The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (41 page)

Our silence is awkward and heavy. I know Gray doesn’t like me, and I’m not keen on why he doesn’t. Guilt is a brick on my chest.

“You were wrong about him,” Gray finally says.

I stir from my vigil out the window. And he continues when I give him a questioning look. “Drew doesn’t sleep around. As in, he doesn’t have casual sex. Not for a while now.”

I must look skeptical—and I admit, I’m a little shocked—because Gray shrugs. “Yeah, he went a bit wild for a couple of years. We all did. And yeah, he’s got girls hanging on him left and right. But that’s all they do. Hang there.”

“Out of the goodness of his heart,” I can’t help but say. The vision of endless toothpaste commercial candidates dancing through my head makes it all a little hard to believe.

“No,” Gray says with exaggerated patience. “More like he’s too lazy and too easygoing to give them the brush off. He might fool around now and then, but he doesn’t fuck them.” Gray snorts when I raise my brow. “Don’t believe me. But it’s the truth. Coach batters safe sex messages into our heads on a constant basis. Drew’s a star, and people will do crazy things to catch a ride. He’s got to watch out for false pregnancy accusations, potential cries of rape, bullshit that most college guys never deal with. And well…”

“Well what?”

Gray scratches behind his ear. “He got burned. The beginning of junior year. Jenny,” this comes out like a bad word. “Drew and Jenny had been together since the end of sophomore year. She wanted to get married.”

“When they were twenty?” I practically yell. “That’s insane.”

He nods like I’m preaching to the choir. “That’s what Drew told her. But Jenny wanted insurance. That he wouldn’t sleep around, find another girl, as if that was even remotely Drew’s style. When Drew said no, that they were too young. She gave him an ultimatum and he walked.”

“Well, it’s certainly an unfortunate story—”

“A week later,” Gray cut in, “Jenny’s telling anyone who’d listen how Drew dumped her because he was stressed over football. That he was scared of losing. That his arm was ‘in agony’ after every practice. She showed people their text messages. Select ones that skewed the truth to her purposes.”

“That bitch.”

Gray’s expression turns ugly. “You said it. And they listened. The press. Other teams. You expose a hint of weakness, and they pounce. Drew was pummeled during every game we had. Now, every girl he’s with, he has to wonder if she’ll sell him out.”

I sink back into the leather seat, deflated. “Why are you telling me all this?” I look at Gray. “I mean, shouldn’t you be watching his back, not spilling his secrets?”

“I
am
watching his back. You need to know that he isn’t a player. And if that’s all you’re after—”

“There are things about me that Drew had wrong too,” I snap, but then sag. “I’m not telling them to you. But he’s more to me than just…”

“A fuck?”

My face flames. “Really? You really just said that to me?”

He laughs. “Kind of worth it to see your cringe.”

While Drew has his bone reset, Gray and I sit in the lobby. A ways down, the ubiquitous group of girls hangs around like specters, clearly waiting for word of Drew. They titter when they catch sight of us, and I roll my eyes.

“Excuse me,” says one of them, her voice anything but polite. “Are you Big Red Hen?”

My face prickles. Beside me, Gray mutters something ripe under his breath and rubs his big hand over his eyes. Is that what people have been calling me? Iris and George have been sheltering me, keeping me off social media, but I know there’s been talk. Most of it ugly.

Slowly I turn. There’s four of them. Tanned, thin, smug.

“No,” I say. “I’m Anna Jones.”

Heavy Eyeliner smirks. “Yeah, exactly. I can’t believe you’re here. Isn’t that kind of pathetic? Drew dumped you.”

Gray shifts in his seat, wincing. I remain stone still. There’s so much I could say about just who and what is pathetic in this scenario. And, yes, a part of me feels the familiar hot weight of humiliation and wants to hide from it.

But I take a deep breath and address what’s really important here. “Seriously, what is wrong with you? Have I given you any reason to be a bitch to me? You know what,” I say when she opens her mouth, “I don’t care. I’m done with you all. Fuck along now. Go on, fly monkeys! Fly!” I make shooing motions with my hands until they all turn beet-red and stalk off, muttering various insults under their breath.

Beside me, Gray laughs into his fist. “Women are evil.”

“Women are awesome,” I answer, not looking at him because I’m still irked. “You’ve just been overexposed to the worst of our gender.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, and we wait in silence. By the time Drew is resting in his room and visitors are allowed, his coach has already arrived and stands like a gryphon, blocking entry to Drew’s door. When Gray escorts me up to Drew’s room, his coach steps forward. I half expect him to pull a Gandalf and state, “You shall not pass!”

Which he basically does, though his delivery has southern politeness to soften the blow. “I’m sorry, young lady, but no visitors. It’s best you go on home now.”

Unfortunately for him, I’m not much in the mood for social graces. “I’m not leaving until I see Drew. He can tell me to go if he wants me to.”

The coach is a big man, and when he crosses his arms over his chest and braces his feet apart, he blocks the entire doorway. “Drew isn’t in the position to make that decision. I’m making it for him. You cannot go in.”

