ATHLETES. They kind of…scare me.
Specifically football players.
There are plenty of reasons why they freak me out. First up is their sheer size. These guys are huge. Massive. Most of them are freakishly tall and overwhelmingly bulky, and when you first see them, they’re intimidating.
Second, they’re just so dang loud. They enter a building, a room, the quad, the football field (well, that’s a given), and everyone notices them. Not only because of who they are, but they deliberately make a scene, like they want the attention. They talk, they yell, they cause a commotion everywhere they go and everyone looks upon them with awe.
And the football players revel in it.
Finally, most of them are extremely good looking. Even if they’re not attractive in the traditional sense with a handsome, symmetrical face, the majority of them have a raw magnetism that draws people in—specifically women. There’s always a crowd around them, mostly female, though the guys on campus idolize them as well. No matter where they go, they’re surrounded. Even mobbed sometimes. It’s wild.
I don’t get it.
I attend Colorado University and our college football team is made up of the most popular guys on campus. The Golden Eagles are loved. They are revered. When the fall semester starts, they’re all anyone talks about: every single conversation, everywhere you turn. The day after their games, where they almost always win?
It’s a nonstop analysis of their every move through all four quarters, right down to the final seconds.
All I can ever think is how exhausting it must be, to have so much sitting on their shoulders. They are responsible for the overhyped school spirit on this campus, and when they—heaven forbid—lose, it’s like the end of the world is coming.
No joke.
“Did you watch this weekend’s game?”
I barely look up as the customer asks the question that’s on everyone’s tongue this Monday. I work at the campus bookstore, and while I love my job, I don’t love these types of questions.
Being truthful gets me attention I don’t want. Because I don’t watch the game. I never watch the game.
I don’t care about sports.
And I really don’t like football.
Can’t let that get out, though. I’ll get my college admission revoked, despite the fact that I’ve been here two years already and am starting my junior year. I don’t understand the adulation, the way these guys are treated like gods on campus when all they do is throw a football on the field.
I honestly don’t get it.
“I did watch,” I finally answer, lying through my teeth.
“It was a good one, huh.” He says it as a statement, not a question. He flat out assumes that I watched it and loved every minute of it. Because…who wouldn’t? How could a member of the student body not spend their Saturday watching the game?
Glancing up at the guy, I immediately note that he’s decent looking, which is…interesting. I haven’t really noticed a guy’s looks in a while.
He has friendly brown eyes, which are currently zeroed in on my face. His lips are curled into a pleasant smile and he’s wearing a Nirvana T-shirt, which is trendy yet also somehow ironic? Maybe? “Can’t believe that catch Maguire made in the third quarter,” he says.
It takes everything inside me not to roll my eyes.
“I know, right? He’s so good,” I say, grabbing the Intro to Psychology book the customer is finally getting and scanning it before I add it to the bag of other supplies he’s purchasing. We’ve been in class for a week. Most everyone moved in at least three to four days prior to that. Which begs the question—why is he only picking up this book now? I saw on his order slip that it’s been here at the store since before school even started.
The guy scoffs. “Good? Major understatement. Maguire is the best tight end out there. Period. He’ll go pro next year for sure.”
Right. I’m sure he will if this dude says so.
I just don’t really give a damn.
“He needs to watch that knee though,” he continues. “It might trip him up.”
I don’t know much about Knox Maguire’s knee, but I did overhear a customer at the store say that after he injured it his freshman year, it still gives him trouble.
Like it gave him trouble at Saturday’s game. The coaches eventually benched him, but only during the fourth quarter because they knew they were going to win. Which they did.
Naturally.
That I even know these little facts about their first game of the season tells me I retain more facts than I thought I did. And the fact that they occupy even a little bit of space in my brain is seriously so frustrating.
