Score (Skin in the Game Book 1) Page 3

  Flora burst out laughing. “Come on. That’s hilarious.”

  Maybe in a month…or a year, I’d see the humor in it. But he’d looked at me like I was a dying gnat on his windshield. Pathetic. I’d gotten so flustered, I had to run away with my tail between my legs like a pre-pubescent teen in the face of Justin Bieber.

  “Who was this hot specimen of manliness who witnessed your shame, anyway?” she asked, not bothering to hide her perma-grin.

  “Callum Samskevitch.”

  Flora’s jaw dropped and her dark eyes went wide. “Get. Out.”

  “You know him?” I don’t know why I asked. It was obvious from the way she was practically salivating that she did.

  She nodded. “I mean, I don’t know him, but who doesn’t know of him? Tight end, right?”

  “Wide receiver.”

  “Oh, God, you poor soul. He’s fine. Those eyes! I know why I thought he was a tight end. Did you ever see that ass of his in those little pants the football players wear?”

  Flora was so far off in Lala-land, she’d forgotten the number one rule in the Belinda Grace Mitchell Playbook.

  Never go to football games.

  When she came back to this planet, she eyed me up and down, her brow wrinkled with pity.

  “And you looked like…”

  “Say it,” I groaned. “Just say it. Callum Samskevitch is a Greek God and I look like shit on the bottom of someone’s shoe.”

  “Well, not always,” she said with an encouraging smile. “But yeah. Today, it’s not looking great, Bee. That’s why I always tell you—”

  “I know, I know. ‘Never leave the house without lip gloss and mascara on. You never know when you might run into a Hemsworth’,” I parroted back to her.

  She’d drilled it into my head enough, but somehow I’d managed to ignore her. Now, though, I was starting to think she had a point.

  I wondered idly if I possessed the willpower to just hold my breath until death took me.

  Flora rolled to her feet and flopped on my bed next to me to take my hand. “Don’t think I’m about to let you sell yourself short, girl. You put that five-minute face together, bare your cleavage next time, maybe put on some clothes that fit you for once, and he’s yours.”

  Getting a guy was exactly that simple for Flora. On her, it was the recipe for instant success. Me? Unless he had a passion for girls who could run super fast despite carrying ten extra pounds or cook a mean can of Spaghetti-O’s, I was pretty sure I was shit out of luck.

  I was about to tell her that when I realized that wasn’t the point.

  “I don’t want him, anyway,” I murmured.

  She cocked a dubious brow in my direction and snorted. “You do realize you are probably the only girl on campus who has ever said that?”

  That was truth. There was no denying that a specimen of man as fine as Callum Samskevitch probably had his own entourage of female admirers.

  “Totally not worth the ego and drama that comes along with footballers, but you’re right. There should be a law against a guy being that hot,” I agreed. “It’s entirely too distracting.”

  “Not to mention that he’s hung like a water buffalo,” Flo said with a broad wink.

  I tossed aside the pillow I’d been hugging to my chest and sat up. “Wait, what? How do you know that?”

  “Gossip,” she said, inspecting her manicure.

  I should’ve known. There wasn’t a gossip-worthy tidbit alive that Flora wouldn’t latch on to and retain until she was on her deathbed.

  A ridiculous image of a naked Callum Samskevitch planted itself in my head. In it, he looked like a muscular tripod, so well-hung that it practically dragged on the ground. He’d have to roll it up, like a garden hose, just to fit it in his pants.

  Was that even a good thing?

  I didn’t have much experience with that part of the male anatomy. I mean, the only one I’d ever come into contact with was Stephen Bushmill’s at prom four years ago, and he was hung like a mosquito.

  My cheeks went hot and I banished the image of a naked Callum from my mind, focusing instead on the peeling paint on the ceiling.

  “Well, good for him. And, sure, he’s great looking. But I’m still not interested,” I insisted, willing the heat in my cheeks to subside.

  I didn’t know much, but there was one thing I knew for sure. Ball players made terrible partners. They had three things on their minds twenty-four seven. Football, themselves, and other women, in that order. I’d have to be a masochist to want to be with a guy like Callum.

