SPIKED (A Sports Romance) (4 page)

J
acob Everett was a problem
.

Well, no,
he
wasn’t a problem— but the memory of him, and how thinking of him had made me feel…
that
was a problem. I had never had trouble focusing on school before, my hunger to put a check mark beside the “studied for two hours” line of my to-do list was usually the big priority in my life.

Now, though, I found myself thinking of Jacob in the middle of class. After class. At the library. And perhaps, worst of all, late at night, when I fought fantasies of him off for hours before finally giving in and touching myself to the thought of him on top of me.

So, yes, Jacob Everett was a problem.

Two weeks into the semester, I woke on a Saturday morning to find Piper and Kiersten were buzzing around the common area in Harton green sundresses, hair pulled up and makeup flawless. The fact that they were awake before me was remarkable— I rarely saw them before noon.

“You guys are up early,” I noted blearily, rubbing my eyes.

“It’s game day,” Piper said brightly, like it was Christmas or her birthday or the first day of eternal world peace.

“Oh. I didn’t realize,” I said. “Are you going? This early?”

Kiersten looked a touch offended, but went on, explaining as though I didn’t speak English. “It’s a three-thirty game, so we’ll go tailgate with some friends in about an hour until it starts. We don’t have tickets. Hardly anyone gets lottery tickets to the season opener, except seniors.”

I nodded. “Right. Anyway, I was just going to run down to the grocery store and get some cereal and stuff, so I guess I won’t see you guys till after—“

There was a quick knock at the door that cut me off mid-sentence. Piper and Kiersten looked at each other, clearly confused; Kiersten was the one that finally walked over and answered the door. On the other side was a muscle-y guy wearing athletic shorts and a Harton Rams jersey. It took a moment, but eventually I remembered the guy from Football House— one of the freshman football players.

“Hey, I’ve got a letter for—“

“Oh my god,” Piper said, bouncing up and down on her heels.

“Is it from Jacob?” Kiersten asked him frantically.

“Yes,” he said, hesitant in the face of their gushing.

“
Oh my god
,” Piper squealed even louder, then snatched the letter away from the freshman. “I knew it. I knew it’d be me for the first game!”

“Open it open it open it open it,” Kiersten said. “Hurry!”

I swallowed nervously as Piper tore open the envelope. Was this the invitation that bartender told me Piper was after— was Piper going to be the one to suck Jacob’s cock before today’s game?

My inner feminist recoiled in horror at the notion, and yet I found myself growing envious, then hurt, that Jacob could look at
me
the way he had at the party but still come to Piper this morning.

“These are tickets!” Piper said, sounding alarmed and angry. She spun around to face the freshman player. “Where’s my locker room pass? Don’t I get to see him before the game?”

“That’s what I was trying to say,” the football player said. “He asked me to give tickets to someone called The Mime?”

Piper looked like she’d been punched. She turned to me, lips parted, eyes flashing angrily.

I felt as though someone had poured a bucket of ice water over my head.

“What? What’s happening? Who’s a mime?” Kiersten asked, frantically looking to the others for an explanation.

You’d have thought we’d just heard the school was closing down with the panic she was showing in her eyes at this turn of events.

“Well. You must have made quite an impression,” Piper said, rolling her eyes and shoving the now-torn envelope towards me.

“Wait, really? This is for me? Why?” I asked the freshman.

The player shrugged. “No idea. They’re amazing seats though— in the reserved section for guests of senior players. So, you know. Go.” He shook his head. “Look, I’ve got the team meal, so I gotta bounce. See you at the game I guess, Mime,” he said, then darted out of the doorway and down the steps.

Kiersten and Piper reeled around to me. “What did you
do
at that party?” Kiersten asked.

“Nothing! Seriously, nothing. I don’t know why he gave me these,” I said, holding the envelope away from me, like it might contain poison.

“This is bullshit,” Piper said bitterly. But then she blinked and seemed to compose herself. “Those are just…tickets,” Piper said, shrugging dismissively. “Nobody even needs tickets to the first game.”

“I don’t understand. Is this a joke?” I asked, but I was talking mostly to myself by now. I set the tickets down on the counter and folded my arms over my stomach. Was Jacob Everett making fun of me? I was horrified, not just with him, but with myself for caring so much.

I wasn’t supposed to get taken in by this kind of silliness. I wasn’t supposed to be competing for the attentions of some obnoxious jock who thought a pair of tickets and a pre-game blowjob were the height of romance.

“Hey, congrats, tickets to the season opener,” Piper called over snippily. “Come on, Kiersten, we have to go.” She grabbed Kiersten’s hand and started tugging her toward the door. I watched Kiersten stumble after Piper.

This was insane. All this bitterness over what? A guy who didn’t care about any of us?

“Wait, what am I supposed to do with these?” I asked. “I don’t even like football, and I’m not interested in Jacob Everett.”

“Whatever you want. They’re great seats, apparently,” Piper said, mocking the freshman player as she said the last bit. Kiersten gave me a pitying shrug before she allowed herself to be pulled out the door. I was left alone, still in my pajamas, a pair of apparently fancy football tickets sitting on the kitchen counter.

The game started at three-thirty, I remembered. Which meant I needed to get to the student center.

* * *

T
wo hours later
, I was on my way home with a handful of shopping bags, two boxes of cereal, and still seventy dollars in cash left in my pocket. I was delighted— I’d easily scalped the tickets for two hundred dollars each at the student center. Jacob Everett thought he’d make a joke at my expense? Call me
The Mime
?

It’s Sasha, thanks, jackass.

