JOCK (Boston Terriers Book 5) Read online

  “It wasn’t bad. He introduced me to Owen. You know, the same guy who was outside the frat house when we walked out with Nolan?”

  Perri falls into hysterical laughter. “Only you,” she giggles some more.

  “I know. I can’t make this shit up. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s not that terrible. No pity parties allowed.”

  I tip my head and send an annoyed glare her way. “Fine. I start tutoring him tomorrow night.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? And what’s the rush? The dean’s not wasting any time.”

  “Nope. He wants us to work every day too.”

  “Jeez, not like you don’t have your own studies to maintain.”

  “Yeah, well that’s what happens when the dean is your uncle.”

  She snorts. “Tell me about it. It’s even worse when he’s your father.”

  You’d never know Dean Benson was related to us unless you’re in our family. When we’re at school we may as well be any other student. He’s completely impartial. In fact, he expects more from the two of us than others.

  “Why did we come to Boston University again? We could be freezing in upstate New York right now,” I joke. We both briefly toyed with the idea of attending Syracuse University, but our parents put the kibosh on those plans. God forbid we escaped the family chains.

  “Yeah, true story. But I’d rather deal with my dad than winter weather that’s worse than what we already get in Massachusetts.”

  Picking up my favorite throw pillow from the couch, I hug it to my chest and bury my nose in the soft material. It was a gift from my mom when I went off to college and has been my cuddle buddy for most of that time. There have been a couple of short-lived flesh and blood replacements over the past three years, but no one worth mentioning. The yellow polka dotted material makes me happy just by looking at it. And the honey bee printed in the middle is perfect. I’ve been collecting bee paraphernalia since I was a kid. My mom used to call me her little bee because I was always inquisitively flitting from one thing to the next.

  These days, the bee is my spirit animal, reminding me to stay focused. I once read that the honey bee symbolizes pursuing your dream, no matter how intimidating it seems, because only your commitment and passion will make it come to fruition. Those words have always stuck with me and that’s what I plan on doing. If I don't make my dream come true, who will?

  “Where are you meeting Owen?” Perri’s voice cuts into my woolgathering.

  “The library.”

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  I arch a brow questioningly. “I guess that depends on what you want.”

  “Ask Owen if I can interview him for the school newspaper.”

  My head snaps in her direction. “You don’t usually write sports pieces.”

  She shrugs. “I know, but Carl asked me to take over sports in addition to my regular human-interest story until he can find someone else. I gotta do what I gotta do.”

  “How are you going to get all that done? That’s a lot of work.” Carl, her editor, should know better.

  “Yeah, I know, but I’m hoping with any luck I can take over as assistant editor for next year.”

  “That would be amazing. I hope he gives it to you. If you ask me, you’ve certainly earned it with all that you’ve done.”

  “We’ll see how it goes. In the meantime, get me an interview with that football god.”

  “I don’t know. I feel weird asking him. Maybe you can bump into us some night and I’ll introduce you. Then you can ask him yourself.”

  She shrugs. “Whatever. I’m game.” That should be Perri’s middle name. Perri ‘I’m game’ Benson. She’s a risk taker and a go getter. She’s a take no prisoners kind of girl who I wish I could be more like. Obviously, she got the motherload of that gene. With Perri, what you see is what you get. She doesn’t feel the need to pretend to be anything she’s not. People either like her or hate her and either one works just as well in her eyes.

  “What do you say we order some Chinese food and then we can quiz each other for our Law and Ethics in Journalism class?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Chapter Seven

  Eliza

  I stroll into the library with five minutes to spare and pause in the cathedral ceilinged entryway for a moment to compose myself. Smoothing my hand over my slicked back ponytail, I remind myself of the image I need to portray. Tonight, I’m going to be confident and professional. I’m just Owen’s tutor and he’s just a student who needs my help. It doesn’t matter that he looks like an action star, or a professional athlete; he’s not. It doesn’t matter that his green eyes are the same color as freshly mown grass, or how his endearing smile already makes me stupid. Owen’s a college junior like me - no more, no less.

  Moving forward, my eyes scan the immediate area surrounding the help desk and lock onto Owen’s large form as he leans back against the wall. One hand’s in the front pocket on his jeans and his casted arm hangs loose at his side. His feet are braced about a foot apart as though he’s on high alert. And maybe he needs to be. I don’t know the details of his story. All I do know for sure is what my uncle told me. He missed some school and I have to make sure he’s caught up in every class as quickly as possible. But judging by the bruising and healing cuts on his face, someone wanted to hurt him. And they messed him up pretty badly.

  As soon as he catches sight of me, he grabs his backpack from the floor and languidly pushes off the wall. Ambling over, he meets me halfway with a smile on his masculine lips.

  “Hi.” His grin widens as if he’s genuinely happy to see me. My stomach quivers at his attention and my brain flashes the words jock alert in bright red before it turns to mush. Oh damn. I think I forgot how to speak. Calm down. Say hello.

  “Hi.” Well, it’s only one word, but it’s a start. And it seems to have broken the seal because now the rest of the words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to flow. “How did your classes go today?”

