Looking to Score(8)

Oh my lanta, he was serious. He grabbed another shot from a nearby table and slammed it. Any more and he’d be passed out on the ground. “I suppose I could help. The first step would be to stop sharing nudes,” I replied dryly. His face lit up.

“So you’ve seen it?” he asked, as if proud. I guess he had a right to be. His dick looked lethal. It honestly was brag-worthy, but as his publicist, I probably shouldn’t think about how it hung mid-thigh and looked like it could put an eye out when hard.

“I don’t think there is a girl on campus that hasn’t,” I deadpanned.

Oakley must have finally caught on that I wasn’t amused, because a slight sense of clarity poked through his drunken haze. “What was your name again?” he asked.

I sighed in annoyance while peering around the room. Other girls were glaring at me for hogging the prime real estate. “Amanda,” I replied. Yeah. He was definitely drunk. There was no way I was letting him go home with anyone tonight.

“Amanda,” he slurred. “How about you come home with me? I’ll let you ride my face until I’m drowning in your cum. Then”—he leaned closer to brush his whiskey lips against my ear—“I’ll fuck you until the entire city of Austin can hear your moans.”

Okay. Oakley Davis was a pro at dirty talk. My panties were like the San Marcos river, and my nipples stood at attention. Damn. Even drunk, he was a charmer.

Obviously, this wasn’t the right setting for a professional meeting. Right now, my only priority was getting Oakley home. “Sure,” I replied. My lack of enthusiasm made him pause. “I’d really, uh, like to be fucked, please,” I choked out awkwardly. A couple of people nearby snorted at my lame attempt to seduce him.

He chuckled. “I’ll order us an Uber to my place.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and struggled to unlock it. I memorized the code.

6969

What a fucking tool.

“One more shot before the road?” I asked with a grin while handing him a glass.

“Bottoms up!” he slurred, tossing it back.

With any luck, he’d be passed out before we even got to his place.





4





Oakley was snoring. I stared at him like a fucking creeper while he slept. His shirt was crumpled on the bed next to him, and his pants were halfway off, leaving his skin-tight black boxer briefs on display. My eyes lingered on the tight bulge that looked like it was about to tear through the fabric. I allowed myself to indulge in just a moment of fantasizing about what I saw during towel-gate on his Insta yesterday. Hell, it was better than indulging in that double chocolate caramel brownie. Right?

The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but I knew we only had a few minutes until he needed to get up and head to practice. It was time to snap out of it. Oakley had an early morning practice, and he was going to make it if I had to drag him there myself. “Rise and shine, princess,” I called out in a cheery tone.

I waited. And waited. Nothing. Oakley didn’t even stop snoring. The steady rise and fall of his chest just annoyed me. I walked over to the bed that we definitely did not share last night and timidly poked him. Again, nothing.

Come on, Amanda. You’re waking up a football player, not playing Jenga. “Oakley, get up,” I said more firmly as I shook him awake.

“You ready for round two, baby?” he asked through a thick haze of alcohol breath and cockiness. He obviously didn’t have a clue that he passed out about five minutes after we got out of the Uber last night. I blushed as I remembered him trying to do a striptease as he fell into bed. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I took advantage of having unsupervised access to his cell phone and his room, and got to work, pausing only for a quick nap on his chair.

In five hours, I managed to clean up his social media, change all his passwords, and sync his calendar to mine so I could make sure to attend all of his activities. I also sent an email on his behalf to Coach Howard, apologizing for leaving practice early and promising to make up the hour. There were a few privacy laws broken, but all in all, I didn’t really give a fuck. If Oakley had a problem, he could bring it up with his coach.

“There would have to be a round one in order to experience round two, and I’m not sure your morning whiskey dick is up for the challenge,” I deadpanned, scrolling through his email.

He sat up in bed, eyebrows raised as he looked at me. “Who are you?”

“Amanda Matthews, your new publicist,” I replied, taking off my reading glasses and handing him back his phone. He grabbed it out of my palm and immediately peered at the screen. “There is an email from Coach Howard validating my claims. I cleaned up your social media, deleted your apps, and changed your passwords. I’ll give you access again once I’m convinced you won’t share any more photos of your dick.”

“What the fuck?” he groaned.

“You have ten minutes to do whatever you need to do to get your ass out the door for practice,” I said in what I hoped was a convincing tone.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” he argued, scratching his head.

“Yes,” I began. “You do. If you won’t do it because your spot on the team is in jeopardy, then you’ll do it because I found poems you wrote to your high school girlfriend, and I’m not afraid to share them.”