CHAPTER FOUR
Cole
There’s something to be said about waking up next to a gorgeous woman. But it isn’t something I’ve done in a long time. Not since my ex.
Soft, diffused morning light streams in through the window and spills over Becca’s face. She looks like an angel. I don’t usually have such poetic thoughts. She fucks like she knows what she’s doing, but her face holds a sort of innocence that usually doesn’t appeal to me. Consider me corrected.
I don’t remember much of the ride home. The sex sobered me up, but all I could think about was seeing that hot, tight little body of hers. I wanted to taste her pussy again. She’d felt so good coming on my dick that I wanted a repeat performance. And that’s just what I got.
But now, here she is, asleep in my bed, and in the light of morning, I know it’s a mistake to bring her here. Becca is the first girl I’ve brought to this house. Hell, she’s the first girl in a long time that I’ve bothered to learn her name. She’s the only girl since my ex I’ve let sleep in my bed. Hell, I even fell asleep beside her. It’s so strange. Usually, I want to be alone after getting off. I can’t bear to be around the women I hook up with. But there’s something about Becca that’s different. I feel comfortable. Like I can be myself.
I know better, though. That’s how things get all fucked up. You let your guard down, and they screw you over. I’m having a hard enough time as it is. My grades are garbage, and I know I’m drinking too much. I’m isolating myself again. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just fucking depressed.
Not wanting to deal with it, I roll out of bed, tug on some sweats and leave, forcing myself not to cuddle up with her again. I scrawl an “it’s been fun, lock the door on the way out” note and toss it on the table.
If I’m being completely honest, it might not bother me too much if this particular girl is still here by the time I get back from the gym, but other than the small part of me that wouldn’t mind, I know that it’ll lead to an uncomfortable conversation where I have to remind a girl that it’s a one-night stand. I’d rather disappear before having that talk. It always sucks.
I guess it seems like I just want to hurt them. Or I’m using them. Maybe I am. But I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just don’t want to ever be hurt again either.
When I get into my car, I swear I can still smell her. Her perfume, her sex. Like a spirit haunting me. Turning on the heater, I roll the windows down the entire way. The air is biting and cold, but it does my hangover good. Wakes me up. Shakes loose the cobwebs. I can’t mess with a relationship right now. I have a lot of shit going on and throwing a woman into the mix will only make things worse.
It would go okay for a little while. We’d fuck and talk. She’d act like she got me, like she understood. I’d tell her shit I never told anyone else before. And she’d leave. Or throw my past in my face. Or cheat on me. That’s how it always goes. She’d end up being some sinister bitch who only wants money and attention. A constant nag. Then she’d provoke my temper and make everything my fault. I might act dumb as hell, but I’m not stupid.
I need the punching bag. I need to beat the shit out of something. Had I been back in the nowhere town I was born in, I’d have gone to a bar and picked a fight, even this early in the morning. When my thoughts are all tangled, and my mood leaves me sour, that’s the only thing that straightens me out. Fights are simple. The bigger, stronger guy wins. And I’ve worked my ass off to make sure I’m always the bigger, stronger guy. Sure, I had my ass kicked when I was a kid, but not since my growth spurt in my freshmen year in high school.
It’s game day, and even though my stomach feels like hell, I know I need to eat. Heading to the cafeteria, I pile eggs, toast, and ham on my plate, grab a couple containers of yogurt and three bottles of water. I slam down the meal then jog over to the gym where I pound my frustrations out on the bag. Even though my hands are taped, it still hurts a little. The pain is good though. It helps me think clearly. It drives away the shitty feelings and bad memories. I know it’s cliché, but that’s the shit that drives me to drink. That leaves my temper simmering all the time. Nothing I try makes it better. And the people who’ve wronged me are either gone or never gave a shit in the first place.
People always talk about closure. Closure doesn’t change the past.
“Whoa. Cole. You’re beating that like it insulted your mama,” comes a familiar voice behind me.
