’s my eyes that are wide. “Oh God. Not a jock. Please don’t tell me you’re a jock.”
Considering he’s sporting a polo shirt and Dockers, he doesn’t dress like a jock. He looks preppy and unjuiced by steroids. Okay, so he’s built like a jock—broad, sculpted shoulders, pumped yet lean forearms. I crane my neck and peek at his stomach, confirming that under his polo shirt exists a six-pack slab of raw muscle. Still, he could’ve gained his glorious physique by lifting weights, lifting tiny girls with fake implants, or lifting cars on impulse.
But, Jesus, not a jock.
Brock nods, a dot of a grin hinting at his lips. “I’m the university’s football captain. Does that kill any hope I’d had?”
“It comes close to it.” I nervously pick at the edge of my schedule. “Really close. Like borderline-walk-away-now close.”
Curiosity slants his brows. “And why is that?”
“It just is. But whatever. I can deal with it if you give me enough reasons to.” My thoughts travel back to the night I all but sold my virginity on a muddy high school football field to a dick named Josh Stevenson. I was fourteen and wanted beer. He was seventeen and had a fake ID.
A deal was struck.
Thank God the whole, sickening ordeal lasted less than five minutes. I guess I’d expected him to treat me like the whore I’d acted like, and that’s exactly what happened. By the next morning the rest of his teammates knew what we’d done, making sure to call me the appropriate names every time they saw me.
In a small fishing community just outside of Rivers Edge, North Carolina, I was the new girl known as the slut who’d fucked the captain of the football team for beer. I can’t recall if it was the second or third town I’d lived in by that point—I just know it as the one where my hatred of jocks, and my self-loathing for what I was morphing into, began.
I shift, uncomfortable with Brock looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “What?”
“I’m just happy you’re willing to tolerate me and my . . . jockiness.” He slides me a grin. “And I will give you enough reasons to deal with it.”
I sense that he wants to say something more, possibly deeper, but I don’t push.
“Okay, so you’re stuck alone on a deserted island,” he continues, “and you can only have two things other than water. What are they?”
“That’s easy. Twizzlers and my journal,” I answer, wishing I hadboth right now. Mainly the Twizzlers. They’re one of my many crutches. My nervous, go-to addiction. Any flavor—the almighty Twizzler owns me.
“Twizzlers?” He looks at me like I’m the worst kind of crazy. “The squiggly licorice candy? Out of anything in the world, that’s what you’d go with?”
“You’re quick,” I smart back, shooting him my best amused expression. “Very quick, Cunningham.”
A hint of inner debate settles across his face, but soon confidence replaces it. “Well, since we’re two quick young adults, and we’re both in mutual agreement that Ryder’s the asshole of the goddamn universe, I’m wondering how soon I can get you to go out on a date with me?”
“You have to work harder for an actual date.” Though my words come out with conviction, even I can hear the doubt behind them. My conscience is
“Hardy-har-har,” I tease, giving him a look that tells him I know exactly what he’s referring to.
Pussy—not money—is the root of all evil.
“You’re quick.” He swings his chair around to my side of the table, straddles it, and rests his forearms on the back as he stares at me with laser-like precision. “Football or baseball?”
“Baseball all the way. Football sucks.”
His eyes widen, a frown dragging down his mouth. He looks like a lost, lonely puppy.
“What’s wrong?” I’m somewhat disturbed by the sudden change in his demeanor. “Are you an overwired, crazed football fanatic or something?”
“Captain.”
“Huh?” Now it’s my eyes that are wide. “Oh God. Not a jock. Please don’t tell me you’re a jock.”
Considering he’s sporting a polo shirt and Dockers, he doesn’t dress like a jock. He looks preppy and unjuiced by steroids. Okay, so he’s built like a jock—broad, sculpted shoulders, pumped yet lean forearms. I crane my neck and peek at his stomach, confirming that under his polo shirt exists a six-pack slab of raw muscle. Still, he could’ve gained his glorious physique by lifting weights, lifting tiny girls with fake implants, or lifting cars on impulse.
But, Jesus, not a jock.
Brock nods, a dot of a grin hinting at his lips. “I’m the university’s football captain. Does that kill any hope I’d had?”
“It comes close to it.” I nervously pick at the edge of my schedule. “Really close. Like borderline-walk-away-now close.”
Curiosity slants his brows. “And why is that?”
“It just is. But whatever. I can deal with it if you give me enough reasons to.” My thoughts travel back to the night I all but sold my virginity on a muddy high school football field to a dick named Josh Stevenson. I was fourteen and wanted beer. He was seventeen and had a fake ID.
A deal was struck.
Thank God the whole, sickening ordeal lasted less than five minutes. I guess I’d expected him to treat me like the whore I’d acted like, and that’s exactly what happened. By the next morning the rest of his teammates knew what we’d done, making sure to call me the appropriate names every time they saw me.
In a small fishing community just outside of Rivers Edge, North Carolina, I was the new girl known as the slut who’d fucked the captain of the football team for beer. I can’t recall if it was the second or third town I’d lived in by that point—I just know it as the one where my hatred of jocks, and my self-loathing for what I was morphing into, began.
I shift, uncomfortable with Brock looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “What?”
“I’m just happy you’re willing to tolerate me and my . . . jockiness.” He slides me a grin. “And I will give you enough reasons to deal with it.”
I sense that he wants to say something more, possibly deeper, but I don’t push.
“Okay, so you’re stuck alone on a deserted island,” he continues, “and you can only have two things other than water. What are they?”
“That’s easy. Twizzlers and my journal,” I answer, wishing I hadboth right now. Mainly the Twizzlers. They’re one of my many crutches. My nervous, go-to addiction. Any flavor—the almighty Twizzler owns me.
“Twizzlers?” He looks at me like I’m the worst kind of crazy. “The squiggly licorice candy? Out of anything in the world, that’s what you’d go with?”
“You’re quick,” I smart back, shooting him my best amused expression. “Very quick, Cunningham.”
A hint of inner debate settles across his face, but soon confidence replaces it. “Well, since we’re two quick young adults, and we’re both in mutual agreement that Ryder’s the asshole of the goddamn universe, I’m wondering how soon I can get you to go out on a date with me?”
“You have to work harder for an actual date.” Though my words come out with conviction, even I can hear the doubt behind them. My conscience is
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