Chapter Sixteen
Drew
As QB, I lead my team. I set the tone of the game, lighting a fire under my guys’ asses or making them fall flat if I’m not on top of things. I never really felt the pressure of that responsibility because it isn’t in me to sit back and be subordinate in a game. I love leading my team. But it can get lonely.
The backs and receivers, the linemen, both defensive and offensive, form their own close-knit groups. They can talk strategy and technique among themselves and often hang out together. Quarterbacks? I don’t hang out or commiserate with the backups. There’s only one QB who gets the job, while the others warm the bench and wait for a chance to take over.
I’m lucky in the fact that our team is close. Coach makes sure we are. But as I sit alone on the bus to Florida, surrounded by the deep rumble of my guys chatting it up, the gulf between them and me stretches wide. Which is fucking maudlin and untrue. I have no reason to feel lonely. Any second now, Gray will be tossing his ass into the seat next to me to talk my ear off. And if not Gray, someone else will. I know this. Only it isn’t enough right now.
Outside my window, the landscape blurs by in streaks of brown grass, blue sky, and gray road. All I want to do is turn the bus around. I want it so badly that my stomach hurts.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over the afflicted area.
The seat next to me dips with a squeak. “You’re not my type, Baylor,” says Dex.
I push myself out of my slouch. “Good thing,” I quip, “you’d snap me like a twig.”
He chuckles. “You know it.”
Three hundred pounds of pure muscle and quick speed, he really could snap me in two. But he’s the least aggressive guy I know.
He offers me a stick of beef jerky out of the bag he’s demolishing, and I shake my head.
“What’s doin’, Battle?” His gray eyes scan my face as if he’s seeing under my skin. “You seem...subdued.”
Keen powers of observation and constant awareness of his surroundings are what make Dex an excellent center. But I’m not appreciating those skills now. I’m thinking of Anna, who kissed my bruises with a tenderness that made my heart flip over in my chest before she sucked my cock until I lost my mind. Anna who, with her plain speaking and fierce declarations, gave me back a piece of my pride. Anna, who still won’t kiss me on the mouth or let me kiss hers.
I want to be with her so badly right now, to claim that mouth once and for all, it takes effort to respond with a calm voice. “As compared to who? Rolondo?” I glance at the man in question, who is currently showing off his new touchdown victory dance in the aisle.
“Or maybe Lloyd?” I give a nod toward the massive defensive end sleeping in the seat across from us. A line of drool hangs from his lips, and Marshall—running back and all around knucklehead—is leaning over him, dangling a dirty shoelace before Lloyd’s nose. That won’t end well.
Dex snorts at the antics but isn’t deterred. “I mean subdued for you.”
During the games, it’s his job to watch over not only my ass but also every man on the field. He can read an impending blitz, call a play change if he senses a shift in defense. His instincts have been honed like a blade, which means he notices anomalies before, during, or after any game.
“Headache,” I say with a shrug. This is a major concession, because no one wants to admit to physical pain. But I prefer that over the truth, which will lead to endless hounding.
Dex takes a bite of jerky, his big teeth grinding down the toughened meat like it was a dinner roll. “So not chick problems, then?” His grin is knowing.
Fucking Gray. Fucking blabbermouthed, soon to be dead, pain in my ass Gray.
“Cuz I’ve heard you’ve got yourself a cute little redhead—”
“You guys are worse than girls, you know that?” I mutter then slouch against the window. “A bunch of gossiping girls.”
He just shrugs. “I ain’t the one staring all hangdog out the window. Like a love-struck girl. I thought we talked about this. Not smart, man. Especially for you.”
It’s all I can do not to fist my hands, show any sort of reaction. After the fiasco that was known as Jenny, I suppose getting involved is a bad idea. Dex’s dig is unfair, however, seeing as after the breakup, I was so focused on kicking ass, we won the National Championship. Again.
Unfortunately, thanks to Jenny’s bitter lies, Dex’s job of keeping me healthy on the field was that much harder at the time. I might as well have had a “Pummel Baylor” sign on my chest after the dirt she slung about me got out.
“You ask Battle about his new girl yet, big D?” Rolondo’s now hanging over my seat, his grin wide and fucking evil. He laughs, a low, easy chuckle, before giving my head a playful slap. “You think you’re hidin’ anything, man?”
“Seriously?” I groan at them. “You all haven’t got anything better to do?”
“Yeah.” Rolondo’s grin is still in place, shining brighter than the diamond in his ear. “Doesn’t beat seeing you squirm in your seat. Damn, boy, you blushing?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and pray for a bus crash.
