Sacked (Gridiron #1) (13 page)

“
F
uck
,” Jack says, throwing himself down on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?”

The team got home this morning, and Jack had a meeting with his tutor over lunch. Apparently it didn’t go well.

“My tutor sucks. She spends more time trying to climb into my jock. I tell her I need her help and she hands me this paper.” He thrusts it at me. “What is this?”

I scan the paper. It’s a list of different models and a brief description of each. “An outline of sorts.”

“I signed up for this specific course because I thought game theory would be something I’d understand, but I don’t get even one of the concepts.” Jack looks anguished. “All these fucking models. I’m supposed to regurgitate this in a mid-term and final?” His bleak eyes meet mine. “Ellie, if I fail the class, my eligibility will disappear. I need to at least pass the midterm. I should have dropped the fucking class.”

The time for that has passed, unfortunately. “What about the playoffs?”

“Not to go all Denny Green on you, Ellie, but what playoffs? I won’t even be around for those games if I can’t pass this class. What was I thinking?” He drops his head into his hands and groans.

“It’s Jim Mora.”

“What?”

“Jim Mora had the postgame rant about the playoffs. Denny Green did the ‘They are who we thought they were’ bit.”

Jack stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Jim Mora was a coach for the Indianapolis Colts whose postgame rant in response to a reporter’s question about making the playoffs went viral.
Playoffs? What playoffs?
he’s seen spitting out from the podium. Green, the coach of the Cardinals, played an undefeated Bears and almost beat them, until the fourth quarter where the wheels came off and they lost the game. Green lost his shit during the post-game press conference. The reporter had to feel grateful for that barrier, because Green looked one step away from introducing his fist to the reporter’s face. Kind of how Jack looks right now. He’d like to take physical action against something—the class, the course syllabus, his tutor.

I need to watch my words carefully so that it doesn’t look like I’ve been sitting in the same class for the last two weeks. I put the tutor’s worksheet aside.

“Okay. Let’s look at game theory from a football standpoint. Take Seattle’s last play in the Super Bowl. Both run plays and pass plays from the one yard line had a close to 60% chance of success. But any play can be defended if the defense knows what to expect. If the run game is more powerful, then the rational decision is to run the ball because their physical resources are geared toward running. But the Patriots knew that Seattle had a more powerful run team, so their expectations play a role. Seattle decides that the expectation has a higher value than the powerful running game and calls a pass play.

“You have the statistical average of success of any given play impacted by the physical resources—your players—measured against the opponents players and the players expectations.”

“The political parties are opponents and the election is their Super Bowl, with the primaries and all of the stuff that comes before it acting as the season.” He’s starting to get it. Maybe I won’t have to do anything for him. He makes a few notes. “How do I find out the statistical chance of success?”

“Demographics. I guess that’s why polling is so popular. The parties try to analyze the likelihood of success of a position before moving to the bargaining table. Individual actors, such as the president, can increase or decrease bargaining power based on the position of power.”

“Size up the strengths and weaknesses of a certain political structure, the general mood of the electorate, and then predict?”

“I think that’s a fair analysis.”

“But there are like a dozen different models.” The space between his eyes gets tight.

“It looks by the syllabus, you’re only studying four of them.”

That cheers him up considerably. “Thanks, Ellie. That helps a lot. I don’t feel as helpless as I did before.”

“So your grade is a midterm?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.

“An ungraded one, a few assignments we can do outside of class by logging into our student account, and then a final paper. Five thousand words on one of these models applied to the passage of a National Marriage Act.”

“I’ll proof whatever you need me to proof.” I’m dreading the paper myself. I don’t fully grasp game theory and I foresee a lot outside-of-class reading in order to manage two extra papers—one for Jack and one for me.

“Thanks.” He leans back and looks at the ceiling. “Maybe Dad is right, and I am a dumb fuck.”

“You’re not.” I squeeze his arm. “This sort of thing is tough for everyone. You should see these kids at my grant center—”

“Oh fuck, what time is it?” He glances at his phone. “Sorry. I have to go. I’m going to miss a team meeting.” Jack jumps to his feet and throws his book into his gym bag. He refuses to meet my eyes. I hate that he’s down on himself because of this class. Jack has always hated dumb jock jokes because they hit too close to home. But he’s not dumb. On the field and with his team he doesn’t feel that way. It’s only in the classroom.

