14. Player
PLAYER
Like after every game, I feel completely energized even though it's nearly two in the morning. I'll be a zombie tomorrow as I try and catch up on classwork that I’ve been putting off all week.. I push that thought from my mind. I could just say fuck it, and my problem would be solved.
Immediately, Miss Coles' image forms before my eyes, and I can feel all the disapproval she won't fail to express when she calls me out for fucking up next week’s quizzes. "Two failed tests? Academic probation!!"
"Damn it," I grumble.
The fact is, my father pulled strings to get me into OMU, despite my football ability.
Many universities offered me a scholarship, yet none of them seemed good enough for my father.
He kept pushing me to go here. OMU’s got a strict academic reputation, and it’s a school that still believes in the whole ‘student’ part in student athletics.
It doesn’t even have special dorms just for the athletes.
But it's just another strand in the web that my father weaves, another way he’s got power over me, with the implicit rule that I cannot complain, at least publicly.
I hate being kept on such a tight leash!
I stand up and pace back and forth across my room, which doesn't take long given how cramped it is, at least by my standards. Despite my father's connections, he can't create something out of nothing—all the dorms on campus look just like mine. I’m lucky just to have a room to myself.
The sound of breaking glass on the other side of my door pulls me from my thoughts. Without even bothering to put on a t-shirt, I leave the room. I freeze in the common room.
Dixie is there, crouched down, her ass delectably facing me. She's picking up pieces of glass from the floor. I stand motionless watching her, arms crossed over my chest.
"You're really not good at this, Alabama. I feel sorry for any guy who trusts you with his dick."
"Shut up, Player."
She doesn't look up as she speaks, and her tone is at least as sharp as the glass shards she's gathering.
A knife-edge silence fills the room. We must be the only ones still awake at this hour, because nobody comes to check what's happening.
"Ouch!"
Alabama's little cry is followed by crimson drops plopping onto the floor. She freezes, her gaze fixed on the cut in her palm. Seeing that she has no intention of moving, I approach her.
"Shit, Dixie!"
I grab her arms and force her to stand up. She still has her head down, and I'm surprised to find myself wondering what's wrong with her.
"Alabama, snap out of it!"
When her eyes meet mine, I feel like I've taken an uppercut to the stomach. There's such pain in her eyes that I doubt it's just from the cut she just inflicted on herself.
She still isn't responding, so I do the first thing that comes to mind: I bend down to slide an arm under her knees and lift her up.
I'm careful not to step on any glass shards as I carry her to the bathroom, where there’s a first aid kit.
Dixie's light as a feather in my arms, calling to my instincts.
The scent of her shampoo fills my nostrils as I tighten my grip on her thighs.
The softness of her skin doesn't escape me, but I ignore it.
Once we're in the bathroom, I set Dixie down before grabbing her wrist to examine her wound.
"It's superficial," I assure her.
She responds with only a slight shrug, and I frown when I realize she has no intention of treating it.
I let out an annoyed sigh before opening the cabinet above the sink in search of a first aid kit.
What's gotten into me, taking care of her?
I ignore this question and focus on rinsing, disinfecting, and bandaging Dixie's small but deep wound. She flinches a little when I pour the disinfectant on her skin, but she doesn't protest.
"No Disney Princess bandages, I'm afraid," I comment. "You'll have to make do with this."
I point to her hand, but Dixie's gaze remains fixed on my face. My jab hasn't affected her—unless her brain is damaged too?
"You're actually less of an asshole than I thought," she observes.
I turn my back to put away the bandages, and she can't see the smile spreading across my lips.
"If I were you, I wouldn't count on tonight, Alabama."
The medicine cabinet door slams as I close it with a sharp movement. I turn back toward my neighbor, who's staring at me with a distracted look.
"I am an asshole, never forget that, Dixie," I state. She doesn't look convinced, so I add, "My good mood is only because we won tonight."
I realize she's standing almost naked in front of me, and even though I just patched her up and she's not in her normal state, I find her incredibly hot.
Damn it!
No, something's seriously wrong with me lately. Why does this woman affect me so much? I swore I wouldn't sleep with her, yet that resolution seems to slip further away every time I see her.
Dixie nods, and I wonder if it's in response to what I just said or if she's lost in her thoughts.
"Don't go thinking I care about your life, Alabama. I just didn't want you messing up the common area with your blood."
