That Girl (That Girl, #1)(31)
The whole wolf pack erupts in laughter and cheers. My guts turn at their praise, and my flesh doesn’t even try to flush. It’s the strangest sensation, and I can only compare it to a baby taking her first steps and feeling her wobbly legs halfway work underneath her. Sure but not steady, but absolutely willing to try for more.
“Thanks, Mike, but my king better sit first.”
Not letting go of my hand, Lincoln sits in the flimsy white plastic lawn chair and drags me into his lap.
“The perfect throne for a queen,” Lincoln announces.
That’s when all the hoots and hollers really come, and even some smartass remarks that only make Lincoln puff his chest out even further.
“Talk about * whipped,” comes from one direction.
And then, “Man, she owns your balls.”
We all laugh at the remarks and slowly blend into the crowd like the rest. I listen to the chatter and realize it’s like Lincoln talking to me in my apartment. It’s all about football, plays, and the love of the game. His brother’s name comes up a couple of times, and he just shrugs it off. Nobody in the group quite knows how painful the four-letter word is to Lincoln. It’s everything he’s not and never will be, because he refuses to mold to the expectations of his father. He refuses to be perfect just for family’s sake. Not one of his teammates picks up on that, and it hurts my heart.
In many parts of the conversation I could jump in and add a line or two, but that’s only because of everything Lincoln has shared over the past few weeks. I’m desperately dying to inform the wide receiver named Jerron Olsen he’d make a better cornerback dropping balls than a wide receiver, but internally know that would be an immediate party foul and direct marching orders from the pack.
Lincoln’s love of the game has obviously influenced me. There are still several scenarios I can only describe as ‘this player got the ball and ran for a shit-load of yards, and then the ref threw the yellow flag, which is obviously wrong, and he’s an idiot.’ Yes, I’m still a rookie, but wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than the lap of the best collegiate defensive player in the nation.
“So, Oakley, where are you from?”
The question comes from left field. I was off my game and absorbing the life and surroundings. It hits hard, and it nails me straight in the gut.
“I’m from. I’m from…”
“Her freaking momma,” Lincoln jokes.
Of course, the wolf pack eats it up. I kiss Lincoln on the cheek and will a mental thank you to him. He knows I don’t discuss my past and is willing to accept it, and his comment is just one of the many gestures showing the lengths to which he’s willing to go.
He keeps the scars on my palm hidden from question, but the one across my neck shines like a diamond just taunting the onlookers to ask questions about it. Mentally zoning from the football talk, I prepare a bullshit answer for the loaded gun awaiting me.
The music stops, and everyone parts ways to get refills and some food. I watch as each person disperses and try to read their stories. Everyone has a story, though some hide it well and act as a chameleon like I do. Never really willing to openly be themselves because their true self is ugly, cruel, and worthless.
“Hungry, my girl?” Lincoln whispers into my ear.
Turning to face him, I answer, “No.”
This is when I see him. The full Lincoln Wilks in all his shining glory. Sported out in his handsome as f*ck clothes, his scent infusing the air, tilted back ball cap, and all his team pride with me on his lap. This is the first time I really see Lincoln Wilks, and suddenly wonder if I fit into his life, or if this is just another pit stop.
“You’re happy,” I say.
“You have no idea, Oakley, how incredibly happy you make me. With the promise of my junior year ahead of me and you in my life, you have absolutely no f*cking idea how happy I am.”
“I could guess,” I sigh into his lips.
“Try me.”
“Are you sure? I’ve had a very good teacher who has taught me well. I do believe I’m a current black belt with my lips.”
“Give it to me, ninja.”
Using my best ninja kissing skills, I give it all I have in front of everyone. My heart will never know if this is destined to be a pit stop with Lincoln, or if it will be more, so right now in this moment I’m choosing before anyone or anything does it for me. It’s going to be more. I’m all in.
All of a sudden the sun is gone, and we are in a shadow. We pull apart and look up to see the largest man I’ve met to date.
“Damn, Tiny, where ya been?” Lincoln asks.
“My f*cking girl had drama at home and put us late,” he rumbles.
And by rumble I mean, his voice is so deep and baritone it makes the tiny hairs on my big toe stand up. It is the deepest voice I’ve heard and very fitting for the goliath structure. Lincoln lifts me up, and we both stand before Tiny.
“This has to be the Oakley,” Tiny says, holding out his hand.
Placing my hand in his, I understand why his name is Tiny. He makes my hand look beyond minuscule.
“Yes, I’m Oakley,” I say craning my neck to look up at him.
Tiny’s also sporting a beard, and I remember Lincoln saying it was some kind of tradition with the defensive line. I also remember him saying when he catches his first interception he lets his beard grow out. I don’t remember all the specifics, but there were some. I do remember feeling all giddy about it, because Lincoln with scruff is hot as hell, so I can’t even begin to imagine a full beard.