  “It was definitely different being so far behind. Usually, I never miss a class. I’m not used to playing catch up. Trying to learn the new material while there are integral pieces missing from last week was tough.”

  “Let’s see if we can get you through some of those blank spots today. Come on.” I angle my head to the right, directing him to walk with me. We slip around a corner and pass between row after row of open stacks. “I usually sit there.” I point ahead of us. “I don’t think a lot of people realize there’s a table and chairs set up back here.”

  “I didn’t know there was. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of the library. I usually head up to the third floor where the couches are.”

  “You have to navigate through the open stacks first and they seem to go on forever, but this might be the quietest area to work in.”

  “Are you trying to get me alone, Eliza?” He flashes a lightning fast grin.

  I slant a side-eye glare at him and ignore his flirtatious question. He chuckles, not in the least fazed by my lack of reply.

  Leading him over to a worn rectangular table, I set my backpack down and sink onto a chair. He grips the wooden back of the one closest to me and my heart gallops in my chest as he lowers onto the creaking seat. Why does he have to sit next to me?

  I busy myself removing my laptop and turning it on. “So what class do you feel like you’re struggling in the most?”

  “Right now, my creative writing class. I’m supposed to write an essay titled What If. I have a week to complete it, but it’s like all my creativity disappeared when I got hit on the head.”

  “Is that common with head injuries?”

  “I guess there are all kinds of side effects you can encounter. Mood swings, headaches, dizziness, ringing in your ears, light sensitivity, trouble thinking clearly, and many more I can’t remember off the top of my head. Oh yeah, forgetfulness is another side effect.” He smiles sheepishly.

  I giggle, “Have you tried writing something else?”

  “Why would I write something that wasn’t assigned?”

  “Because sometimes writing a different prompt triggers inspiration.” I reach in the front pocket on my backpack and pull out my glasses. Slipping them on, I move the laptop until it’s centered on the table in front of me.

  “I guess I never thought of that.” He nudges my arm with his elbow and I turn my head in his direction. “I like the glasses.” His lips tease upward at the corners in a small smile.

  My hands fly up to adjust the black frames and now I’m wishing I’d had time this morning to put my contacts in.

  “Thank you. I’m kind of blind without them.” Why did I tell him that? Does he really need to know about my less than stellar eyesight?

  Sighing at my motor mouth tendencies, I remind myself to get down to business. “Here, let’s try to write a different topic together and if it doesn’t help, we can work on the assigned prompt.” I open a new Google doc and type ‘I Like…’ as the title at the top of the page. “Here’s the best part of starting from scratch on a blank document: You can put anything on this page. The possibilities are limitless.”

  “Are you a writing major by any chance?”

  I smile. “You got me.” I raise my hand. “Future journalist and author right here.”

  “That’s impressive. Have you always enjoyed writing?”

  “As long as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed reading. And when I’d read a book, I’d envision myself as the main character and think of what I’d do differently. I came to realize that each writer has a vision for their story, and if I want to have a say in how the story goes, then I need to write my own.”

  He nods. “Makes sense.”

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; “So, the dean didn’t tell me what happened to you.” I jut my chin toward his face. “Did you get beat up?”

  He glances down at the table and a furrow appears between his brows. “I had an accident. It’s no big deal.” I can tell he doesn’t want to elaborate.

  “Okay, so back to this assignment,” I redirect the conversation. “Tell me something you like.”

  He rubs his hand over the dark stubble on his chin. “I like pizza.”

  I type the words out as he says them. “Give me another one.”

  “I like beer.”

  My fingers fly over the keys. “And?”

  “Playing football.”

  I add the last part. “Okay, now we’re going to elaborate. What kind of pizza do you like? When do you like to eat pizza?”

  He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. “I like bacon pizza on any given day.”

  “What about beer? Do you drink it when you eat pizza? By adding that we’re giving more details.”

  “I like beer with pizza.”

  “I think you can do better than that. What’s the temperature of the beer? What does it feel like when it hits your mouth? What’s it taste like?”

  “I like an ice-cold beer with my pizza. The icy liquid is a shock to my mouth.”

  “What kind of shock is it? A good one? A bad one?”

  “The icy liquid is a pleasant shock to my mouth.”

  I nod my head as I type his words. “So far this is what we have. I like bacon pizza on any given day of the week. Beer is the perfect accompaniment to go along with it. The icy cold liquid is a pleasant shock to my mouth and soothing to my throat as I swallow it down.” I glance in Owen’s direction and a little zing zips through me when our eyes lock. “Just by adding some small details we’ve already made a difference.” My voice is a grainy husk.

  Why do his good looks disarm me so? It’s not like I haven’t been around attractive guys before. I’ve even tutored them. But never have I been so affected by a guy just from looking at him. Not even my ex, Cameron. Is it how genuine his smile seems? Owen acts as if he’s happy to see me. Which makes no sense because we just met for the second time yesterday.

  It doesn’t help that he smells fantastic. Some intoxicating mix of cologne, deodorant, and soap. He smells like a forest, fresh and clean. “Irish Spring.”

  The side of his mouth quirks up in amusement. “What?”