I smile at the coach, pleasantly as if I have all the time in the world. “I am not one of your players or your daughter. You have no authority to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“Look, young lady—”

“Do not,” I interrupt, “use that misogynistic, patronizing title on me again. You may call me Anna, or Miss Jones if you want to be formal. But ‘young lady’ is off the table.” I raise a brow at him. “Unless you like to be called ‘old man’ which would be the equivalent insult.”

At my side, Gray clears his throat several, quick times, but I don’t spare him a look. Drew’s coach is staring at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Well,” he says in a somewhat strangled voice, “I guess you put me in my place.”

“I’m not trying to do anything other than get to Drew.”

“Coach,” Gray interjects, “she’s Drew’s girl.”

Drew’s girl. Not really. That hurts too.

“The reason why he’s been playing like the walking wounded, you mean.” Coach Smith’s eyes are hard on me, making me want to squirm.

“Which means he’ll probably feel a hell of a lot better seeing her than us right now,” Gray says.

I want to hug him, even if I’m not so sure he’s right.

Coach Smith seems to think the same.

“I’m going in there,” I say. “Try to stop me, and it will get ugly.”

This time, Gray’s suppressed laugh isn’t as successful. Coach Smith’s brows rise, but he steps aside. “If you’re that insistent. By all means.”

I move to the door when he comes in close. “But if I hear any hysterics, I’m hauling you over my shoulder and taking you out of here, Miss Jones.”

Got to love a man who protects his players like they’re his own. I nod and then open the door to Drew’s room.

Cool air and the smell of antiseptic hit my face as I walk in. At the sound of the door opening, he turns his head, but it’s an abortive movement, and he quickly looks away. His bed is elevated at the end so that his broken leg can rest higher than his head. Fading sunlight turns the picture window into a canvass of orange, and against it, Drew’s profile is sharp and clean. The fan of his lashes are touched in gold as he blinks. But the rest of him is still. So still. And though he’s a large guy, the hospital bed diminishes him.

He doesn’t move as I walk closer, but he swallows rapidly, making a series of clicking noises in his throat. His nostrils flare, and a tremor works over him. He’s trying so hard not to let go. And it kills me.

I don’t make him turn, but round the bed to his good side. To face him. The clicking in his throat gets louder. He sucks air through his nose. God, he’s pale and battered.

“Drew.” My voice is a breath, and his lower lip wobbles. His gaze darts around as if he doesn’t know where to look and is about to break.

I sink down beside him, and a shuddering breath rips out of him. He’s shaking his head as if to say
no, no, no
, and his face gets redder and redder. Gently, I cup his cheek. Drew’s eyes squeeze shut as he leans into my palm, and a tear leaks out.

“Baby,” I whisper, full of heartache for him.

A sob escapes. He falls into me, his head burrowing against my breast as his hands clutch at the back of my shirt. I gather him close as he lets loose. The broken sounds, his full-bodied sobs, tear into me. I curl myself around his torso, protecting him with what little I have as he cries.

I don’t say a word, don’t try to tell him it’s all right, because it isn’t right now. I can only run my fingers through his hair, stroke his broad back, and rock him slowly. His grip on my shirt pulls it tight like I’m his lifeline. And I cuddle in closer so he can feel all of me. I’m a wall. No one can get through me now. I’ll protect him with all that I have.

I lose track of time, and my leg grows numb. But I’m not complaining. Soon he goes heavy against me. But I know he’s awake. His lashes tickle my neck as he blinks.

“I’m so sorry, Drew,” I finally whisper, and it’s not just about his leg.

And maybe he hears that because a shuddering sigh leaves him. I kiss his temple, the wet rise of his cheekbone, his forehead, all the while stroking him. A soft touch along his neck, over his shoulder, his jaw. “I’m so sorry,” I say again.

His big hand opens and presses against the small of my back. I feel the heat of his lips on my neck, and he’s breathing me in.

“I’m so sorry, Drew.”

“Anna.” Just my name. But I hear the peace in it. And the need.

We hold each other now. And I’m not letting go.

I STAY WITH Drew until the hospital staff kicks me out. And I return in the morning to stay with him all over again. We don’t say much. I sit in the big armchair that I’ve pulled up next to his bed. Sometimes I hold his hand. Sometimes he just sits and plays with my fingers as he stares out the window with a pensive expression. I read Emerson to him, slow and low and just for his ears. When he grows still and silent, I stop.

“More.” His voice is rusty and soft, and his hand grasps mine in a warm and engulfing hold.

I read until he falls asleep. But I don’t leave him. I can’t. Being close like this highlights how empty I’ve felt without him. I know this man on so many tiny levels. In ways I hadn’t realized, in the cadence of his breath, the scent of his skin, how he always makes a small sound in his throat when he shifts position in bed. Little pieces of information that make Drew wholly and uniquely him.

His hospital room quickly takes to resembling a florist shop. Seemingly endless streams of “Get Well” bouquets are brought in by beaming nurses. None of which makes Drew even crack a smile. When a nurse maneuvers in a massive football-shaped balloon, flower combo, he snaps.

“Take it away.” His hand waves in annoyance. “Take them all.” He looks at the shocked nurse, and his expression becomes pained. “Please, just give them to people who need some joy. There’s got to be plenty of candidates in this place.”