Tackled: A Sports Romance (10 page)

W
e're
all sitting around the table – my mom, Cassie and Sable, and my roommates. It's loud, everyone talking and passing food around like we're one big family. My mom has a way of making you feel like you're part of her family, which I guess is one reason my roommates think she's awesome. That and the cinnamon rolls. She makes a mean cinnamon roll.

"Now, Sable," my mom starts.

I know that tone. Next, she’s going to throw Sable at me as a potential girlfriend. I glance at Cassie sitting beside me. I engineered that seating arrangement personally. I wasn't about to let one of my roommates anywhere near her.

"Tell me you're not attached," she says.

"Mom," I warn.

"I'm single and free," Sable announces in the breezy, blunt way she does. From where I sit, I can see her wink across the table at Tank, who's munching on a piece of garlic bread. "That's a hint."

I stifle a laugh. Sable deflected that like a pro.

Tank blinks at Sable like a deer in the headlights. Or a guy who just had a girl out of his league hit on him.

"Subtle, Sable," Cassie says, laughing.

"I've never been a subtle kind of girl." Her eyes are on Tank. "I like to get straight to the point. I pick you, in case I wasn't clear."

"Damn it," grunts Emmett.

"Okay. Uh, you wanna hang out?" Tank asks.

"Well, look at that." My mother looks so proud. "I should run a matchmaking service. Now, if only I could get my son to –"

"Ma," I groan. This time there's no warning tone. I give my mother a look that's clear I'm not joking.

"Jonathan really is the sweetest guy you'll ever meet, Sable," my mom promises, changing the subject. "He has such a kind heart."

The conversation keeps going, my mom talking to Sable and my roommates, and I tune everything out because there's nothing I'm interested in as much as Cassie.

Or more specifically, Cassie's thigh. Under the table, I slide my hand to her leg, my fingers brushing against her skin.

When I look over at her, she's glaring. I think her nostrils might even be flared. She holds up her fork and narrows her eyes, making a subtle stabbing gesture that no one seems to notice.

In response, I squeeze her leg.

She doesn't say anything. She just gives me a look that could melt ice.

I'm honestly kind of surprised when she reaches for her cell phone instead of stabbing me in the back of the hand with a fork, which is totally what I deserve. I watch as she types out a text message. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I only take my hand away from her in order to grab it. Then Cassie turns to Sable, pretending to be preoccupied with whatever super interesting thing Sable is saying.

I open the text message.

I
type a response
.

I
don't hear
her phone vibrate after I hit
send
. She must have turned the sound off. But when she glances at me, I can tell she got the message loud and clear, which is good, because I'd hate to be less than clear about what I want.

My mother is busy interrogating my roommates, making sure everyone is making decent grades and asking about what they think of the pre-season hype surrounding our schedule this year. Meanwhile, all I can think about is how much I want Cassie naked again. I want to run my hands over her skin. I want to breathe her in. I can't wait to see her come.

Now my dick is hard, sitting here at the table with all of these people. Including my mother.

Cassie looks over at me again, her gaze falling to my lap. When she sees the hard-on I clearly have for her, she arches an eyebrow and turns away. I get a text message another minute later.

I text her back.

She texts again.

I respond:

When she gets it, she gives me a wide-eyed glare.

"Cassandra, how much more school do you have left?"

Cassie clears her throat. "Four years," she answers. "Maybe three. I'm taking summer classes and adding an extra class during regular semesters here and there."

Four years. Damn, that's a lot. I find myself suddenly irritated by the fact that my mother has known Cassie for all of five seconds and she knows more about this girl than I do.

"Four years?" my mother asks.

Cassie nods. "Sable and I are getting our Ph.Ds."

My mother practically beams with approval, casting a meaningful look my way. I already know full and well what that look means — that's the look that says, "You had better snap this girl up right now."

"So you'll be
doctors
," my mom says. She gives me the same look, but with raised eyebrows this time, as if I wasn't already clear on her meaning.

"Not the medical kind," Sable clarifies. "But yeah. Cassie will be a professor in a few years."

"You won't, Sable?" my mother asks.

Sable shrugs. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she admits. "I might set up a foundation or run a non-profit or something. That's pretty much what people in my family do."

Tank finally speaks. "That's cool," he says to her. "A foundation. Helping people is cool."