“Dinner later?” I ask hesitantly.

“Maybe.” But by the despondent tones in his voice, I’m guessing that’s a no.

“
Y
ou were right
. The book was good.” Masters’ eyes are heavy lidded, but it probably has more to do with tiredness than any sexiness on my part. We’re eating ribs, for crying out loud. When I okayed this place, I forget that ribs is the messiest meal around. Right up there with slurping spaghetti noodles.

Like everything Masters does, he manages to consume a full rack with ease and physical grace. One rib goes in his mouth and the bone comes out clean.

I struggle for about five minutes to cut the meat off, and then think
fuck it
, because I’m hungry, and start gnawing on it like the rest of the patrons. Masters smiles at me so I guess I don’t look too disgusting.

“Did you stay up all night reading it?” I shove the basket of mostly eaten ribs aside and start wiping up. It takes three paper towels and a wet wipe before I feel human again. I pop two peppermints in my mouth and watch as Masters does the same.

“Most of it. I read a lot on the plane to the game. Fell asleep on the way home.” He stretches, and I try not to pant too much as the worn blue of his T-shirt stretches across his defined pectorals.

“Your roommate didn’t mind, or do you, Knox Masters, get your own room?” I tease.

“I don’t think Johnny Football got his own room on the road.” He grins and I swear I hear panties drop three tables over. “Matty was, ah, occupied and I sat in the executive lounge. They have food up there. Free.” The smile on his face turns conspiratorial. “I ate a shit ton of olives.”

His confessional tone makes me laugh. A silence settles between us—the kind that happens right before someone ends a call—but I don’t want to hang up. So I ask him something that’s bothered me since we met in the stadium. “Why didn’t you ever tell me to keep your draft plans a secret?”

“I knew you wouldn’t tell,” he replies. The surety in his voice sounds obvious.

“How?” I shake my head.

“I just knew and you haven’t, so I’m right.” He leans forward and pins me with those turf green eyes of his. “Sometimes I know things in my gut immediately. Like in the game against Wisconsin my freshman year. I knew that they would run a trick play when I saw the tight end drop back off the line of scrimmage. I watched the tight end the whole time, and when he got the ball and flicked it back to the quarterback—

“You were there. You intercepted the ball and ran it in for a touchdown. Your first one as defensive end for the Warriors.”

“That’s right.” This time his voice is a tiny bit smug. He has every right to be. I’m here, rattling off his game plays like he’s a rock star, and I’m a groupie who knows every lyric to every song, even the ones on the B-side of the album.

“Anyone else up there?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Ace. He looked over at me a lot, hoping I’d leave.”

“Why?” I know the defense and offense like to hang separately, but that seems extreme.

“He’s banging the coach’s daughter, but thinks we don’t know. Everyone but Coach knows.”

I blanch. “I’m guessing that this is a problem for Coach?”

“Yeah.” Masters shrugs as if this is no big deal.

“He could cause problems for Ace.”

“No.”

“He could,” I insist. Why can’t he see this? It’s like Jack and high school all over again. “Ace could get benched or worse.”

Masters is so smart about the game. I can tell the way he acts on the sidelines, constantly in communication, that he’s clued into his teammates. There’s not a moment I’ve been with him in public that someone hasn’t stopped to say hi to him, and he’s always greeted those people with an easy smile and a word of gratitude.
Thanks for watching the game. Thanks for cheering for us. We need your support. Sixth man!
High five.

But about a potentially season wrecking affair between his starting quarterback and the coach’s daughter, he’s blind. Can I chalk this up to his sexual inexperience?

A big warm hand reaches across the table and tugs. “You done?”

I look down and see I’ve shredded a paper towel. “Yeah.”

With a concerted effort, I loosen my grip and let Masters pull the towel out of my hands. He stands up, throws a few bills on the table, and hustles me out of the restaurant.

The September night is warm, but I feel chilled inside. Jack’s poli sci class and the trouble with the team quarterback make me uneasy.

“I wondered why Jack went to juco. He’s too good of a player not to get a D1 scholarship.”