“Yeah, he does need to watch it. You’re so right.” I meet his gaze once again to find him studying me with interest in his eyes. I think I impressed him with the knee talk. I only know this info because of all the chatter I overhear at the store. At the student center. At the lounge in my apartment building that’s on campus.
I cannot escape the football players, especially Knox Maguire.
“You like football?” the guy asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Sort of.” I shrug. Smile. Then hit a button on the register. “That’ll be one-hundred-fifty-two dollars and thirty-six cents.”
He whistles, pulling his credit card from his battered wallet. “Probably will barely crack the book open all semester.”
“Don’t forget we buy back textbooks,” I remind him, on autopilot.
Working at the student bookstore, I say that a lot.
“I shouldn’t even buy it. What’s the point? I’ll just beg some hot girl to share her notes with me.” He taps his card, the reader making a noise, indicating it’s going through. “What’s your name?”
I don’t want to tell him. I don’t like this guy. Not really. But I don’t want to be a complete bitch either. “Joanna.”
“I’m Mark.” He smiles.
“Hey Mark.” I point at the credit card reader screen. “Mind signing that for me?”
He scribbles his finger across the screen and I stash the receipt in his bag before handing it over. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he says, voice purposely casual.
“Maybe,” I echo, knowing I probably won’t. He doesn’t seem like the type to hang out here or in the library, which is my other favorite haunt. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”
“You too.” He grins just before he takes his bag and leaves the counter. I watch him go, letting out a small sigh of disappointment as I slowly shake my head.
Men. They’re pitiful.
“He was flirting with you.”
A startled yelp escapes me and I whirl around to find my coworker, my friend, one of my favorite people in the entire world, Leon, watching me with narrowed eyes.
“You scared me!” I rest my hand against my chest, trying to ease my overly active heart. “And he was not.”
“He was,” Leon says firmly. “And you were clueless, as usual.”
I wasn’t that clueless. “What am I supposed to do, offer up my number? Ask him to meet me for coffee sometime?”
“Yes and yes.” Leon stands next to me at the counter, nudging his shoulder into mine. I grip the counter, so I don’t go toppling. Leon is stronger than he looks. “You need to get back out there. You’re moping, and I’m over it.”
“I am not moping.” I sound defensive.
Guess what? I am defensive.
My boyfriend and I broke up at the beginning of the summer and I was absolutely…devastated. Bryan and I had been together since midway through our senior year in high school, and when we got into different universities, I worried we would end things before they even really started. We were a total high school cliché. After lots of crushing on each other and wasting time, we were finally a couple, only to go our separate ways after graduation.
But Bryan said that it didn’t matter where we were. He was in love with me and wanted to keep seeing me, even if we were at different colleges. In different states—he’s in Arizona and I’m in Colorado because I wanted to stay closer to home. I, of course, agreed to a long- distance relationship because I felt the same way. I was in love with that boy and fully prepared to go the distance. As time went on, as we made it through one year, and then the next, I felt secure. We were going to make it. Hell, we even talked about getting married and having children, for the love of all that is holy, and then what does he go and do?
Breaks up with me in May—during finals week, the bastard—for a girl named Clara.
She goes to his college. They share the same major. They share a lot of the same classes. Fairly certain he cheated on me with his new girlfriend, though he will deny it until the day he dies.
Whatever. I’m over it.
Mostly.
“You are moping. And it’s bringing me down,” Leon says, reaching over to pat my hand. I snatch it off the counter, turning my back to him and grabbing a pile of books that need to be put back on the shelves. “Avoiding me isn’t going to change things. You’re still miserable!”
He calls out the last sentence to me as I walk away, and as discreetly as possible, I give him the finger.
All Leon does is laugh in response. The jerk.
But he’s not really a jerk. He’s just concerned about me, and I love him for it. Mostly because, deep down, I know he’s speaking the truth. I’ve been especially cranky lately and I need to do something about it. I need to get out of this funk.
