Stallion: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (2 page)

* * *

I
wake
up the next morning feeling like my head is about to explode. The sun is blasting in through my window like an atomic bomb has gone off down the road. The odor of stale beer and pizza invades my nostrils. Not what you want to wake up to. It’s not the smell of two slamming chicks in bed with you that are ready for round two – or maybe round three.

The twins
…I think sadly, raising myself up on my elbows, my head a cracked ceramic bowl ready to explode at the slightest touch.

I blew it. Fucking Danny! I knew I shouldn’t have done that shot!

Some ungodly noise blares from the other side of the room. It takes me a minute to realize it’s my goddamn cell phone. Why isn’t it on vibrate? Fighting another bout of nausea, I manage to crawl across the carpet and get the phone before it goes to voicemail. I almost drop it bringing it to my ear.

“You got the Stallion,” I croak, angrily sarcastic.

“Johnson!?”

Shit!
My whole body tenses up when I realize who’s on the other end: it’s coach P.

“Coach!” I say, trying to play things cool. “How’s it going?”

“You sound like you’re on death’s door, boy. The Hell’s going on over there?”

“Oh, nothing,” I lie, rolling onto my back and sucking huge breaths of air, trying to keep it together. “What, uh – what’s up?”

“What’s up?” Coach snaps back, sounding pissed. Coach P takes no shit from anybody, even his star players. It’s one of the reasons we win. All the boys know not to fuck with him. It doesn’t matter how good you are. If you give Coach P a reason to bench your ass, he will. And if you’re lucky, that’s all he’ll do. “You have a lot of explaining to do, son. Get your ass to my office.”

“Uh, okay. When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

The phone goes dead, and I just drop it to the floor and lay back. What a disaster. I can’t even remember the last time I was this fucked up. That shot Danny gave me must have had straight up poison in it for me to be this smashed.

The whole room is still swimming as I shove myself to my feet. Jesus, this is like being a freshman all over again and not knowing your limits. I look around for my clothes and realize I’m still wearing them.
What is that smell?

My foot hits something wet, and I remember.

I yacked last night
.

I hobble to the bathroom, almost toppling over on the way, and toss my leg into the tub and crank the water on.
Washing last night’s puke off your foot, Walker. Classy.

I blew it with the twins. I wonder if they’d even look at me the same after what happened last night. Hopefully they were both drunk enough to forget about it, but I doubt it. Dodging puke when you’re pre-gaming for a threesome isn’t something you just brush off.

There’s nothing I’d rather do right now than just slide my whole body into the tub and pass out with the hot water spraying down on me from the shower. Wake up like a prune in a couple of hours. But Coach P has a hair up his ass about something, and when Coach P says jump, you jump…high.

My foot is clean, but the smell of vomit is still pretty strong. I douse it with body wash which helps a little, but the rug is going to need my attention later. Fuck it, I’ll just make one of the freshmen do it. Seniority is awesome.

I dry my foot off on the bath mat and search for my shoes. My room’s like a warzone. I haven’t cleaned up in weeks. It’s a football house. No one coming here expects the Hilton. I grab my water bottle and head downstairs.

W
alking
across campus to the athletic center is the last thing I want to be doing right now. It’s hot as shit and the sun is blaring, which is doing absolutely nothing to help my headache. The pain has morphed from horrific into almost unbearable.

A couple of Kappa girls pass by and give me the eye. One of them even giggles. Everyone knows me around here. On any other normal day I’d be noticing how short their skirts were and which one had the juiciest ass, maybe even tossing a sly compliment their way, but this morning I can barely manage to acknowledge them and sort of grunt at them as I pass. Ironically, this seems to fire them up even more, and I hear them whisper to each other when they think I’m out of ear reach.

“Oh my God, that’s Walker-fucking-Johnson!” One of them says.

“Is he the one they call the Stallion?”

“Yessss!”

“I’d like to show him my skills at riding!”

They all break out into giggles that make me absolutely cringe.
God this hangover could kill.
I should be back there getting every one of their numbers, but right now I need to see Coach, deal with whatever’s got his panties in a twist, get home and pass the fuck out. There’s always time to chase women.

What am I talking about? I don’t chase women – women chase me.

I strong arm the door to the athletic center open and stumble in, praising the gods of central air and nodding curtly to Benny, the Asian engineering student manning the desk who looks bored out of his fucking mind.

“Big night, Walker?”