I lick my very dry lips. Maybe if I tell Masters it will put him on notice—at least alert him to potential trouble.

“I once dated the quarterback for Ward High School—the punk ass bitch as Jack likes to refer to him. Travis was pressuring me into having sex and I refused. He told me it was fine and that he wanted to wait too, but went off and slept with as many girls as possible behind my back. Someone finally told me and I dumped him. I was humiliated and angry that he’d cheated so obviously on me but I wasn’t sorry to see the ass end of him.” As I tell him the rest of it, Masters face grows dark. “Jack found him the next day and roughed him up.”

“Good for Jack.” Masters nods with approval.

I sigh. That was Jack’s response too. I didn’t agree. “Jack got a one game suspension. Next year rolls around and Travis decides that Jack doesn’t need to be thrown the ball. Ever. Maybe in another school Travis would be yelled at or even benched, but Travis’ father was the coach. So Jack got about ten passes his junior year and less than that his senior year. Jack didn’t have the game film to convince a quality school to give him a scholarship,” I finish.

“I’m sorry that happened,” he says gruffly.

I peek at him under my lashes and his jaw looks tight.

“Jack says it worked out for the best because he’s with the Warriors now.”

“He’s right. Still doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.” We exchange grim smiles. “What happened to the QB?”

“He flunked out of his first semester at USC because he drank too much.”

“Sounds like it couldn’t have happened to a better person.” Masters stops outside my apartment building and pulls me around to face him. “Jack’ll be fine here. The team will be fine. Coach wants to win more than anything, and he won’t crater his own chances because one of his players is sleeping with his daughter. Trust me on this.” He strokes a bit of my hair behind my face and tips my head up. “Everything is will be fine here. For both of you.”

“Just let you take care of everything?” I ask wryly.

“Nah, I’m not saying that. I’m saying worry about the things in your control.” His hand keeps sweeping across my forehead and his face lowers until it is only inches away from mine.

“Are you saying I have other things to worry about?” I ask hoarsely.

“Yes. Right now you should worry about getting me inside your apartment before we shock everyone in the building.” He smiles, but it’s a dark one full of promise.

I gulp but grab his hand and pull him inside. We don’t talk. There’s nothing to say, or at least nothing I want to give voice to. Masters must feel the same way. He grips my hand tightly, but stays slightly behind me as if he’s willing to let me lead.

The apartment is quiet and dark. A slight hum can be heard from Riley’s bedroom. I note the sound and give myself a little reminder to be quiet. These walls are paper thin.

Masters shuts the front door behind him with one hand and jerks me against him with the other. His mouth is on mine in an instant. It’s wetter and hotter than the bookstore kiss. I fist my hands in his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. Our lips separate for a second and then we’re back, fused together with our tongues doing battle. My hands rub themselves all over the ridges and valleys of his tightly defined chest and abs. Holy Jesus, he is ripped. My knees go weak.

His hands feel just as hungry. They cup my breasts, squeezing them, molding them together, and then releasing them to roam across my back and down to cup my buttocks. He lifts me upward and I jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist until I’m flush against his hard erection. It feels bigger than it did when he jerked off in the bathroom—and back then, it looked like a monster. God gave with two hands when it came to Masters. His arms are as big as my thighs and they hold me up effortlessly.

He swings me around and presses me against the door, grinding that big body against mine.

“My room,” I croak out. I need to be horizontal. I need to have him driving that large powerful frame into mine. I have never felt so alive and full of need as I have in this moment. I’m wet between my legs and feverishly hot. I rub against him and repeat my plea. “My room. The bed.”

We stumble toward the room still fused together, not wanting to separate for even a second. The door latches shut, but once inside the dark, small space, lit only by a low light on my desk and patches of moonlight streaming between the cheap mini blinds, he doesn’t immediately fling me to the bed.

Instead, he drops his head to my neck and then my shoulder. He drags his mouth down my shirt and then lowers to his knees. He’s so tall that even in that position, he still seems massive. I rest my hands on his shoulders because I don’t have the strength to stand on my own.

He tilts his head up and an impish grin appears on his face. “You tell me if you don’t like something. It’s my first time, you know.”

