Looking to Score(24)

“Explain what?” he asked innocently. “What exactly do you think is going on here?” His devilish smile sent a new wave of heat down my body.

I absentmindedly pulled on my sleep shirt to make sure I was covered. It was a habit I kept from when I was forty pounds heavier and about one thousand times more uncomfortable in my own skin. Oakley’s eyes followed my hands to my thighs as my fingers played with the hem of my oversized Backstreet Boys tee shirt.

Oakley’s expression changed from playful to pure lust. Oh God. What panties had I put on before bed? I couldn’t even remember. I prayed to the god of girls who haven’t been laid in months that it wasn’t pink robots. “Backstreet Boys, hmm?”

“They were ahead of their time,” I replied.

He stared at my lips for a long moment. I felt my mouth grow dry. “Solver,” he whispered, placing his hand over mine. His long fingers splayed over my thigh.

“Y-yes?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

I squinted in scrutiny as his thumb massaged my skin distractedly. “I have a big game tomorrow. I’ll need my energy. I’ll eat whatever you eat.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’ll need lots of protein. Like at a minimum of thirty-five hundred calories,” I sputtered, pulling away. My stomach growled at the mention of it.

“Exactly. I guess you’ll have to eat something if you want me to have enough energy for tomorrow,” he said with a smile.

“You’re bluffing,” I countered.

“I don’t bluff.”

My mind was racing, all thoughts of sexy time vanished. I did a quick round of math in my head. Burning one pound of fat was the equivalent of three-thousand five hundred calories. I typically ate around one thousand calories per day, which meant I would have to take in an extra twenty-five hundred calories. In. One. Day. I felt dizzy just at the thought of all that extra food. But I could fast for one day and then reduce my caloric intake by two hundred and fifty calories for the two days after that. That would undo the damage to my waistline, and since I was going home separately, Oakley would never know that I was fasting.

“Fine,” I said with determination. “You’re on.” I grabbed the protein bar out of his hand and wolfed it down, not even stopping to savor the two hundred calories. I was one hella dedicated publicist. He smiled as I swallowed. “Delicious,” I growled once my mouth was empty.

Oakley stared at my mouth and practically purred. “Yeah,” he began, licking his lips. “Delicious.”





12





I packed the wrong outfit for the game. I tried to go for a casually professional look. Sleek, long jeans clung to my legs, and the cream button-down shirt was in line with the university’s school colors of orange and white.

But it was hotter than the devil’s sweaty ass crack. I had lines of moisture trailing down my spine, and I stupidly left a hair tie at the hotel. I felt bloated from all the food I had to eat in order for Oakley to have enough energy for today’s game, and the humidity in the air tasted like evaporated beer.

“Yaaaaaaas!!” a girl next to me screamed. She kept bumping into me every time she cheered, knocking her hard lemonade onto me. I was annoyed by her shrieks but envied her short outfit. Unlike me, she paired a cute orange sports bra with short cut-off shorts and flip-flops. If I didn’t think it would ruin Oakley’s reputation, I’d strip down to my panties and air out my pits.

How long were football games, anyway? There were four quarters that were fifteen minutes each, so like an hour? I could literally feel the makeup melting off my face. The one time I actually made an effort to look nice. Figured.

I had no idea what was happening on the field. They were passing, dribbling, or defending pretty fiercely though. I started thinking about things I could say that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete asshat if someone asked me about the game. “They sure did a good job of moving the ball from one side of the field to the other!” and “They played with a lot of heart!” both sounded pretty lame. I started writing down some things that the announcer said so I could memorize them and sound like I knew what I was talking about.

Perky orange sports bra bumped into me again and slurred in my general direction, “Like, what are you even doing?” she asked while nodding at my notepad.

“I don’t really know much about football, but I’m here to support one of the players,” I replied.

“I can help!” she said enthusiastically. “I totally know about football!” I instantly felt a strong Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants connection with sports bra girl.

“So you see the dude with dreads peeking out of his helmet?” she asked while pointing toward the field. I vaguely recognized who she was indicating and nodded. “He’s sleeping with my roommate and has an eight-inch dick.”

I wasn’t sure what this had to do with football, but call me intrigued.

“Oh really?” I asked.

“Yep. He’s the quarterback. Basically when the ball goes there, we score.”

I made a mental note. Score = Good.

“And do you see that dude right there?” she asked, waving her skinny index finger in Oakley’s direction.

“Yep,” I replied with a swallow.

“He eats ass like nobody’s business.” Sports bra held her dainty hand up to her mouth and giggled. “I mean, seriously. I didn’t think I liked rim jobs, but—”