How though? I’m not ready to date. Not yet. I’m probably too independent. That’s what happens when you’re in a long-distance relationship for over two years. You don’t spend a lot of time with your significant other, and you learn how to be on your own.
I’m so on my own now, I can’t imagine tying myself to someone else. Just…
No, thank you.
I take my sweet time putting away the books, forcing Leon to take over ringing-up duties. With school starting, we’ve been so busy the last couple of weeks, but it’s finally begun to slow down, thank goodness. Despite my occasional grumbling, I really do love my job. I’ve been here for the last year, and I like being amongst the books and the school merchandise—we are the number-one seller of campus-themed merch, of course. Everyone comes here to purchase their Golden Eagle team gear to wear to football games.
I don’t even think I own a single T-shirt with the eagle blazed across it, though I do have a sweatshirt my parents bought me after I got my acceptance email. I still wear it on occasion, but I’ve definitely never worn it to a football game.
Because I don’t go to football games.
Ever.
Like I can’t seem to help myself, my thoughts drift to Bryan, and I wonder how he’s doing right now. He started college a week before I did and last I saw—after some sneaky social media sleuthing—he’s moved into an apartment off-campus with his precious new girlfriend Clara.
Of course he did.
I shove a book onto the shelf, a little more aggressively than necessary, and then turn and run straight into someone.
A very solid, extremely tall someone. It felt like I ran into a brick wall, I hit him so hard.
“Oh hey.” A deep, rumbling voice says as he reaches out, grabbing hold of my elbows, steadying me after the blow. “You okay? Sorry about that.”
My elbows tingle where the stranger is touching me, and I shake my head, trying to gather my bearings. “I’m fine.” I blink up at him, shock coursing through my blood when I realize who it is.
Knox Maguire himself stands directly in front of me, so close I can smell his cologne, his hands still lightly gripping my arms.
His brows are lowered in concern, his green eyes roaming over me, as if he’s checking to make sure I’m all right. “You sure? You ran right into me. You didn’t hear me say something?”
He said something to me? “Yeah, no. I didn’t know you were standing right there.” I try to take a step back, realizing he’s still got a hold on me, but then he releases my elbows, allowing me to gain some much-needed space. Standing so close to him is a little overwhelming, but I’m not exactly sure why. “I’m okay, though.”
“You promise?” He smiles.
Oh. Shit. He has a nice smile. Straight, white teeth. The faintest dimple denting his right cheek.
“You work here, right?” The smile evaporates, replaced by a no-nonsense expression and tone that tells me he needs some assistance. That’s the only reason he said anything to me. Not because he thinks I’m cute or wants to flirt with me, but because I work here.
Not that I want him to think I’m cute. Or want him to flirt with me. Nope. Not interested. Not. At All.
Nodding, I attempt a smile, trying not to act rattled, though that’s exactly how I feel.
Shaken. To my very core.
Remember how athletes kind of scare me?
This one is the scariest of them all. He’s large and intimidating and handsome and good lord, who allowed a man to smell this good?
“How can I help you?” I ask, shifting into serious customer-service mode.
He scratches his temple, like he’s confused, which is still a good look for him. “I need one of those fancy-ass calculators, and I heard you guys still have a few in stock.”
“You’re right. We do.” I tilt my head, contemplating him. “You can just order it on Amazon, you know? For a lot cheaper price.”
“You turning away business?” He lifts his brows.
“Just being truthful.” I shrug. “And if you have Prime, you should get it fairly fast.”
“Yeah, I’ve got Amazon Prime or whatever, but I uh, need the calculator today.” He rubs the back of his neck, seemingly embarrassed. “Class is in two hours. I’m not even close to ready, and the teacher is kind of a hard-ass.”
I have a sneaking suspicion who his professor might be and he’s right: she’s a total hard ass.
“Let me show you where they are.” I wave a hand at him to follow, and he falls into step, trailing behind me as I lead him to the other side of the store, where a display of various calculators is located. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that he’s not scary. Not in the least.