“Mmm,” I groan back. Benny grins. We’re pretty friendly. Looking at us, you’d never think we’d be the kind of guys to get along, but I like the way Benny just doesn’t give a fuck. There’s not one thing that’s even remotely athletic about the guy, and you can just tell he hates everything about the sports worship that goes on at our school, but he’s doing his own thing and isn’t apologizing to anyone about it. And I dig that.

“Smashing bitches and downing forties?” He jokes with me, grinning from behind a book full of calculations and shit I’ll never understand. He looks extra…feisty today. Maybe he actually finally got laid.
Nah
.

“Jerking off to internet porn?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t do it too!” He counters back. I manage to smile as I push the door open to the offices.

“I make porn, dude,” I call over my shoulder. “With the hottest chicks on campus.”

The AC is on full blast, thank God, which is helping my hangover, but the obnoxious echo of my footsteps as I head down the hall is enough to make me want to punch somebody.
Why do they have to hide him down here anyway?
If I wasn’t in such amazing shape, just getting my ass over here would be a cardio workout.

Coach P’s door is slightly ajar, and I take a deep breath before pushing it open.
Let’s hope he’s not too pissy
.

“Johnson!” His voice roars, threatening to shatter my skull. I pretend there’s something in my eye and massage my temple, trying to do anything to calm the utter fucking agony I’m feeling. “The fuck’s going on with you?”

“Coach?” I really am flabbergasted. What the Hell could he possibly be angry with me about? I start replaying the last few days to figure out what could be bugging him. I’ve been partying hard, but I’ve also been on time for practice, I won us the last game and I’ve been going to classes…mostly.

“Don’t
coach
, me,” he says, waving his hand dismissively.

Coach P has a way about him that reminds me of a lumberjack or a coal miner. He’s built like a brick shit house, and normally keeps himself clean-shaven, but today is sporting a five o’clock shadow. The guy’s got hands like a mason, and has a habit of smacking you on the back when you do a good job. After I caught a forty-yard pass against Louisiana, I thought he was gonna take my head off my neck with how enthusiastic he was.

He ain’t happy today though
.

“Take a seat, pal,” he says, kicking a stool in my direction. Slowly, I sit, trying my best to look like I’m not about to fall over. “Boy, you look like you been run hard and put up wet.”

“Long night,” I mutter.

“You boys,” he says, shaking his head. “No sense of moderation, huh? Go hard always. Never stop.”

I don’t know what to say. Coach knows how we are, and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t the exact same way back when he was my age. Coach was a star for this school over twenty years ago. Running back. Made it to the big leagues but blew out a hamstring and came back to coach. I hear he managed to bank a few mill before he took a permanent seat on the bench.

“Eh, you know how it is,” I shrug.

“Yeah, well, what can you tell me about this?” He says, handing me a slip of paper.

Academic Probation
, it reads in bold letters.

“Shit,” I say softly.

“You’re goddamn right,” he snaps, shaking his head. “You know what happens to athletes on academic probation?”

“I don’t—“

“No games!” He shouts, cutting me off. “They take your dumbass off the fucking field, and you know what that does to me?”

“Coach—“

“It
fucks me
!” He’s right in my face waving a thick sausage finger in my eyes. “You’re my star, Walker! But that don’t mean you get to jerk around and do whatever the fuck you want!”

“They’re not gonna bench me, Coach,” I say.

“Like Hell they’re not! You think you’re special?”

Yeah, I do actually…

“You think they won’t pull you off the field? Think again! They may not give two shits if you show up to class or not. They may ignore the fact that you buy the tests off the T.A.s ahead of time, and they may even ignore the noise complaints against that shithole you call a house of yours, but they ain’t gonna let some kid with a one point eight GPA hit the field.”

Coach is sweating, and I watch as a drop slides down his nose and drips onto my pant leg. Kinda gnarly, but miles away from waking up and stepping in your own puke.

“Okay, so…I’ll work harder.”

“Yeah? Okay, Walker, that’s great! You can go!”

He’s shitting me. There’s no way he’s done chewing me out yet, so I keep my ass planted on this stool that feels like it’s about to collapse under me. The redness in Coach P’s cheeks starts to subside and he takes a big breath and sits back in his chair.

“Here’s the deal, pal. You’ve got a mandatory tutor now that’s gonna help you get your grades up to at least a decent level so they don’t pull your privileges.”

“A tutor? Come on, Coach, what is this?”

“It’s me saving your ass, champ. So listen up. They were gonna give you this chick that I know you’d be banging in your first meeting, so I put a stop to that, and we’re giving you someone who’s gonna actually help you.”