  Not that he would ever want someone like me anyway.

  Which meant all was right with the world. Things were exactly the way they should be. The Callum Samskevitches never wound up with the Bee Mitchells. It was best for everyone that way.

  So then why does your stomach flip every time you think about him?

  Flora stood, crossing the room to her dresser and fishing around for a bra. Unlike me, she’d smartly planned her senior year schedule so she had all afternoon classes, with course titles like Basket Weaving 101, Insects and You, and Math for the Barely Functioning. But she was a Theater Arts major, so this year was the end of the line for her. I, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to coast if I wanted to get into a great grad school.

  And I also couldn’t afford to let someone like Callum Samskevitch get to me. Not when my clinicals were a huge part of my grade. I had to get past this awkwardness so I could do my job and do it well.

  “Suit yourself. But it seems to me like someone has a little crush,” Flora said as she hopped around, trying to pull a pair of skinny jeans over her slim hips.

  I froze in place as the words registered. What had I been doing? I’d just been sitting there, on my bed. Innocently. I wasn’t drooling, or writing Mrs. Callum Samskevitch on my notebooks, or doing a thing in the world to scream “crush”.

  But this was Flora. She was my bestie. My partner in crime. And she knew me better than I knew myself sometimes.

  Ninety-nine percent of the time, I liked it. It was because of her I survived the day-to-day struggle of living in Kappa house. We were the only two legacies that had rushed. Her sister had been a Kappa, just like my mom, and because of that, we’d gotten in automatically. So most of rush week, it was just Flora and me, watching the other pledges fall all over themselves to impress while she and I sat together by the punch table. We drank waaay too much and quickly became inseparable.

  Flora had always been way more into the sorority thing than me, but she got me. She didn’t care that I skipped the socials or the parties. She liked that I was different. My mom and all the other Kappas?

  Not so much.

  So I knew I’d forgive her for the Josh Groban stunt. And for thinking I might have had a crush, which I absolutely, one hundred percent, did not. But I needed to dissuade her of the notion, fast. Before she did something…Flora.

  “Do you know who you’re talking to, Flo? It’s me.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Oh, right. You hate football players…why again?”

  A memory of my dad, coming back from a speaking engagement where he was the guest of honor, materialized in my head. He’d been sloshed, nearly broke the banister as he tried to climb the stairs. I’d listened through the door as my mom calmly told him she’d found lipstick on the bottom hem of his shirt. He’d been the low-life, cheating asshole, and yet he always managed to turn it around so that she was the one apologizing.

  I forced it away. “Because they’re all ego. They treat women like crap.”

  “Surely, not all of them, Bee.”

  I stood up. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to spend my time hunting for the exception to the rule. I’m there to manage his therapy, not become his girlfriend.”

  Flora tugged on her bottom lip and got this kind of dreamy expression on her face. “Do you get to touch his…”

  I cut her off. “Nope. No. Don’t even go there.”

  She threw a t-shirt on over he
r head and laced up her combat boots.

  “All right, Lovely. No crush. Forget I ever said it. And how about if I make you one of my famous grilled cheeses for lunch, so you can drown your sorrows at having to touch Callum Samskevitch’s…I’m sorry, not having to touch Callum Samskevitch’s water buffalo appendage?”

  “Deal,” I said.

  Flora’s grilled cheeses were to die for, so I let the rest of her sass slide.

  I was just about to follow her into the kitchen when my phone buzzed. New text.

  I jabbed my thumb at the screen and opened the message.

  Thks 4 today. Knee feeling good. Next one Saturday? Same time, same place?

  I groaned. Wasn’t that what we’d already agreed on? I jabbed in a snarky remark, then deleted it, and punched out a simple Y. I was overthinking this whole thing way too much when I didn’t need to be thinking about Callum Samskevitch at all.

  But I couldn’t deny that a part of me—one I wished I could rip from my body and shred into a thousand pieces—had come alive when I’d seen his text. And that part?