I don’t know why they intimidate me. The football players. Maybe because they’re larger than life? And that sort of thing has always made me want to retreat. I don’t like loud or obnoxious people. They put off an energy I find really…draining. And here’s where I need to get real.
They remind me of my father. Not my stepdad, who’s been the steady male presence in my life the last fifteen years, but my real father. The one who bailed on us and never really bothered trying to see me, especially when I was younger and missing him.
Despite how great Jerry is and how present he’s been in my life, I still feel like there’s a hole in my heart my father used to occupy. I know I shouldn’t miss him but…
I still do.
He was an athlete. A show-off. A bragger. A car salesman even, though there’s nothing wrong with guys who sell cars. My father’s problem? He wanted everyone to pay attention to him, including women.
Especially women.
Guys like him. Guys like Knox Maguire, they revel in that. Female adoration.
And I refuse to fall into that trap. My mother did, and she always told me it was one of the biggest regrets of her life.
“Not that I regret having you, sweetie,” she always reassures me. “I just wish it hadn’t been with your sperm donor.”
She can barely call him my father, which I get.
I do.
My gaze returns to Knox as he wanders around the bookstore, sucking up all the oxygen in the building despite its spacious size. Just having him close is making it hard for me to breathe, and I swear I’m not the type to be starstruck.
Yet, here he is, dazzling me with his mere presence.
It’s not like he’s an actual celebrity, though he’s treated like one on campus. Plus, it’s his senior year. This is his last hurrah before he’s out of here for good. He surely wants to go out on top.
He’ll probably do whatever it takes to make that happen.
“Here you go.” I stop in front of the more elaborate calculators. The very expensive ones I’m sure he needs. “What class is this for?”
“Statistics.” He takes a step forward, grabbing one of the packaged calculators with his large hand and peering at it. His brows shoot up. “Two hundred bucks?”
“I recommended Amazon, remember?” I shrug.
His gaze meets mine, then drifts downward. Like he’s checking me out.
What? Why?
“You did,” he finally says, his gaze returning to the calculator. “But I don’t have a choice. I’ll take it.”
“You need anything else?” He glances over at me and I try to smile, but I can tell it comes out mangled. “You have all the textbooks you need for your classes?”
“Well, yeah. Class started last week.” He says it like, duh.
“I had a guy who just bought his Intro to Psychology textbook a few minutes ago.” I shrug and start heading for the counter, so I can ring him up.
“That guy sounds like a bonehead,” he says, amusement lacing his tone.
I can’t help but smile, noticing how Knox keeps up, walking beside me, towering over me. He’s well over six feet. Even broader than I thought, standing this close. Yet he moves with almost an easy elegance, which is…weird.
Weirdly attractive.
I go behind the counter, Leon nowhere in sight, leaving me alone with Knox. He doesn’t say anything. Just hands over the calculator and I ring it up for him, rattling off the total while he checks his phone. He taps out a quick message and sends it before paying for his purchase.
No words are spoken. No eye contact is made until I offer him a sugary sweet thank you as I hand over the bag.
He takes it from me, his gaze finding mine once more, a barely-there smile on his lips when he says, “You’re welcome.”
Then he’s gone.
An irritated huff leaves me and Leon mysteriously reappears, a curious expression on his face.
“What did superstar Maguire want?”
“He bought a calculator for too much money and then said ‘you’re welcome’ when, like an idiot, I said ‘thank you.’” I shake my head, annoyed. “Why would he do that? Does he actually think he’s God’s gift to women?”
“Yes, he does,” Leon deadpans, making me laugh. “He probably thought you said thank you, like you’re grateful to be in his presence.”
“Most likely.” I glance at the double doors, remembering the flare of interest in Knox’s gaze before it disappeared. Like it was never there in the first place.
I read him wrong. Not that I’m interested.
Athletes—football players in particular—aren’t my thing.