Coach knows me too well
.

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“Your little buddy Benny out there.”

“Benny? Is gonna tutor me?”

“Damn straight,” he says. “He won’t take your shit, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be trying to fuck him. Unless you’ve pulled a one-eighty on me. You pull a one-eighty on me, Walker?”

“No, sir!” I say, straightening up.

“All right, then. Talk to him on your way out for your schedule.”

I feel like I just took a heavy hit from a four-hundred-pound linebacker.
Benny is going to tutor me?

Coach is doing something on his computer and making it pretty clear it’s my time to leave, so I slide off the stool and head out. My head’s spinning, and I don’t know if it’s the hangover or the news that my football career might be in jeopardy.
Would they really bench me?

Coach seemed to think so. This is really going to cut into my partying time. How am I going to work on the twins if I’m spending all my time behind a book with Benny? I bet he’s gonna be smug as shit.

I boot the door open and slide back into the lobby where Benny is sitting with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen in my life. He tosses his head back and cackles like a James Bond villain.

He already knew what was going on…

“You’re in my world now, Stallion. Muahahah!”

I
t’s
nine o’clock on a Friday night, and I’m working. I should be out. I should be partying with the rest of the student body. I should be doing a lot of things every
normal
college girl should be doing, but I’m not. I’m sitting at my computer, in the offices of the Tribune, doing revisions to a piece on child labor in Asia and the impact on the U.S. economy and its relation to human rights.

I take my job at the Houston University Orient very seriously. I’ve been a staff writer since my freshman year, and have a very respectful body of work under me for when I graduate.

It would be my dream to work for a big news organization and travel the world doing investigative reporting, or covering stories that really have an impact on peoples’ lives. In the age of tabloid reporting and celebrity gossip, I’d like to write something that makes a difference.

Everyone else has gone home, like I should have hours ago, except my editor, Peter Carson, who comes out of his office, shouldering his satchel (aka. man purse) and sipping a coffee that’s probably gone cold.

“News flash, Hutchinson. It’s Friday night. Get the Hell out of here.”

Peter looks too young to be chief editor, but he’s actually forty-two. Something about the way he carries himself, or the worn-out sports jacket and t-shirt he’s always wearing, makes him come off like an eager grad student. He’s boyishly handsome, and it’s almost a rite of passage for every new girl who works here to develop a crush on him at some point. I have to admit I had a bit of a thing for him when I first arrived, but I got over it pretty quick.

One, I don’t mix work and pleasure, and two, he’s just so…nice.

“I’m finishing up this piece on child labor in Asia and its relation to—“

“Relation to corporations and the U.S. economy. Yeah, I remember. Made me want to hang myself.”

“It’s an important issue!” I protest.

“This is a
college
paper, Hutchinson. Not the New York Times,” he says, flashing his trademark grin. “Give the kids something they want.”

“I’m not going to cater to them,” I say firmly. “This is something they need to read.”

“Well, I’ve got something they’ll want to read,” he says, tossing a manila folder on my desk. When I open it, my heart sinks.

“Seriously!?”

Peter’s trying not to laugh as I look up at him. He already knew what my reaction to this would be.

“Seriously,” he smiles back.

I look back at the folder and see the absolute very last thing in the world I would ever want to report on: Walker Johnson, the school’s resident meathead athlete.

“Hasn’t every paper in the greater Houston area already run a story on this guy?”

“They have,” Peter chuckles. “But it’s been a while since anyone on staff has gotten an interview with him. Word is he’s being scouted by the NFL.”

“Big deal!” I say, tossing the folder, sitting back and crossing my arms. “Another brain-dead football hunk who knows how to catch a ball. What’s the story?”

Peter’s trying his best not to laugh, relishing in my annoyance. “I dunno, Hutchinson. That’s for you to find out.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Peter’s already on his way out. As he passes, he stops and gives me a pat on the shoulder, which makes me even angrier.

“It’ll be good for you, Hutchinson. Maybe you’ll get a social life out of it,” he says, turning off the office lights. “Dumb jocks always go for nerdy girls.”

“I’m not a nerd!” I shout at him as he shuts the door behind him.

I sigh, crossing my arms even harder, hearing my mom’s voice in my head.

You’re such a pouter, Emmy!

“I’m not a nerd…” I mutter to myself in the darkness.

