Tackled By Love (Bellevue Bullies: Next Generation #1)

Freshman Year

Ambrosia

“I think there are better things to do than trying to suck Dawson Sinclair’s cock.”

Doesn’t that seem like a pretty normal thought to you?

Because it does to me.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love a good cock just as much as the next girl. I haven’t been with many, but the few I have were an okay time. Solid five inches of pump and dump. Didn’t even break a sweat. That’s probably why I feel like a cock shouldn’t be the main focus of a college party.

But with the way the Graces are looking at me, you’d think I’d said Ed Sheeran was the worst songwriter of our time.

Or that the Taylor’s Version albums were trash.

Or that the Bellevue Bullies’ hockey team was the worst team in the world.

Nope. All I said was that Dawson Sinclair’s cock isn’t meant to be worshipped.

How dare I.

As always, Grace M., Grace G., and Grace P. seem to think I’m spouting lies and there is nothing better in this whole wide world than sucking Dawson Sinclair’s cock.

Unlike my roommates, I’m not enamored with Dawson Sinclair.

Yes, he is the next Sinclair to leave Bellevue for the National Hockey League, but my whole life has been spent around hockey players, so…

good for him. Dawson comes from a long line of hockey greats, and just like those before him, he is a force to be reckoned with.

Not only does he dominate the ice, but he can throw the hell out of a football too.

He is the first freshman starting quarterback in Bellevue’s history.

He is one of the highest-paid NIL athletes in Tennessee at only eighteen—whoa—and will probably go first in the draft in whichever sport he chooses.

Basically, he’s the next great.

Dawson Sinclair is also the sexiest guy to skate into the hockey world.

Or, hell, any world.

Fresh-faced with bright greenish-brown hazel eyes and a body that screams athlete, he’s a machine, all tall with big ol’ muscles.

He has this hair—it’s dark and shaggy—that he is constantly pushing to the side with his whole hand.

Not just a finger, like all his fingers comb his thick hair to the side.

It has a bit of a curl to it that I don’t think he takes care of.

As a curly girl myself, I know the proper care, but his has a wave that makes me want to trace it. Weird? Yeah.

He has a boy-next-door look—if the guy next door was built like a tank—and a huge smile that reminds me of a happy little golden retriever. He’s always smiling, always a good time, and boy, do the girls love him.

My roommates are his biggest fans.

Me? He’s just another guy who scores on the ice and off.

A lot.

Even as a defenseman, the dude is always scoring.

And as a guy, he’s falling dick-first into any willing hole.

“Ambrosia, it’s you or Grace P. who will suck him off tonight. It’s a rite of passage,” Grace M. says, and I give her a look.

Not only do my roommates all share the same name, but they are a copy-paste of one another.

They are the picture-perfect example of Southern debutantes.

They come from old money with families who are best friends, and they say they’re related when they’re not.

All bright blond hair, big blue eyes, and the perfect little bodies.

Short, with big boobs and small waists. My tía is convinced they all got their boobs done together after graduation.

I don’t have the nerve to ask, but I don’t think she’s wrong.

It totally seems like something they’d do.

While their personalities are trash, they’re all stunning.

Then there is me. While I also come from money since my dad is a retired hockey player and my mom owns a housecleaning business that only caters to the rich, I am nothing like them.

I am tall, with dark hair and eyes, along with curves that people love to talk about.

To some, I’m hot. To others, I’m too big.

To me, I’m just trying to love myself. So I do a lot of ignoring of the outside world to keep the love alive inside me.

It’s hard out here for a thick girl.

Especially when your roommates are real-life Barbies.

They tend to comment on my size a lot and always do that, “Should you be eating that?” thing skinny girls love to do when a thick girl is enjoying her burrito.

I don’t care what they say or think about me.

My dad has always told me, some people will come into your life only to teach you a lesson.

The lesson the Graces have taught me? To be kind. No matter what.

I’ve been living with them for six months now, and it’s easy to say they don’t know the word kind.

They are the epitome of mean girls, yet they tolerate me.

They’re never outright mean to me, but they’re always quick with the backhanded comments.

I’m used to it, though, which I know is a sad thought.

Not that my family has ever made me feel less than, but everyone else?

Yeah, I’m never good enough.

One thing is for sure—I’ll be moving to an apartment after this year. Unfortunately, I have to stay on campus my freshman year, which is why I’m in this predicament.