“He’s got it bad,” observes Diaz from behind me. Which is when I realize that they’re all fucking looking at me. The whole goddamn bus.
I am going to kill Gray, who is conspicuously quiet in his seat at the front, trying to appear innocent as he flips through Sports Illustrated.
“Who is it, yo?” asks Marshall from across the way.
“I heard she’s the girl from that lacrosse team party about a month back,” Dex says. “The redhead wearing that killer black tank top.”
At this, all the guys who were there instantly nod in understanding. Hell, Anna’s top obviously made an impression.
Dex looks around at his now captive audience. “The way Baylor was watching her, you’d think she was the championship trophy.”
“Naw, Dex,” says Diaz. “You can’t eat no trophy. And Battle most definitely looked hungry.”
Snickers break out. Jesus, was everyone watching me make a fool of myself at that party?
Rolondo whistles low. “Must be one fine girl to get Battle worked up.”
“She looks like Christina Hendricks,” Dex adds helpfully.
Rolondo shakes his head. “Man, ain’t no one on campus got tits that big. Believe me, I’d know.”
“Watch your mouths,” I snap. I don’t care if I have to take down the whole bus. No one is discussing Anna that way. Even if Rolondo is technically correct, Anna is nowhere near that big... Shit. I officially hate these guys.
Rolondo holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean no disrespect.” Because if there is one golden rule among men, it’s that you do not talk smack about a guy’s girl or his mom. “I’m just sayin’, you mention Christina Hendricks, and I’m thinking about one thing.”
“And I didn’t say anything about your girl’s ti—breasts,” Dex insists. “I said she kind of looked like the lady. As in has a noticeable resemblance. Facial resemblance.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose is clearly useless against this burgeoning headache.
“Yo, don’t you think she looks more like the Black Widow in The Avengers?”
A round of appreciative agreement rumbles through the bus.
“That movie was tight,” Simms interjects. “Remember when the Hulk smashed the shit out of Loki like he was some rag doll? Damn, I’d kill to do that on the field. Take some running back and bam, bam, bam!”
“Bet you sorry you ain’t green too.” Rolondo throws an empty Pringles can at the Hulk-loving defensive end, which he bats away with a scowl before retaliating with a half-full water bottle.
“Whatever she looks like, our boy Drew is whipped.” That from Marshall. Bastards. All of them.
“Why don’t you just call her, man?” someone shouts from behind. Jenkins. I compile a mental list for revenge purposes.
“Oh, honey,” intones Thompson—another smart-ass, “I miss you soo muuuch!”
When they start making kissing noises, I do the only thing I can. “Marshall’s girl gave him a pink teddy bear, and he carries it around in his bag,” I shout.
“Betraying bastard!” bellows poor Marshall. But it’s too late for him. He goes down in a tackle of guys as he tries to defend his backpack.
Chaos ensues until the assistant defensive team’s coach stands up at the front of the bus and settles everyone down with the threat of extra drills. Yeah, I love these guys. I’m smug and satisfied until Dex leans in, speaking only to me. “If you’re really into this girl, lock that shit up. Lock it up tight and concentrate on your game.”
And like that, my bubble bursts. What the fuck am I doing with Anna?
He’s not here. He’s at an away game. Florida. This is how far I’ve sunk. I know his schedule. And I’m sitting in my room at ten o’clock on a Saturday night instead of going out with Iris and George. I’d begged off, using a need-to-read excuse. I love curling up with a good book. Except tonight it was a lie. My eReader is off and sits on the end of my bed where I tossed it earlier in a huff of irritation. A girl can only read the same line so many times before giving up the ghost.
I’m so restless my legs twitch, which only adds to my annoyance when my bare legs slide over the comforter and little zings of feeling run along my sensitized skin. Thoughts of the things Drew has done to me on this very bed invade my mind and make me flop back with a groan. Shit.
Shoving my face into a pillow doesn’t help. Nothing does.
I should do something, something physical, go for a walk—because I hate running—or try those core-strengthening vids that Iris is addicted to. A thousand sit-ups sounds about right. I’m rummaging for a sports bra when my phone dings. And my whole body freezes. But not my heart. That pounds with want and glee.
I walk with admirable calm and leisure to my bedside table where my phone lies.
The message, with its little green symbol shines up at me on the dark screen. Drew.
A grin splits my face. My hand shakes only a little when I slide the screen and read.
Baylor: Hey. You there?