Yeah, well so what if I am? So what if I’m a nerd? What’s wrong with being a nerd? I’m not going to be one of those girls that spends my entire four years at school playing beer pong and flip cup and then graduates with a degree in some major she isn’t happy with and ends up having no idea what she wants to do with her life.

Partying isn’t my thing anyway – at all. I’ve always been pretty shy. Middle school was tough. I didn’t really have any friends, and it wasn’t until college that I managed to really even have a group of girls to hang out with on weekends. Even then they usually had to pry me out of my bedroom with a crowbar to go to the movies or go galactic bowling on Friday night.

My social anxiety has gotten a lot better now, but I still consider myself more of a loner. I’m just more comfortable that way. I managed to get a room with my best friend Abbey, who I met sophomore year in Sociology. She’s infinitely more social than I am, but she doesn’t bring it home with her, which is perfect for me.

She’ll be thrilled when she hears about my story on Walker Johnson.

The Stallion!

I scoff and throw my arms in the air dramatically like I’m a drama student. I look back down at the picture in the folder. Do girls really find guys like this attractive? I mean, he’s
objectively
handsome, but he looks like such a douchebag. That grin that just says,
I’m so awesome
, and the way he crosses his arms to show off his biceps. No humility!

But girls fall for it, time and time again. He’s got quite the reputation as a ladies man on campus. I’ve actually heard girls who he slept with would go back to their friends and recommend
they
sleep with him, just so they can experience how
wonderful
he is.

How could any guy be that amazing in bed?

I could never do that. Any boy that Abbey has been with is off limits. I could never sleep with someone Abbey had even been on one date with. Not that I’ve slept with anybody in…well…ever.

God this is depressing
, I think as I mull over my romantic life since I first came here. I was a slow starter in high school, and didn’t even have a boyfriend until senior year. Thomas Perry. He was sweet. He played clarinet in the band and brought me flowers on our first date.

We went out for three months. We made out, did some “heavy petting,” but it just never happened. He was nice, but there was just something missing. Maybe he was just
too
nice.

I spent the summer doing an internship for the local paper, and then it was off to school. I was determined to make an impression on my teachers my first semester and start the year off on a good foot, so I spent most of my time locked away in my room studying. Jenna, my first roommate, was rushing a sorority and was hardly ever home, which was fantastic. We didn’t exactly click anyway, so it wasn’t like I missed her when she was gone.

I guess I just haven’t had much time for boys. It doesn’t help that I’m…awkward. I have a habit of laughing at things nobody else finds funny, and missing out on other people’s jokes, and pop culture references go right over my head.

Then a few months ago I started dating Ronald. He’s pre law, and very studious. His mother introduced us actually. She’s one the board and I ran into her while covering their spring mixer.

“You should meet my son,” she had said gleefully when I told her I worked for the paper. “He’s pre-law,” she’d added with a comical wink.

He was tall and handsome and wearing a blazer with a shirt and tie. He looked like something out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue. He had an air of confidence about him, like it was almost assumed that I’d be willing to go out with him. And I guess he was right.

It just sort of happened. We started dating, but with both of our schedules, we don’t get to spend a whole lot of time together. I spend all my time at the paper and he spends all his working on his degree. But it works for both of us. I wouldn’t say he’s the man of my dreams, but we have fun when we’re together, and we don’t fight like Abbey and her boyfriend.

Seriously, the conversations I have to listen to…

I hate you! Oh, really? Just go date her then if you think she’s so funny! What, are you cheating on me?

Mind numbing…

My mom keeps telling me I should find someone I have “sparks” with, whatever that means. If sparks means someone who I want to kill three days out of the week, then I’d take a steady, lukewarm relationship like the one I have with Ronald over that
any
day.

We still haven’t…done the deed, but it will happen. Ronald hasn’t pushed me either. He’s very respectful. I told him we’d do it when I was ready, and I just haven’t felt…ready yet. Abbey thinks I’m insane, but I don’t care.

“He’s cute, Emmy!” She yelled when she found out I was still a proud carrier of the V-card. “What’s the problem?”

I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. I don’t know what the problem is. He
is
cute, and he’s nice, respectful, and just an all around great guy. I just don’t have that drive to close the deal. I don’t know. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.

Walker’s big dumb face stares up at me from the folder on my desk, and I flip through the pages underneath. Sports statistics that mean absolutely nothing to me. Total yardage, longest catch, whatever, whatever. Six foot three, two hundred and twenty pounds. Probably an IQ less than a quarter of that.