  Couldn’t wait until Saturday.

  4

  Cal

  There’s this scene in Rebel Without a Cause where Jim Stark—James Dean—is with his parents after getting arrested for public drunkenness, and they’re arguing back and forth, oblivious to him, until he screams, You’re tearing me apart!

  As I looked at my bum appendage, those words echoed in my head.

  The rest of my body was willing and able. But that one fucking joint, a glorified ball of tendons and muscle and bone, couldn’t get with the program.

  “Come on, knee. It’s go big or go home. Do or die. There’s no I in team.” I spouted as many of Coach Beal’s tired sayings as I could think of as the pain shot up the sides of my kneecap, straight to the thigh.

  Every time I flexed it, it made its answer very clear to me.

  Fuck off, kid.

  And I’d felt so damn good the day before. Coach Beal told me I could come to practice so long as I took it easy. I was out there, running laps, catching balls. It felt so right to be on the field again. Every muscle in my body was like, thank you, thank you, thank you for doing this! The cold air felt good in my lungs. I remember thinking, “Your ass better make friends with the bench, Weber, because they’re going to be real close again, real soon.”

  But then Andrews threw a ball wide. Someone called, “Heads up, Samsky!” and I turned on my heel, wrenching my body to the side.

  It didn’t hit me, at first. I was all about getting the ball. I landed with pigskin in my hand, psyched that I’d made the play. Until I tried to put weight on the leg and pain shot up to my groin.

  At first, I thought I could walk it off. I paced down the sidelines like I was walking a high wire, but with every step, the pain intensified.

  That was when I knew I was fucked. I’d been so sure it was getting better, but it seemed like all the work I’d done to improve had disappeared with one wrong move and I was back to square one again.

  I wouldn’t limp. No way in hell would I let Beal see this. Before I took another step, I went through a mental checklist—teeth not clenched? Check. Forehead not wrinkled? Check. Eyes not leaking the Fear of God? Check.

  I took another step and strangled the groan of pain deep in my throat.

  I was so fucked.

  I hadn’t made it another ten steps before Beal noticed. He clapped me on the back and said, “Ice it.”

  The guy had the poker face to end all poker faces, but I still saw the pity. I spent the rest of practice with my knee in a deep freeze as I watched Weber running the length of the field and back again, completing catch after miraculous catch to the hoots and hollers of the rest of the team.

  My Friday had officially sucked a bag of dicks and I couldn’t wipe the snarl off my face as I trudged into the locker room that Saturday. The place was nearly empty, which was a good thing. I couldn’t stand looking at my teammates. The few that weren’t feeling sorry for me were sizing me up for my job.

  Johnson was there, though. The guy didn’t miss a day at the gym, but with the amount of alcohol and garbage bar food he put away every weekend, he couldn’t afford to.

  He spied me in the mirror as he patted his wet, black hair into submission. “Hey, Samsky, you going tonight?”

  Johnson’s fraternity, D-Phi, didn’t waste a weekend night. The kegs were always open there, even for breakfast. Ordinarily, after a hard week of classes and practice, I’d jump at the chance to have some laughs, unwind, maybe scope out some ladies.

  Now I mostly wanted to punch something, so I doubted I’d do much unwinding, but I nodded anyway.

  “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

  If nothing else, I could drink myself into oblivion.

  Johnson grinned as he pulled a sweatshirt jacket over his #32 jersey. He had those numbers carved into the back of his hair, tattooed on his calf, hell, even his license plate read THURTYWO. Like most guys playing D-1 ball, he lived the sport.

  Like me. Only with one big difference.

  I wanted it more than him. More than all of them put together. And now I was at risk of losing it all. God knew, I didn’t have the grades to do anything else. And I sure as shit didn’t have any money to pay for trade school. If I was going to make anything of myself, I had to be drafted to play pro.

  That was my only shot.

  “Your girlfriend’s here.”

  I looked up as Johnson swung his backpack over his shoulder and hooked a thumb toward the last row of lockers.