Should I answer? Maybe I shouldn’t be “there” because I know what he means. Not am I by my phone. What person on this campus doesn’t have a phone on hand at all times? He means am I free to talk. Am I sitting around on a Saturday night pining for... I pause. If he’s asking then he too must be free.
I nibble the corner of my lip as I answer.
Me: I’m here
It only takes him a second to reply.
Baylor: What are you up to?
And then:
Baylor: I’m in my hotel room.
Like he needs me to know that he isn’t just checking on my whereabouts, but that he wants to chat. I am absolutely not grinning as I settle down on my bed and get comfortable.
Me: I’m in my room too.
Baylor: On the bed?
Me: Beats sitting on the floor.
Baylor: I love that bed.
The pig. I’m never having sex with him on this bed again. Maybe his bed—let him have memories haunting him every time he tries to sleep.
Me: Pig.
Baylor: I’m a guy. Porcine thoughts are indicative of our sex.
Only Drew would use words like porcine and indicative in a text.
Me: Knowing is half the battle. Why aren’t you out?
There. I asked. And it nearly killed me. It kills me more when he takes a few seconds before answering.
Baylor: Didn’t want to go out.
Me: Why not?
Stop. Stop now, you masochistic fool!
My phone remains still, accusatory. You had to ask, it seems to say to me. I jump when it dings again.
Baylor: Tired of it. Going out. The scene. The guys want to party.
He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t need to. No one on his team really drinks, which means there’s only one party option available. My stomach threatens to do an ugly, green slide into jealousy when I think of all the girls that would be hanging all over him were he out tonight. But he’s not. He’s texting with me. He sends another.
Baylor: And you’re not here.
My throat closes. Honest to God closes. I can’t swallow. I stare at the phone lying limp in my clammy hand. An insidious voice in my head shouts Danger, I’d Turn Back If I Were You! This is too close to a relationship. I don’t want one.
The worst part is, I’m lying to myself. He isn’t the arrogant jerk I thought he was. I want him. Constantly. I want to talk to him, laugh with him. A few texts and my whole night is brighter, the color and textures of my room richer, deeper. I can smell my body lotion, grapefruit and vanilla, when it had been a muted muddle before. And I can taste the sourness of fear in my mouth. It sharpens when my phone rings in my hand.
Drew.
He’s onto me. He knows I’m about to freak. My heartbeat is a relentless, thud, thud, thud that I’m certain he hears when I slowly slide the bar and answer. “Break a finger over there or something?”
“I decided I wanted to hear your voice instead,” he says with a little laugh.
Because he isn’t in front of me, because I’m not distracted by his golden glow, his voice has that much more power over me. It sinks through dense flesh and slides along bone, nestling deep into that hard-pumping organ that used to be my heart. It doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
“And I hate texting,” he continues. He’s unsure. I can hear it in the way he tries to force a light, joking tone. And because I know this is hard for him, the guy for whom everything comes easy, I clear my throat and dive in.
“It’s impersonal,” I add.
There’s a real smile in his voice now. “Yeah. Most people don’t get that.”
“Are you tired?” My tongue feels bigger than normal, like I’m going to soon trip on my words, tell him something I’m not ready to admit.
“Yeah.” The sound of him shifting around comes through the phone, and I immediately wonder if he’s in bed. Does he sleep naked? “Can’t sleep though,” he says, thankfully unaware of my devolving thoughts.
“Happen a lot?” I know it does. We’ve already talked each other to sleep before.
“More so now.” He pauses. “I keep thinking about you.”
Shit on a pretzel stick.
The pillow is soft against my back, but my skin is still too warm. “I think about you too.”
He sighs. It’s soft and gusty, and I lean toward it, pressing my cheek to the phone.
“I wish I were there,” he says.
I do too. So much it hurts. It hurts deep in my chest and along my stomach. I slide farther down the bed, as if I can run away from the feeling.
When I don’t say a word, he just keeps talking. Maybe he knows I’m hiding under the covers now. Maybe he knows I’ve lost my voice.
“You ever wonder if who you are is the person you’re supposed to be?” He speaks low now, as if he’s lying beside me on the bed, as if we’re having the kind of drowsy chat you use at a sleepover, just before you nod off.
“Like should I be trying to change who I am?” I ask him.
“Not exactly. More like...” He laughs softly. “Hell, I’m not even sure. I just... I’ve always wanted to play football. I can’t even fathom an existence that doesn’t include it.”
“At least you know. I have no idea what I want to do. I don’t want it to be drudge work. I don’t want it to be boring. I want a life outside the ordinary. But how do you get that when you’ve no clue?” When all you are is ordinary.