I slam the folder shut and turn my attention back to my article.
Real
journalism, not some fluff piece on some brain-dead jock. I finish my revisions and click save. This better be on the front page on Monday or Peter’s going to get an ear full.

I put my computer to sleep and take a deep breath of the stale air of the office. I
am
ready to be out of here. This place can tend to get a little claustrophobic. If only the school wasn’t so cheap and actually invested in some decent sized cubicles. You’d think a college newspaper would have a trendy, fun office, but not the Orient.

I stuff the Walker file into my bag, switch off my light and leave the office, stepping out into the cold air of the corridor. It seems to have better air conditioning than any room in the building, which feels good as I’m starting to feel flushed. I get this way when I’m irritated.

Walker. Johnson. Everything about this guy is just so typical. Parties, girls, booze, more girls. It’s like these guys buy a book on how to be the perfect college douche, attend the optional seminar, watch the How To videos on YouTube, and then put it all perfectly into practice.

What kind of girl honestly falls for their shit? I mean, yes, he’s an
objectively
handsome man, but God if he doesn’t make me want to ralph. I guess he’s the male equivalent of the generic big boobed blonde that always makes it onto the cover of men’s magazines. Which is fitting, because those are the kind of girls he seems to date. Well…sleep with. Walker Johnson doesn’t date. Everyone knows that. Even I know that.

How am I supposed to do a story on him when I can’t even stand to look at him?

He’s probably partying right now – probably throwing a
raging kegger
at the football house, that dump of a wannabe frat house, with every sorority girl on campus hoping to be the one to land the Stallion.

“God,” I say out loud.

The Stallion!

Is he serious with that? How dehumanizing. There’s rumors about how he got the nickname, but there seem to be two common, accepted reasons behind it. One, he’s a “great ride,” and two, he’s hung like a horse.

Of course he is
, I think bitterly, shouldering the door open into the quad.
What isn’t perfect about Walker Johnson?

Perfect? Did I just think that? Perfect
on paper
maybe. But in person is a whole other issue. I haven’t even met the guy yet, but I’ve run into enough jocks on campus to know what to expect. Girls are like different cuts of meat to these guys, and they want to try them all.

The quad is crazy, as per usual on a Friday night. A group of freshmen who have obviously just discovered alcohol come stumbling past, shouting song lyrics I don’t recognize as they pass. I wonder what it’s like to have a big group of friends like that. I’m not lonely, but sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out. I have an overactive brain, especially at night, and right before I go to sleep I find myself thinking about all the what-ifs in my life. It’s really maddening.

Luckily, my building is pretty quiet. Everyone must already be out. I swipe my keycard and take the stairs to the second floor. Abbey’s still home and sounds like she’s arguing with Brett.

“Okay, so is it Carriage House or the Lacrosse house? No,
you
pick. You’re the one who brought it up! Fine. Fine! Ugh, whatever!” Abbey hangs up and tosses her phone on the bed as I come in.

“Trouble in paradise?” I joke, dropping my bag on my desk.

“Ugh, he’s such a jerk,” she sighs, running her hands through her straight blonde hair. “What’s up with you? Working late again?”

“Yeah. Finishing my piece on child labor in Asia.”

“Ugh,” Abbey groans. “Make me wanna kill myself, why don’t you?”

“Well, I’ve got a story you might like,” I say, pulling the Walker file from my bag and tossing it at her. “Peter assigned it tonight.”

The second she opens the file, Abbey’s jaw drops. She looks up at me like I just told her I won the lottery.

“Walker Johnson,” she says emphatically. “What – what’s the story?!”

“He’s being scouted by the—“

“Walker-fucking-Johnson,” she interrupts, obviously not concerned with the actual story. “You’re doing a story on Walker Johnson?”

“Under protest,” I reply, leaning back on my bed with an enormous sigh.

“What are you, insane?!”

“Maybe,” I say with a pouty face.

“Holy shit, you’re gonna lose your V-card!” She says, tossing her head back. “I’m calling it right now!”

“What!?” I shout, rocketing up to a seated position. “How could you even suggest that!?”

Eyes wide, Abbey stares back at me. “How could I
not!?
This is Walker-fucking-Johnson we’re talking about!”

I sigh again, rolling my eyes as hard as possible. “Yes. Walker-Fucking-Johnson. The Stallion. Lover of sluts, sorority girls and strippers, none of which am I.”

Abbey bursts out laughing. “Bah! Yeah, he
only
likes sluts, sorority girls and strippers. Are you crazy? He’s a guy! Guys like girls, and guys like Walker like
all
girls.”