I turn and see Braden. Shit. I’d almost forgotten about him. I promised to train him in exchange for him writing my literature essay.
Braden is an all right guy, but he clearly likes soda and video games. He’s out of shape and wears thick glasses. I don’t have anything against the guy, but we have nothing in common.
I shrug. “Yeah. Just working out, man.” I reach over and slap his slightly pudgy gut with the back of my hand. He gets the message and backs off. I don’t like personal questions.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s why I’m here. Did you get an A?”
I nod. “Did, thanks. Saved my ass.” The admission embarrasses me. I bet this guy thinks I can’t even read. I can read. I’m not an idiot. I’m not stupid. I just have a hard time focusing. Especially under pressure.
I keep up my end of the deal. I work him out hard. We throw the medicine ball back and forth until his face is red and sweaty, and he huffs and puffs until I think he’ll pass out. I spot him on the bench press, then send him off to the elliptical for thirty minutes.
Glancing at the clock, I realize I’ve stayed longer than I should and run like hell to the locker room to change for practice. I can’t afford to be late, the coach is already riding my ass. The fans may love me, but the coach doesn’t let the team’s success go to my head. He pushes, always wanting more. I give it to him. Football is the one thing I can count on. The one thing I’m truly good at. The only thing that will save me from myself.
We watch films first, breaking down tonight’s opponent step by step, then run through plays for a couple hours, so the muscle memory will kick in when the stakes are high. We eat lunch as a team, and I pile my plate high. it’s afternoon by the time I head back to my place to shower and go through the plays in my head.
She’s gone.
A part of me is relieved while another part of me mourns the loss of her. I need to get the girl out of my head. After the game, I might try a new bar, hook up with some random girl to wash away the memory of the little good girl who’d rocked my world.
Walking into my bedroom, I swear I can almost see the outline of her body there. I yank my sheets off and throw them in the wash just in case they still smell like her light, sweet perfume. Still needing something to do, I began cleaning my small, one-bedroom house after that. It had been a nice, little rental house when I moved in, but it is filled with trash and neglect at the moment. I’m just glad I don’t have to live on campus anymore.
Halfway into hauling out the beer can mountain to the trash, someone knocks on the door. It’s probably one of the players wanting to hang out before heading over to the stadium for pre-game.
I throw open the door and freeze. It’s her. Becca.
What the fuck? And why am I damn glad to see her?
“Can I come in, or are you going to just stare at me until I leave?” Her arms are folded under her breasts, and she’s biting her lower lip, which looks sexy as hell. She’s wearing a soft sweater, tight jeans, and knee-high boots. It isn’t a granny sweater this time either. This one hugs her curves, accentuates her breasts. I want to grab her and throw her on the bed.
Instead, I shake my head and sigh, opening the door wider to let her in. I gesture for her to enter, halfway thankful I’d cleaned up the empty beer cans. “What are you doing here? Leave something?” I hadn’t seen anything, but my house is still a cluttered pigsty.
She comes in and looks around. I don’t remember her reaction from last night, but now, she looks mildly disgusted with the mess. It pisses me off. “No,” she says, her tone as cold as it had been last night before getting into my car. It’s a different kind of anger that she inspires in me now.
I want to pick a fight with her. A verbal sparring match. I can feel it stirring in my blood, making my forehead tight. I grind my teeth. “What do you want?” Yeah, I know I’m being a dick. I guess I want to see what she’ll do.
A flush spreads over her face, and it only makes her look more appealing. Her eyes narrow and glitter with anger. “You’re an asshole,” she hisses.
I give her my most charming and crooked smile. “That’s not what you said last night.”
Becca rolls her eyes and stands in front of me, arms still folded across her chest. She looks so impatient, so furious. “I need to ask a favor.”