Cassie wants to be a professor. My mother asks her questions about what sociologists do and when Cassie speaks, she's so enthusiastic about what she does – and so damn sexy explaining it — that all of us jocks who don't give two shits about academics are sitting around the table practically slack-jawed listening to her talk.

She really likes teaching. I can tell.

And not just in the way she's been teaching me.

"
C
assie
!" I catch up with her outside the house where she's walking with Sable toward their cars.

Sable waves. "I'll see you at home, Cass," she yells before ducking away quickly.

Cassie pauses at the door of her car, looking around. "Don't, Colton," she warns me before I even try to touch her. "It's not even dark outside. Someone will see you."

"What if I don't care if they see us?"

"I lose my job if someone sees us," she says, her lips pursed. "So it matters to me."

"All right." I suddenly feel badly for pushing her like I have been without considering the consequences for her. I'm not used to thinking about them. I do what I want and let the chips fall where they fall. Being a star athlete means you get away with a lot of shit. I definitely don't think about them when it comes to women — easy hookups with no strings attached mean no consequences.

"Okay," she says, nodding. "I had fun. At dinner, I mean, not ... the other part. I mean, I didn't
not
have fun in your room."

I think this might be her way of blowing me off and suddenly I feel defensive.

"Yeah, totally fun," I agree with a careless shrug. "I mean, you know, it was no big deal. If you want to do it again sometime, text me."

Shit.
The words sounded okay in my head, but as soon as I hear them, I realize I sound like a total asshole. And what's worse is that I realize I don't want her to think I'm an asshole.

She gives me a weird look, then opens the car door. "Yeah. No big deal."

Back inside, my mother gets right on my case about Cassie as I help her load the dishwasher.

"Cassie is a catch," she says.

"She's my tutor," I remind her, irritated. That conversation by the car set me on edge.

And I keep fucking things up with her.

"Uh-huh," my mom says. "I saw the way she was looking at you tonight."

"There was no
look
, mom. There are rules about that stuff."

"Did I ever tell you about how my parents hated your father?"

"Your parents hated dad? I thought they loved him." My parents were high school sweethearts, married when they were eighteen. My father died at the beginning of my senior year in high school, twenty years later.

"Well, they did. Eventually," my mom concedes. "But your father wasn't exactly the kind of guy they wanted their daughter dating, much less marrying."

I don't bother to hide my laugh. "Dad was what, a juvenile delinquent?"

My parents are the definition of straight-laced. They're farmers, for shit's sake. Or
were
farmers before my dad's heart attack. I can't fathom my father being anything except the rule-abiding man who worked the family farm.

"Don't laugh," she says. "Your father was trouble in high school."

"What, did he steal a candy bar from a convenience store?"

"He was bootlegging alcohol in ninth grade," she says. "Selling it after school. Had his own label and everything."

"Are you kidding?" I let out a laugh. "That's awesome. How did I not know that about dad?"

"It's not something I was going to tell you boys about. Anyhow, my parents found out," she goes on. "That was the end of that. They forbade me from seeing him, but your dad was persistent. He didn't stop seeing me, although he did stop bootlegging. And he wore my parents down bit by bit."

"I get your point," I realizing it. "Breaking the rules worked out for you. This is different, mom."

"I don't think it's that different."

"What you and dad had, that's not how things are anymore, ma."

"Some things don't change, Colt." She takes a plate from my hands. "When you go pro, women will be throwing themselves at you for all the wrong reasons."

"Maybe that's what I want, ma," I tell her. "I'm just having fun. I'm not stupid. I'm not getting involved with any of the girls here at school — they're all after the same thing. I'm a meal ticket or a way to be in the limelight."

She looks at me, her expression stern. "I don't care how many girls you have fun with," she says. "But that girl isn't a girl you just have fun with."

"
A
ren't you ready
?" Sable asks. She's dressed in jean short-shorts that show off her tanned legs, and a cleavage-revealing tank top, her hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head that looks simultaneously effortless and chic.

"Ready for what?" I'm sitting on my bed with various books about football open. "I'm working on my literature review for my thesis."

"Oh." Sable gives me a funny look. "Right. Um. Are you and Colton okay?"