Because any other day, no one would catch me at a Bullies’ house party with these three.

Or at a party, really.

Especially a college hockey team party.

I’m not really the party type, and since I have been around hockey guys my whole life, this isn’t my scene.

With my dad’s career as a professional NHL player, and then when he moved to broadcasting, I’ve been able to go to a bunch of camps full of hockey guys and I know them better than anyone.

While I know there are good guys in the sport, I have met nothing but shitty ones.

Yet just like every other na?ve girl out there, I keep chasing those red flags.

It’s hard when I want what my parents have, a loving, supportive marriage, but I only meet guys whose brains are in their dicks.

I want someone to share my life with. But I’m only eighteen; shouldn’t I be having fun?

But sucking Dawson’s Sinclair’s cock doesn’t sound fun to me.

I mean, it does, and I bet he’s hung, but I refuse to be like the masses.

The fact that everyone is obsessed with him is a turn-off, especially when I know he wouldn’t give me a second glance or even remember me after.

“A rite of passage would be getting drunk and playing hockey in the guys’ gear. Sucking a guy off is not the same thing,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“You’re really judgy,” Grace M. says, her words a bit slurred. “You never want to hook up with anyone. I’d think you’re gay, but you wouldn’t even fuck us.”

Oh, you read that right. They hook up with one another.

It’s okay, though. They’re drunk when it happens, so they’re not really bi.

I feel like I get dumber just breathing the same air as them.

I cover my mouth to hold in my laugh. “Yeah, sorry. I have better things to do than worry about sex. I have—”

“Goals,” they say together, rolling their eyes.

It’s Grace P. who says, “Your goals are ruining your life.”

I make a face. “Or making them better,” I say, not one to hold back. My dad says I have a bit of a mouth on me. That I never really think before I speak.

He’s not wrong.

“What else is new— OMG, there he is!” Grace G. says, and they all puff up like peacocks. Tits out and duck lips in full force. I fully expect them to start doing mating dances at the drop of a puck. I roll my eyes, not sparing Dawson Sinclair a look before I point at nothing.

“I’m going to go get some air.”

I don’t miss what they say under their breath.

He wouldn’t let her suck him off anyway. She’s not his type.

She’s such a loser.

Only a couple months and then we’ll be rid of her boring ass.

I can’t help but laugh.

What they don’t know is I’m way meaner to myself than they could ever be.

I walk through the Bullies’ house to the kitchen, where a huge tub of Bullies Backyard Punch is out in the open.

Now, I wouldn’t get any if there weren’t a sober guy in charge of watching the punch to make sure no one drops drugs into it.

As much as I hate parties, the Bullies are very much about the safety of their guests. Especially women.

“No drugs?” I ask, and Wilson Masters flashes me a grin.

“Nope,” he says, popping the P. “But I know where to get some.”

I wink before taking the ladle and pouring some punch into my cup. “I’m good. Have a great night.” His eyes move across my body, and I roll my eyes. “Not gonna happen.”

“You gotta give me another chance,” he practically begs, and I shake my head.

“You couldn’t find my clit, Willy, then came in your pants when you did.”

He grins sheepishly. “I’ve learned things.”

Okay, yes, I hooked up with him. I was sixteen, and he was my first kiss. I know I shouldn’t hold it against him, but if I’m going to take off my pants, I want to be guaranteed an orgasm.

Willy doesn’t give off guaranteed-orgasm energy.

“I’m good,” I say with a wave and a wide grin. “See you around.”

“I’m gonna convince you,” he calls out, and I shake my head.

“Not after you told everyone I sucked your dick, when I didn’t,” I say before flicking him the bird.

“I was a stupid guy.”

“Don’t you mean, am?” I call back with a wink.

His laughter follows me out of the kitchen.

I move through the house, taking in the crowd of my peers who are dancing and rubbing against each other in the primal dance of youth.

It’s foggy in here from all the vapes and weed, almost choking me out.

Add in the mixture of sweaty bodies, sex, and all kinds of beer, and I want to gag.

Welcome to college.

This is the experience adults want for us.

So awesome.

I can’t help but take in the wall of fame. Some of the greats, including Dawson Sinclair’s dad, Jayden, and his uncles, Jace and Jude. They are royalty around here, so it only makes sense why Dawson Sinclair is idolized.