At home, I admired the new dresses I’d gotten. They were far more expensive than anything I’d have normally bought (which wasn’t really saying much, given that my motto was
Viva Old Navy!
), but I was particularly hungry to spend Jacob’s ticket money on something frivolous.

I did a bit more unpacking, then stared at the television. It was nearly three-thirty, and the game would be on soon. I had no interest in
attending
a Harton football game, but watching one didn’t seem wholly terrible. I clicked the television on and, after negotiating with the variety of remotes that were on the coffee table, found my way to the game.

The stadium looked wild— a sea of green and gold, people screaming, painted bodies and wigs and streamers and banners. The players themselves looked almost comically small when the camera panned out for a wide overhead shot that had to be coming via blimp or something— tiny dots on a green field. They were playing someone wearing white— I had no idea who— and the sportscasters kept flashing names and stats across the screen. I tucked my knees up under me and tried to make sense of the game, which was just now kicking off.

It was hard to follow, given my total ignorance of football. Just when I thought I’d figured out what a “down” was, something would happen to mess it all up in my head. If I were being totally honest, I thought the halftime show was more entertaining than the game itself, and was sad that they kept interrupting the marching band to interview football experts or former players or whoever. By this point, I’d already collected my biology book and started flipping through it. I was moments from muting the television altogether when I heard a name I knew.

“Jacob Everett is the real star on the field— and it’s not just his playing ability. He manages to turn a group of guys into a real team, and that, Bob, is a type of leadership you can’t learn. It’s innate.”

“You’re definitely right,” someone—Bob, I guessed—replied. “You can tell that his teammates really trust and rely on him, not to carry their weight or anything, but to make them strong. He’s a senior this year, and you’ve got to wonder what will happen after he graduates.”

“Well, there’s always Stewart Adams, the junior quarterback that some say could be even better than Jacob Everett once he’s given the opportunity, but I just don’t know.”

“Surprising the NFL haven’t come knocking already for Everett, isn’t it?”

“It is! But you know, the NFL is bigger and badder than college football, and those teams don’t require quite the leadership that these boys at Harton do— so maybe what we’re seeing as star power, they’re seeing as just another good player.”

I was surprised to find myself insulted on Jacob’s behalf. Clearly he was more than just another good player if he had a shot at the NFL…I reminded myself that actually I knew nothing about football, cared nothing about football, and needed to forget about Jacob Everett once and for all.

The Rams won soundly— so far ahead of their opponents that there was really no doubt of their victory. I could hear the cheers from the stadium from inside the apartment, they were so loud. There was confetti raining from canons on either side of the field, people were rushing out, coaches looking on proudly…

It was an infectious sort of happiness, and I grinned, but it was still hard to understand the school’s obsession with the sport. Some guys ran around on the field and gave each other concussions for a few hours. What was the big deal?

The announcers’ voices suddenly grew louder in my ears. “Now we’re going to go to Jessie, who is with none other than Harton’s hero, Jacob Everett!”

“That’s right, Bob,” a pretty petite redhead said. The camera panned out and I inhaled— there he was, filling up my television screen: Jacob Everett.

Same steely beautiful eyes, though he was now dripping in sweat and his uniform was speckled with grass. There was something so absurdly masculine about it all, especially with him standing there next to such a small, feminine creature. That man— he was hardly a boy, not at that height— had offered me tickets to see him play. He’d sought me out, both the other night at the party, and then again this morning. I shifted on the couch, letting my textbook slide to the floor.

“Jacob, you ran some amazing plays today, the least of which was that incredible pass in the third quarter. Anything you’d have done differently, despite the win?” the reporter asked.

Jacob smiled at her, and I could tell the woman was melting a little— an effect I understood entirely. “You know, I always come out here and try to do my best, but it’s also always a challenge not to be critical of my choices. There’s always something to improve on, no matter if we win or lose.”

“You sure about that? Because that was a pretty incredible game!” She batted her eyelashes at him.

I was certain of it.

“Absolutely sure,” he grinned. “The fact that my teammates and I never stop improving is why we’re able to be so successful on the field. We hold each other accountable every day, all day, whether there’s a game or not.”

“That’s great to hear, and you know, that’s really what college ball is all about. We heard a rumor you invited some special friends to watch you play today— do you think you play better, knowing your friends are watching?”

I tensed— did the reporter mean me? Did Jacob invite multiple people? Maybe that was the real joke he was playing— making me think I was special, when I was just one of many.
Well
, I thought,
I showed him
. I straightened my new dress smugly.

“You know, I was sad to learn the person I invited couldn’t make it,” Jacob said, though he was still wearing a wry smile. He looked directly at the camera. “I’ll just cross my fingers that she was watching from home.”

My body practically went numb as his words hit my eardrums.

“Oh no! I hate to hear that,” the reporter said.

“Me too,” Jacob said, still looking at the camera. I couldn’t cast aside the certainty that he was looking directly at me, just as directly as he’d been the night before. He went on, “But I’m sure I’ll convince her to come to another game. No one can turn down watching me play, right? People pay two hundred bucks apiece for the tickets.”

“Right!” the reporter said, laughing alongside him. “Anyhow, back to you, Bob.”

I stared, mind-boggling at what I’d just witnessed and heard.

Two hundred dollars for the tickets— that was what I’d sold them for. He was talking about me. He knew I’d sold them, knew I’d turned him down.

Did news really travel that fast around this place?

Perhaps he’d checked the stands and then sent one of his emissaries to find out why someone else had shown up in my place.

I still had no idea if all this was a joke or not— maybe he just liked the power of getting people to come see him play. He obviously knew just how good-looking and talented he was, after all— maybe he liked using that power. Maybe I was just a pawn for his ego.