  I turned to see Bee sitting on the therapy table, nose buried in a giant anatomy textbook, all of her supplies arranged beside her. She must’ve gotten there early.

  “Busy Bee,” I called over to her, trying to keep my voice light in spite of the new wrinkle with me knee. “You’re early.”

  She looked up, closed the textbook, and hopped off the table.

  “You’re late.”

  Okay. So her mood hadn’t improved since last time, but the rest of her had. She was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt that stretched tight across her chest. Well, who would’ve guessed it? Little Miss Know-It-All had a nice rack. A runner’s ass, too, judging by her profile. And damned if her hair didn’t look a little sexy down on her shoulders and in her face like that.

  The darkness hanging over me subsided just a little, and I couldn’t help but yank her chain some as I walked toward her.

  “You dress up for me?” I asked, jerking my chin at her outfit.

  Cue the scowl.

  “You call this dressed up?” She motioned me up onto the bench with a snort. “This is how I always look. I was running late last time. I’m never late, so I was kind of—frazzled.”

  “As the front steps of the Kappa house can attest.”

  “Right.” She glanced at her clipboard. She was trying to play it off like she didn’t care, but I could tell from the way she blushed that she did. That blush. Fuck, when had I started getting turned on by girls who blushed?

  “So how are we feeling today?”

  Funny how my other brain sometimes took over. When she pulled me back to earth, I remembered the cold, cruel truth. I felt like garbage. But I just shrugged.

  “We’re feeling just fine.”

  “Ready for your first full workout with me?”

  I clapped my hands together in an attempt to psych myself up. “Yep. Bring it.”

  Her hands wrapped around my thigh. Once again, the motion was accompanied by the glorious cock twinge I figured I’d better get used to. She smelled good again, too, like a girl should smell—not heavy, choking perfume, but clean, like soap and toothpaste.

  She pulsed her hands on my skin, testing the tendons. That was all right. That, I could take. Not great, but not bad, either.

  “There’s some swelling here,” she observed.

  Well, no shit.

  “If you want to see some real swelling, move your hands a little north.”

  She wrinkled h
er nose. “Pass.”

  Then, without warning, she pushed my leg toward my chest and my whole world exploded in pain.

  “Fuck!” erupted from my mouth, because there was no way of swallowing it back. I did, however, manage to preserve my manly dignity by squeezing back the saltwater that threatened to trickle from my eyes.

  She pursed her lips, seemingly unaffected by my near-death experience. “Hmm. That didn’t happen last time.”

  “See? If you had just gone north, it wouldn’t have happened at all,” I cracked, trying to keep her from hearing the devastation in my voice.

  When I met her eyes she was studying my face. She was so on to me, it wasn’t even funny.

  I put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Fully inappropriate. It’s just, if I don’t find a way to laugh about this I’m probably going to…”

  Not cry. Football players don’t cry. But I couldn’t think of any better word.

  “Cry?” she filled in.

  “I was going to say ‘lose my shit’, but whatever. This probably sounds pretty dumb to a brilliant student like you, but football’s my only way out. I’m here on a sports scholarship. My dad walked out when I was a kid, and my mom gave up just about everything so I could play when I was young. I wouldn’t be able to afford college otherwise. I need to be here and I need to play.”

  The girl clearly hated me. Why was I feeling the urge to go all TMI on her?

  I quickly came up with a joke to save face.

  “I mean, how would you handle it if you didn’t have hands? And, like, couldn’t feel up hot athletes like yours truly all day?”

  I expected the familiar scowl, but I didn’t get it. Even though I’d never seen it on her before, I knew the look in her eyes. I’d seen it in Coach Beal’s while I’d been icing my leg. I saw it in my teammates’, too, albeit theirs was more of a Shoot-me-if-I-end-up-like-him thing.

  Pity.

  Fuck that. I didn’t deal in pity. I didn’t need to. As of a month ago, I’d been on the top of the world. I had the talent and drive that Sporting News had called, “Never-before-seen.” Big-name scouts tucked business cards in my hands, and hot girls tucked phone numbers into my pockets.