I shrug. The last time I saw him was last night at dinner at his house where he was sending me dirty text messages and running his hand up my leg. Well, the actual last time I saw him was during that awkward conversation near the car. "There's no
me and Colton
," I say. "We're friends."

Sable cocks her head to the side as she looks at me. "You guys hooked up."

"I regret telling you that now."

I didn’t tell her exactly how we hooked up. I’m sure she assumes we just made out. No big deal.

No big deal.

I also didn’t tell her about the awkward conversation by the car after dinner.

"I'm your best friend," she says. "You’d better not regret it. And you shouldn't regret hooking up with him, either."

"Where are you going, anyway?"

Sable gives me a sheepish look. "I thought you were getting ready," she says. "I didn't even think to ask if you were going. I assumed you were."

"Stop dancing around whatever it is you're talking about and just spit it out," I demand. "You're acting weird."

Sable exhales heavily. "There's a house party," she tells me. "At Colton's place."

Oh.

A party that I wasn't invited to.

I make a face. "Oh yeah," I say casually. "I forgot about that. I had to work on my thesis tonight, so I wasn't going to go."

It’s definitely no big deal that Colton didn’t invite me to a stupid house party.

A stupid house party where there will be half-naked girls everywhere.

"I should really work on my thesis tonight, too," Sable says quickly. "I'm so far behind and you know Dr. Talbot is really up my ass about mine. We can totally do work together."

"Is Tank going to be there?" I ask.

Sable blushes.

"Oh my God, did you just blush??" I ask. "I don't think I've ever seen that happen."

"I'm not blushing," Sable spits back, running to the mirror on my wall to examine her face. "It's just warm in here, that's all."

"You're
blushing
," I insist. "When I mentioned Tank, your cheeks turned pink."

Sable shrugs. "It's no big deal."

"You
like
him," I tease, laughing.

"I think he's cute."

"I think that's probably the first time Tank has been called cute. The guy is massive. Built like a, well, tank. He's not the kind of guy you call
cute
. Unless you're Sable.

"He is cute," she says. "I was talking to him after dinner. I think he's really nice."

"Holy balls. You're standing here telling me you think a guy is
nice
and
cute
. How many assholes have you dated? This is like the first time I've ever heard you say a guy is nice
and
that you're interested in him."

"I'm not interested in him," Sable says. "Okay, I'm interested in him. But I'm going to text him and tell him I'm staying in to work."

"No, you're not. You're going to the party. I have to insist."

"I really thought Colton invited you," Sable complains. "Are you sure he didn't text you? It has to be a mistake. I'm positive he would want you there. Why don't you get dressed and come with me?"

I look down at what I'm wearing — flannel pajama pants and a tank top that's raggedy and worn out, with a faded pink stain on the front from last fall when Sable and I made a giant pitcher of strawberry margaritas one night.

"No," I say with false brightness. "I'm doing work. You should go have fun. I want you to see Tank.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” Sable asks. “If I see Colton, I’m going to hit him for being a dick.”

“It's no big deal,” I insist, despite the pang in my chest. “We just hooked up. That’s it. He’s under no obligation to invite me anywhere. And I’m busy anyway.”

Sable groans. “The two of you just need to start banging. All of this denial and back-and-forth is really exhausting.”

“There’s going to be no banging,” I huff, grabbing one of the books and opening it to demonstrate how incredibly busy I am.
Alpha Male Behavior in Athletes.
I think it was written in the nineteen thirties.

I slam it closed. The last thing I want to do is think about alpha male behavior.

“There’s going to be banging,” Sable promises me with a look. “The two of you should just admit it already.”

She turns to leave.

“Hey Sable?" She stops at the door. “Be careful, okay? The football parties… I think they get kind of crazy. At least the one I saw in the afternoon was anyway.”

Sable laughs. “Honey, I can out-party a bunch of beer-guzzling football players,” she insists. “Besides I always bring
this
when I go out.”

She reaches into her demure little purse and pulls out a knife that she opens and brandishes proudly. It’s gold and covered in glitter. Or rhinestones. I can’t tell which.

“Oh my God, is that a switchblade? How many other weapons do you have in your room?” I ask. “Is there an arsenal in there?”

“I like to be prepared,” Sable says nonchalantly, closing it and returning it to her purse.

“I feel like maybe I should worry about the safety of the football players instead of you.”

“That would be advisable.”