He lowers himself even more to kiss my thigh. I lock my knees and pray for some strength. His first time? Holy mother, those words
are
an incredible aphrodisiac. His tongue licks its way up toward my sex and then feathers down the opposite leg. There’s nothing tentative in his touch. No lack of surety when he pulls down my panties and pushes my short knit skirt up to my waist.

There’s a heavy groan. I look down to see him biting hard on his bottom lip.

“Sweet Jesus, baby, you are so gorgeous.” He places a big palm over my trimmed hair and rubs. The heel of his hand places exquisite pressure on my clit. I start to shake. “You like this?” He glances up for approval.

I nod and then nod some more, feeling like a bobble head. I’m only capable of one motion right now.

“Can you get off with just this?”

I’m so close I could get off with him holding me.

“Then how about this?” He replaces his hand with his mouth and the moment his hot breath and wet tongue makes contact with my skin, I go off. I shove my fist into my mouth as he lashes me with his hard tongue. My knees completely give out but his right hand shoots up to brace my butt while the left reaches up to squeeze my breasts. If this is how good he is his first time, I might not survive the second one.

My heart pounds against the thin wall of my chest and I fear it will burst out. Every surface of my skin feels like it’s on fire, and I’m a hot, needy thing filled with incoherent sounds and pleas for more. He doesn’t relent. He doesn’t ease off as my body trembles from one high into another. He keeps feasting on me as if he’s never had anything better touch his tongue.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groans. “So wet and tart. I could stay down here all week.”

I’ve given up stifling my own sounds. I push my hands in his hair, tugging on his short strands while he still holds me up, exposing me to his ravenous mouth. I feel greedy but I want more.

“Masters,” I whisper. “I need you.”

He pauses, mid lick, mid suck, and draws back.

“What’d you say?” His voice is gravelly and rough and rubs across my sensitized skin as surely as his hand.

“Let’s go to the bed,” I beg. He lets me sink to the ground in front of him. I kiss the side of his neck, salty with his sweat. When his still body doesn’t move, I sense something is wrong.

“What is it?” I ask.

He frowns. His face glistens from the moisture of my body and I feel both embarrassed and aroused.

“Did you just call me Masters?”

I shake my head, but we both know I did.

“Shit.” He pushes to his feet.

I reach for him and reflexively he helps me up, but as soon as my feet are flat on the floor, he turns away. Searching a moment, he finds his T-shirt and rubs it across his face.

I grab for him again.

“I’m sorry. It slipped out,” I babble.

“Why is this so hard for you?” He pulls on his shirt and shoves his big feet into his flips I hadn’t realized he’d even kicked off.

“I don’t know,” I say miserably. “Why can’t we just sleep together?” I sound like a whiny five-year-old and I kind of feel that way, too—like my favorite toy has been snatched from me.

“You know why.” He’s irritated. He places his hands on his hips and stares down.

I run my hand on his biceps and am perversely pleased when he trembles almost imperceptibly under my touch. He’s so, so fine. “You just had your tongue between my legs. I’ve watched you jerk off. Yet this one little thing you can’t let go?”

Masters rubs the side of his neck, the action shaking off my hand. “If it’s one little thing then it shouldn’t matter if we don’t have sex.”

“What do you want from me?

He hauls me up against his body and his unabated need nearly burns a brand against my stomach. “I want you to admit that this is something more than a casual fling. That it means something. I’m not giving it up for a one-night stand or even a one-semester stand. I could’ve done that the minute I walked onto campus. Hell, there were girls available during my recruiting trip. I had a girl ready to ride my jock after the game.”

My mouth drops open. I don’t like the thought of that at all.

He smiles grimly at my displeasure. “And not just one. Two, three. Whatever I wanted. And I could have that right now. I could walk out into the hallway of your apartment building and there’s someone out there who will take me up on an offer to fuck me silly. If that’s all I wanted, I wouldn’t need you.”

His brutal honesty is killing me.

“I do care about you.”

He shakes his head and sets me aside. I follow him out of my bedroom and down the hall to the door like a puppy in desperate need of affection. I can still feel him between my legs, his hard jaw working against my thighs, the suck of his mouth. The sounds, oh God, the sounds he made.