Without waiting for her reaction, I leave the bathroom. I hear Dixie's footsteps behind me, but I pay them no attention. I feel the familiar anger rising. This time, it's directed at myself. What's wrong with me that I care about Alabama? I should have let her handle her own mess.
I walk past the glass still scattered on the floor and head towards my room.
When I reach the door, I glance over my shoulder and see that Dixie has started cleaning everything up.
She's wiping the blood with paper towels, then using a broom to sweep up all the glass shards before dumping the whole lot in the trash.
Her perky, tight, delectable ass, barely covered by black panties, taunts me, and I'm forced to mentally count to ten to not react to the sight. That's all the time it takes for my roommate to turn back around. She doesn't seem to have any intention of going back to bed.
Her eyes meet mine. The pain I noticed earlier has receded, but I can tell she's not herself.
I'm in the middle of an internal conflict, torn between wanting to go back to my room and wanting to ask Dixie for an explanation.
Without thinking further, I turn around and retreat into my room.
My door isn't even closed when Dixie's silhouette materializes on my threshold. I give her a surprised look.
"What now?" I mutter.
She stares at me intensely, as if trying to read me.
Good luck with that! I think bitterly.
"What's wrong with you?" she finally asks.
I don't hide my smirk, bitterly commenting, "You're asking me that? You could have bled out in the living room without even reacting."
She raises her eyebrows. "That's ridiculous!"
"Oh really? When exactly were you planning on treating your hand?"
Dixie looks away for a split second, without answering.
"Why were you up?" I regret asking the question, and at the same time, I want to know her answer. What she does, or doesn't do, somehow interests me.
"I had a nightmare," she admits reluctantly.
"You're just a little girl, Alabama."
My comeback at least has the merit of stinging her pride, because she lifts her head, squares her shoulders, and retorts, "Is that what I look like?"
She gestures toward her barely covered body. My gaze runs down her curves, registering every detail along the way.
"Maybe not on the outside," I concede, "but inside, you're just a kid."
A murderous gleam passes through her brown eyes. I love making her angry. Actually, it could totally become my favorite activity.
Suddenly, Dixie closes the distance between us. She presses herself almost against me, and again, I feel her scent envelop me. I clench my teeth. It would take just a small movement on my part for my hands to grab her hips. And who knows what would happen next?
Fuck! I'm such an idiot!
Nothing would happen because Alabama is not my type of woman. The only hitch is that my body doesn't seem to be on the same wavelength, and in no time, Dixie will notice.
As if reading my thoughts, my roommate places her hands on my chest. I inwardly curse myself for not putting on a t-shirt. No! More than that, I should never have left my room.
"What the hell are you doing?" I growl through my teeth.
Dixie has lifted her head to look me straight in the eyes, a determined expression on her face. "You keep telling me I'm a child," she retorts. Her fingers slide down my chest, following the path of my abs to venture even lower, and she breathily murmurs, "Would a kid do this?"
She presses her uninjured hand against my crotch, galvanizing me. With a quick movement, I grab her wrist to push her away from me. "Cut the crap!"
Our gazes are locked, neither of us willing to give in. Her chest rises at a rapid pace, and with each of her breaths, I feel her nipples brush against my skin through her tank top.
"You like mature women who are confident in themselves, right Player? Who says I'm not mature too?"
She twists to escape my grip, but I tighten my fingers around her wrist.
"Your current behavior is nothing like the femme fatale you're trying to be," I reply.
My barb hits home, as Dixie's face crumbles before my eyes. She shakes her head as if to chase away an unwelcome thought, then tries to take a step back, but I hold her in place.
"Let me go, Player," she says in a choked voice.
"No way." We stare at each other in silence for a brief moment before I add, "Now that you've disturbed me, I have the right to know what's going on with you."
She blinks several times, then shakes her head. "So you can mock me again? No thanks."
I release my grip and her arm falls to her side, but she makes no move to leave. I back up until my legs meet the edge of my bed.
"Tell me." And at that moment, I realize that I really want to know what put her in such a state. Obviously, Dixie has no intention of answering me, so I add, "Alabama, if you don't speak up right now, I'll take your little game tonight as an admission of your defeat."
She frowns. "In your dreams, Player!"
I smirk, but this time, for some reason, to relieve her worries. "I already told you: I don't dream about you."