#Chapter50
TightestEndParker85: I wonder who she REALLY will be rooting for this weekend @UofJ411? Worried it’s not you @CasaNova87? #AskingForAFriend #IHadHerFirst #HawkHunting
*side-by-side picture of Kay in a Penn State jersey and a shot of Kay and Liam from high school*
UofJ411: Peep my stories for our poll on this. #WhoWillSheChoose #FirstLoveOrNewLove #CasanovaWatch #CasanovasGirl
*REPOSTED—side-by-side picture of Kay in a Penn State jersey and a shot of Kay and Liam from high school—TightestEndParker85: I wonder who she REALLY will be rooting for this weekend @UofJ411? Worried it’s not you @CasaNova87? #AskingForAFriend #IHadHerFirst #HawkHunting*
@Notnow.imreading: NOVA all the way! #GoHawks
@Oamberwhereartthou: The real question is will she be at the game? #EmptySeat
@Ofbooksandportkeys: Is it too early to tailgate? #BestSeatInTheHouse
#Chapter51
I throw an arm out, slapping it around until I feel my phone. Cracking one eye open, I tap the button that will silence the blaring alarm, the screen shifting from the clock to the notification banners that accumulated over night. I’ve gotten really good at ignoring them but can’t help noticing a tag from a particular account.
TightestEndParker85.
Motherfucker.
Liam Parker.
Kay once jokingly likened me to herpes, but Liam Parker is the real genital wart.
Against my better judgment, I thumb it open, the case protecting my phone groaning as I do my best to choke the life out of it like it’s Parker’s neck.
It’s one thing to taunt me, to come after me through social media in an effort to drum up media attention. Even Brantley has been drinking the no such thing as bad publicity Kool-Aid.
So…no. Starting beef with me isn’t Liam Parker’s mistake. Involving Kay, trying to get to me through her is. There better not be any fucking text messages on her phone from him.
Pain. Dismemberment. Murder. All these cycle through my thoughts until the soft curves of Kay’s body brush mine as she stretches beside me.
“Too early,” she mumbles into her pillow.
I can’t help but smirk, tossing my phone to the side and hooking an arm around her middle to anchor her to me. I nose aside her curls and place a kiss on her neck, breathing her in. “Go back to sleep, babe.”
She mumbles something I can’t quite make out but snuggles deeper into the bed.
I pull back, the bold lettering of my last name stretched between her shoulder blades calling to me like a siren. There’s another incoherent mumble from my girl as I sketch the black type before extracting myself from the bed.
Herkie lifts his head as I slip into a pair of gray sweatpants, the white band of my Calvins visible above the elastic waist, not bothering with a shirt.
With a soft whistle, I motion for the dog to follow as I set off in my search for coffee.
The rich aroma of java already hangs in the air as I descend the stairs into the living room. I’m not surprised to find my boys awake; we need to leave in a couple of hours to get back to campus in time for the team’s final walkthrough practice before tomorrow’s big game.
Mr. Grayson slides a mug across the island to me as I approach, and Mrs. Grayson asks what I would like for breakfast. I glance around, looking for Grant, surprised he isn’t in the kitchen. He hasn’t been far from his parents since we arrived yesterday.
Sipping the rich French roast, I lean against the counter, content to shoot the shit, then I spot Grayson loitering at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, attention firmly on where E and Bette sit on the couch. He’s way too intense for such an early hour.
“Well at least he’s hot.” The sound of the unfamiliar voice snaps me out of my half-awake, half-asleep state, bringing my attention to the blonde eyeing me from the television screen. “Muscles go a long way in helping us forget the bullshit that follows you fools.”
Is this chick talking about me? And why does she look so familiar?
E and Bette spin to see who the woman is talking about, the former’s hair a disheveled mess. It looks more like he was running his hands through it in frustration than messy from sleep.
E jerks a chin for me to join them before saying to the blonde, “And what would your husband have to say about you ogling men a few years your junior, Jordan?”
The blonde, or I guess Jordan as E called her, laughs—like throws her head back, hand smacking her chest type laughter. When she finally composes herself, she resettles on her own couch, curling one of her legs underneath her butt and letting the other dangle while wiping the last tear from her eye before focusing back on E.
“Well seeing as said husband is currently sleeping off the effects of me running my tongue down the grooves of his own six-pack, I think Jake will be fine.”
Bette tries to cover her snort, and a handful of “Oh, shit” and “Good morning” come in response to that particular comment.
E rubs at the ridge of his brow, Bette cupping his knee to ease his agitation. “It’s moments like this I feel sorry for your brothers, Donovan.”
Oh, shit! Now I know why I recognize her. This is Jordan Donovan. She and her PR firm All Things Sports are the crème de la crème when it comes to managing an athlete’s publicity. If Brantley were to hear I had face time with her, he would cream his pants.
“Please.” Jordan waves a hand, brushing off the comment. “Don’t make me regret leaving my bed with my very naked, very sexy husband to talk strategy with you by going all we are brothers we stick together on me, Dennings.”
I’m not quite sure what’s going on. I want to let myself be entertained by it all, allow it to distract me from this morning’s drama, but I get the feeling that is the reason for this virtual pow-wow.
“This”—I bounce a finger