Of fucking course she needs a favor. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Any good humor that might have lingered inside my cells instantly evaporates. Fuck her. Women always want something. I don’t owe her jack shit. “They need ice water in hell, too.”
“Very funny,” she quips, then lets out a long, drawn out sigh. “Look. I’m a reporter for the school paper. I went to the bar last night looking for you.”
I can’t help it, my grin returns. “Sure found me, all right. Didn’t know the paper featured erotica.”
I love the way she blushes and bites her bottom lip. Drives me crazy.
“I’m doing a story. On you,” she says, giving my chest a little poke with her finger.
My grin disappears as surprise kicks me in the gut.
“It isn’t my idea,” she adds quickly, holding up her hands. “The editor assigned me the story. I just need to do a quick interview. Doesn’t have to be tonight, but in the next day or two? I have a deadline.”
I look away from her. She has the type of face you just say yes to. I hate that. It feels manipulative. I shake my head, running a hand through my too long, shaggy hair. I go to the kitchen, leaving her standing there, making her follow me. “Nah. Not interested.”
I hear her sputter behind me. “Why not?”
Opening the fridge, I fish around for a beer. I have some dark shit a friend left behind. Not my favorite, but I’m getting a headache. I pop off the cap and almost take a long swig before remembering I have a game tonight. I pour it down the drain, which only pisses me off more. “I don’t fucking want to, that’s all you need to know.”
She goes quiet. That’s how women are. If they aren’t being hysterical, they’re being quiet. I’m not sure which I hate more. I turn around. Her face is priceless. Furious. Red at the cheeks, her small fists clenched at her sides.
“Is it because of last night?” she asks.
I shrug. “Dunno. But that doesn’t matter. We won’t repeat it, got that? I don’t ever fuck the same girl twice.”
She holds up three fingers with a sly smirk. “Well, you fucked me three times. Unless you were so drunk you forgot.”
Shit. Fair enough. “So? I already broke my rule. You’re special. Now, fuck off.”
I regret it the moment I say it. It’s too harsh. She really hasn’t done anything wrong. I know what the damn problem is, but I’m not even ready to admit it to myself. I see her act tough, watch her jaw tighten. Her lips thin. Her eyes go cold, but there, for a moment, I see the hurt she’s trying so hard to hide. It makes me hate myself a little.
A big part of me wants to apologize, but she’s already headed out the door. I can’t lie, it’s a great view, her backside in those tight jeans, the way her hips sway as she marches out. She’s beautiful when she’s mad at me. Especially when I deserve it.
I’ve never felt this bad after a one-night stand. The first thing to remedy it is obvious. After the game, I’ll just go out and hook up with someone. Someone new. But the very thought sort of turns my stomach, and I suddenly feel so tired.
Other girls have never gotten stuck in my head, but Becca is like a lost puppy, following me around. I swear I can still smell her in my house. My fingers ache to touch her again, feel her hair in my hand, her mouth around my dick. I keep going back to that morning, her face on my pillow, the morning light in her hair.
I don’t know why she does this to me. I’ve slept with a lot of pretty girls. Good girls. Bad girls. And everything in between. There’s just something about her that clicks with me. Which, I tell myself, makes her even more dangerous. I have to stay away from her.
Unable to stay in my little house another minute, I grab my bag and take off toward the stadium. I know one way to get her out of my head… it’s to get lots of points on the board. That’s the only way to secure my future in football, the only damn thing I’m good at.
And I do.
There’s a monster inside me on the field that night. So that I don’t focus on Becca, I focus instead on hitting my receivers in the chest. By the end of the game, I’ve completed twenty-two of my twenty-seven attempts for nearly three hundred passing yards. I’ve even gotten in some rushing yards, not many but enough to get us within field goal range to seal the game. Our winning streak continues, and the fans go wild. The coaches are pleased. My teammates are ecstatic. I’m happy too.
But instead of celebrating, I go home and fall into bed, still thinking about the brunette beauty who has crawled under my skin.