  Oh, crap. Did I say that out loud? My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I can feel the hot, pink flush climbing up my face like the red line rising on a thermometer.

  “Um… you smell good.” Fuck. Why did I admit that?

  Closing my eyes, my nostrils pinch as I inhale, and when I open them Owen is staring at me intently. “You smell like Irish Spring.” I awkwardly wave a hand in the air. “You know, the soap?” I continue. Oh God, please zip my lips together for the rest of our study session.

  He chuckles. “Wow, you’ve got a nose like a bloodhound. I do use Irish Spring. Want to get closer and smell me again? See if you can figure out what deodorant I use?”

  “Old Spice, Fiji,” I blurt out.

  “Jesus. You’re right. That’s unreal.” He shakes his head, clearly baffled. “You really do have a talented nose.”

  I shrug, at a loss for what to say. My embarrassment has reached an all-time high. I’m pretty sure my face resembles a strawberry; red and spotty.

  “What other strange talents do you have?” He smiles and suddenly I don’t mind what I said. As long as it means him aiming his charming grin my way, I’ll embarrass myself twenty-four-seven.

  “I can pick things up with my feet.”

  “Like what?”

  “Change, papers, clothes. You name it.”

  “So, do you have some freakishly long monkey toes?”

  “No,” I rebuff, my nose scrunched with repugnance.

  “Come on. I don’t believe it. No one can pick up change with their feet unless they have circus freak toes. Should I call you Abu?”

  “Abu?” What’s he talking about?

  “You know, the monkey from Aladdin.”

  Oh my God. He thinks I have monkey feet for real. This study session has taken an unexpected turn and I have no idea how to get this train back on the rails.

  Chapter Eight

  Owen

  “No,” she yells. Her eyes widen, and she throws a hand over her mouth as if she wants to shout more words at me, but is restraining them. After a few more seconds her hand slides from her mouth and lowers to the table, clenching into a tight fist. Her chin raises spiritedly. “No. I don’t have monkey toes.” Her reply is calmly whispered belying what her body language is communicating. I’m slightly disappointed she’s holding it together so well. Seeing her all riled up was cute.

  “You don’t mind if I call you Abu, right?”

  “No. I mean yes.”

  “I won’t believe you don’t have monkey toes until I see them.”

  “I don’t.”

  “So you say.”

  “Why would I lie about my toes?”

  “I’m not sure. I barely know you. I guess I’m not that trusting, Abu.”

  “Don't call me that,” she grits between clenched teeth.

  “Show me your toes, Abu,” I tease.

  “Do you really need to call me a silly name?”

  “Why not? If the shoe fits....” I laugh at my own joke which only serves to anger her more. “All you have to do is show me your feet and I’ll stop.” I’m not sure why I’m taking this so far. I only meant to tease her for a moment, and now it’s gone on too long, but it’s fun.

  “If we’re not going to work on your paper then I’m going to leave,” she scolds. Her tone is reminiscent of Mrs. Jenkins, my fourth-grade teacher. I was always getting in trouble for something. Some things never change.

  “I guess I can wait until our next study session to see your toes.”

  She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Let’s get back to work. We’ve wasted enough time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Forty-five minutes later, we’re both clearing our things from the table and stuffing them in our backpacks. I’m feeling better about my creative writing paper, but I’m a little guilty about teasing her. She barely knows me and probably doesn’t realize that’s kind of my thing. Some people love me for my sense of humor and other people might despise me for it. But clearly those people need to lighten up. Because I’m awesome. Who doesn’t like to have fun?

  Hell, life is too short to be serious all the time. My family learned that lesson the hard way when my mom died when I was ten. If there’s one positive that came out of the devastation of losing her, it was to make the most of each day. Embrace each moment because life is filled with uncertainties. That’s why I have a ‘you only live once’ attitude.

  Sometimes I make decisions that might not be in my best interest, long term. Hannah is the perfect example of that. I never should’ve gotten involved with her, but she made her interest known. She was hot, and I’m only human. I think most guys in my position would’ve done the same thing.

  Maybe I was thinking with the wrong head, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Whining won’t help. I need to deal with the situation I placed myself in and get through it in the best way possible. It’s my fault. I don’t even blame Hannah. She may have made her interest apparent, but I didn’t have to bite. There’s a lesson to be learned from all this. One that runs deeper than not sleeping with a married woman. I just need to figure out what it is.

  We push our chairs in against the table and silently begin walking through the stacks. My hand on Eliza’s arm has her feet stilling and I direct her over to lean against the thick wooden shelving.

  “Thank you for helping me with my paper.”

  “No problem. Just doing my job.”

  “I think I need to apologize to you and that’s not something I usually do.”

  She frowns, her brows pinching together above her frames. “You don’t apologize?”

  “Nope, not much. It’s not very often that I’m wrong,” I laugh.

  “Oh, I get it now. You don’t make mistakes.”

  “No, I never said that. I make mistakes all the time. Hell, I’ve made some astronomical ones lately, but I’m not mean spirited. I like to joke and have fun, but not at another person’s expense. And I think I took the Abu thing too far with you. You seemed upset and I’m sorry if I did.”