I’ve opened more of my soul to him. But it doesn’t hurt, because he gives me glimpses of his in return.
“You think knowing is better? All I know how to be is a quarterback. And every moment of it revolves around winning. Or losing.” He pauses as if struggling. “Think of it, a whole life constantly focusing on the next game. So does that make me who I am? An endless roster of victories and losses?”
For a moment I feel the weight of every one of those eyes that constantly bear down on Drew. And it’s crushing. My fingers tighten around the phone. “Are you afraid to lose?”
At first, I think he won’t answer, but he does, and his voice carries a strange, almost secretive tone. “You want to know what winning really is?”
“Tell me.”
“It isn’t about talent. Not at the top level. That’s almost equal. And it’s not even about who wants it more. It’s about who believes with the most conviction they can take it. Fear, doubt, hesitation, that’s what kills you.”
“Are you afraid?”
“In the dark, late at night? Yeah. Sometimes. On the field? No. Hell no. It’s just in me. Knowing I can do it.”
I smile at that. “Yet you sound...low. Did you lose the game today?”
“We won.” There’s a hint of amused censure in his tone. “Do you ever watch my games, Anna?”
Anna. The sound of my name on his lips feels more personal than when I bare my skin to him.
I burrow further under the covers. “Once.” It had been a beautiful and agonizing thing to watch. My stomach had clenched every time he took the field. “I didn’t like seeing you get hit.”
I’d hated it, hurt for him. And yet every time he made a play, I’d felt such pride, such awe of his skills that my breath had grown short and my heart had ached.
The silence between us is pregnant and swelling. I rush on. “And I think how you see yourself makes you who you are. Your soul doesn’t have a title or an occupation. It’s just you. The rest of the world can go fuck themselves.”
That brings a dry chuckle from him. But he soon goes quiet again.
“And how do you see me?” he finally asks. So carefully.
“You’re just Drew.”
A coward’s answer. But also the truth. He’s too much for simple words and too much to be cut into categories by them.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he says softly.
“Beauty fades,” I choke out.
“Not when it comes from inside.”
Jesus. My eyes flutter closed, and I’m curling into myself. We don’t talk. His breathing is a light noise that mingles with the sound of my own.
When he speaks again, his voice has gone even lower, a caress along my cheek. “I want to kiss you, Anna.”
My breath hitches. I’m all the way under the covers now, in a dark, heated world. And there’s nothing but his voice.
“I think about it all the time. How soft will your lips be? What will they taste like? Will you make those sweet little noises like you do when we make love?”
Make love. Not fuck. I shiver. Drew.
I don’t even know if I’ve said his name aloud. It doesn’t matter because he just keeps talking, a confession that grows more urgent even as it slows down. “I want to kiss you so badly, I’d forgo the sex for a chance at your mouth. I love your mouth, Anna. The way your upper lip is like a bottom one, a plump, smooth curve that puffs out like a pout. I love your soft, pink, upside-down mouth.”
His whisper is rough and thick. And I’m so hot I’m sweating. My hand glides down my chest, to the swells of my heavy, aching breasts, and stops over my heart. I press against it as if to keep it from breaking free of my body.
“But you won’t let me kiss you,” he says to me in the dark. “Why won’t you let me kiss you, Anna?”
I can’t breathe.
“Why, Anna?”
“It’s too much,” I rasp.
“Not when I want everything.” He says it so deep and strong, a staking of a claim. “And I want everything with you, Anna.”
I think he says my name now because he knows what it does to me. He must, using it that way, over and over, like he’s saying something far more important than just my name. He says it with reverence. With intention.
Tears prickle behind my eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me? I care about him.
He’s my lover, but he’s my friend too. The one I find myself turning to first and foremost. Why can’t I just give in? Why can’t I let myself have him?
In my mind, I see Drew Baylor, microphones shoved under his face as he hollers in victory after winning the National Championship. One hundred thousand screaming fans are in the background. Drew Baylor, who personally brings millions of dollars in revenue to this university, who is interviewed by ESPN, who has agents crawling around him, promising the world. Drew, who will go to New York for the draft and sign a multimillion-dollar contract by this time next year.
I’ve lied to him. I don’t just see Drew. I see the star too. And I’m just Anna. I don’t like the light. I need the dark.
He’s too smart not to understand that he’s pushed me to my limit, and his tone turns gentle, tender. Which is infinitely worse. “I just thought you should know. Good night, Anna.”
I don’t say a word. I hold on to my phone long after he’s hung up.