Looking to Score(5)
It was an act of God that got me here. Maybe I could squeeze one more miracle out of the big guy. “I’ve got it handled,” I replied in a curt tone. “Why don’t we skip ahead to the introductions so I can get to work, hmm? I will send you a detailed email outlining my pretty little report for you to reference,” I added in a sickly sweet tone. I knew how to talk to men like Coach Howard. I just had to keep my cool and do my job. Then graduate. Easy, right?
“Good luck,” Coach answered. “He disappeared from practice early, saying he had a prior commitment.” Coach plopped down at his desk and scratched his head. “He’s probably balls deep in some unlucky coed right now. That boy’s dick is going to fall off one of these days. When you see him,” Coach continued, wagging his finger at me, “tell him that he owes me another hour of practice.”
I couldn’t believe this. The University of Texas was one of the most prestigious schools in the state—hell, in the country. People were dying to get in here. There was no way Oakley was that good. There were always better players waiting to prove themselves. I didn’t know anything about football, but even I knew that.
I should have excused myself, but instead, I sat down. “Why is Oakley still on the team?”
The coach rolled his eyes and asked, “Why do you care?”
“If you want my help, I need all the information. You and I both know you wouldn’t put up with this shit unless you were forced to,” I replied.
His brows shot up in surprise as if he weren’t expecting me to ask that. Coach leaned over his messy desk and lowered his voice. “You’re a smart girl. Let’s just say Oakley is very protected by higher-ups that want to see him succeed. One might even say they have no other choice but to keep Oakley happy.”
I nodded and wrote a quick note in my planner, then stood up. “I’ll find him and pass along the message. When is your next practice?”
“Oh six hundred in the morning.”
Perfect. I loved to start my day early. “We’ll be there.”
He snorted. “Mr. Wednesday said that I’d be monitoring your progress? I’ll be watching you. I suggest you go ahead and plan on being here another semester because Oakley Davis is hopeless.”
I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I loved it when people underestimated me. It made proving them wrong that much more rewarding.
I walked out of his office with my head held high and my shoulders rolled back, making sure to pour confidence in my steps as I left. I looked like I had my shit together. I was getting a fucking A, come hell or high water.
But the moment the door closed and I was out of his line of sight, I squeezed my eyes shut and frantically picked up my phone, desperate to figure out where my client was. I pulled up his Instagram and checked his story.
Shit. Damn. Hell. Sonofamotherfuckingbastard.
He was clutching a towel and taking selfies in someone’s bedroom. The pink bedding hinted that it belonged to a girl. I took in the motivational poster on the wall and then gasped when I saw a purple vibrator left on the nightstand. Mother. Fucking. Shelby. He was in my apartment. He was with my roommate.
Guess she found batteries for her vibrator.
I clicked through his story and paused when he playfully dropped the towel to cup his junk. I saw a flash of peen. Like, full-on flesh baton. It was quick, but there was no denying Thor’s hammer hanging out there for the world to see. I skipped back to double-check.
Yep. That’s his dick.
His massive elephant dick.
It was only a split second, but I knew that girls could screenshot slips like it was one of those fucking shoot out duels in the Wild West. His cock was probably already in spank banks all over campus.
Oh my lanta. Oakley was a sexy bastard. The way he bit his lip had me flushing. I skipped to the next post and frowned.
Headed to Longhorn Sports Bar for drinks.
I closed my phone and started heading out of the Athletics building and toward the bus stop. This wasn’t bad. Leaked nudes sometimes made a career—Kim Kardashian was proof of that. But this didn’t exactly promote the good wholesome vibe the school wanted.
I quickly ran through options, tapping my foot on the concrete and waiting for the bus to arrive. The quicker I got to him, the better.
3
It had been four months since I’d set foot in a college bar. I braced myself for the memories I knew would hit me like a punch to the gut. Outside, the Austin city lights illuminated the grime-filled sidewalk. I stared at the entrance for a moment, mustering up the courage to put my big girl panties on and waltz inside like the bad bitch I was.
It took ten minutes for me to feel like said bad bitch. I was a medium bitch. An over-easy bitch.
The second I walked through the front door, the stench of perfume and beer assaulted my senses. I curled my lip, and my stomach rumbled at the sight of plates filled to the brim with bar food. Hungry college students who weren’t worried about their slowing metabolism were devouring appetizers dripping with bubbling grease. I nearly drooled at the sight of a pitcher of beer and nachos. Fucking hell, I hated my diet.
This place was my ultimate weakness. Just a few months ago, I would have confidently stepped up to the bar and ordered a whiskey sour. Now, I was trembling.
I swallowed those nasty little nerves crawling up my throat like bile and walked up to the bar. I needed something in my hands. “Sparkling water, please. With lime,” I ordered once I could flag down a bartender. I tipped the hipster dude pouring drinks extra well to overcompensate for feeling embarrassed about my order. This was more of a beer and cholesterol type of place.