The End Game

  “No it’s not. Hayden drove your car home. All your stuff’s inside it.” Shrugging off my arm, Leah smirks and begins jogging backwards, out of my reach. “Enjoy your walk home. I hear the insects love this time of day and you smell sweeter than spring right now.”

  “What?” I shout because she’s already running, catching up fast to the other girls like the coward she is. “You can’t do this!”

  “Too late, Elliott!” she shouts back. “We already did!”

  “Just for the record, you all suck!” Holding my arms up high, I flip them the bird with both hands. Leah’s response is to take a photo with her phone. With a final laugh, she disappears with the team, abandoning me to the humiliating fate of walking home in view of the entire Friday afternoon swarm of students.

  Trudging my way outside the stadium, I garner laughs and a wide berth, and begin the walk home. It’s not fun, and it’s not pretty. The syrup begins drying on my skin, making me itch and chafe in uncomfortable places. Students yell slurs from their cars as they drive by, and I catch the attention of several bees, causing me to squeal and run while slapping them away. The only positive is that the lengthy walk allows me time to plot Leah’s murder.

  I’m up to the part where she’s strapped to a Segway and I’m rolling her off a cliff when I arrive back at the apartment complex. Students stare at me, but I focus on my parked car, pretending indifference as I aim for it purposefully. I walk around the side of it and catch sight of my reflection in my window. I don’t recognize myself. After hearing one student comment that I look like the filling in a shit sandwich, I realize that maybe it was polite on his part because the reality is much worse.

  Squaring my shoulders, I crouch down and peel away the small square of duct tape from the undercarriage. The spare key to the apartment is stuck to the back of it. I rip it away and make my way inside, dropping the mask of indifference. All I can bring myself to care about right now is a pounding hot shower, food, and having a really good crying jag.

  But it’s not meant to be.

  After squelching up the stairwell with aching legs, I emerge into the third floor hallway. Greeting me is a Greek god. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe of my apartment, and my pulse kicks up a notch as I take a moment to admire him.

  His skin is golden, like warm sunshine that you could bask in and never get cold. Big, broad shoulders crowd the small hallway, and biceps thick with corded muscle peek out from beneath snug shirtsleeves. He looks strong and capable. The sort of person who could weather any storm and come out fighting.

  His hair is the color of rich caramel and cropped short, but there’s a slight curl on the ends that won’t conform to any particular style. I catch a glimpse of white, even teeth as he bites down on his full bottom lip, dragging it inside his mouth while he taps away at his phone like he’s bored and waiting for someone.

  I swallow a groan. The tutoring session.

  He’s waiting for me.

  Ignoring my out-of-control pulse, I clomp forward on syrup-coated cleats. I know the instant he notices me because he looks up and does a double take. With his coloring I’m expecting blue eyes, or a brilliant green, because they’re the eye colors of the gods, aren’t they? But his are neither. They’re brown, and they’re intense, and I watch them widen when he realizes I’m headed right for him like a badly guided missile.

  He drops the hand that holds his phone and shifts sideways to let me past. It’s a hopeful move, and I almost keep going, not having the heart to disappoint him.

  Instead I reach his side, coming to a complete stop with an audible sigh of exhaustion that I just can’t contain.

  “Hi,” I say and try for a smile. I feel my face crack a little and flecks of dried chocolate flutter to the ground between us.

  He shifts back, brows rising as he stares. “Help you?”

  I nod at the door we’re both standing in front of. “I live here.”

  “You do?”

  His tone implores me to say no, and for the second time in as many minutes I’m going to disappoint him.

  “Yes,” I reply and extend a hand, trying to be polite. “I’m Jordan Elliott. You’re here for the tute?”

  “Tute?”

  “Tutorial,” I clarify.

  “I am,” he replies and ignores my gesture of greeting. Instead, he leans back against the doorframe and folds his arms. Muscles bunch and flex, highlighting the powerful build beneath his tee shirt. It absorbs my focus, and I force my eyes to ignore the display. “And you’re late.”

  His voice is a deep rumble, one I want to listen to on repeat until I’m lulled into sleep, but I find I don’t care much for it when it comes out loaded with irritation. I drop my hand, embarrassed at his snub and disappointed in his attitude. I am late, but he’s obviously the type of person who doesn’t understand that sometimes shit just happens.

  “Well, as you can see,” I bite out as I give him my back to unlock the door, “my afternoon took a small turn for the worse.”

  Brody

  Scooping my backpack off the floor, I sling it over my shoulder and follow Jordan inside her apartment, seething on the inside. Yeah it was rude not to shake her hand, but she looks like someone rolled her in a giant pile of shit, not to mention I don’t want to be here.

  Maybe I’m barely scraping by on my own, but I don’t need anyone trying to make me better because it’s an exercise in futility. I am never going to be intelligent, or sharp, or hold a meaningful conversation that doesn’t include the subject of football. I am never going to be normal. I am who I am, and I have to accept that it’s all I’m going to be without someone trying to give me false hope. No doubt Jordan plans to do just that.

  What a waste of fucking time.

  After I shut the apartment door behind me, Jordan turns to face me, lifting her chin like she’s doing her best to hold her shit together. “Look,” she says in an accent I’m pegging as Australian. Is she an international student? My uncle gave me minimal information. “I know I’m late and I’m sorry, but I really need to take a shower before we get started.”

  Started on what? Operation Grow Brody A Brain? Despite the shame prickling along my skin like a heat rash, I chuckle at the absurdity.

  Jordan cocks her head. “What?”

  I shrug and give her a quick once over. Her hair and features are mostly obscured with caked brown smears and flecks of white, but I can see she’s geared up in a soccer uniform, shin guards and cleats still in place.

  “What is that all over you?” Leaning in, I give an audible sniff. Rather than the stench of manure, she smells sickly sweet, like chocolate cream pie. “Hmmm, syrup? You’re covered in chocolate sauce? What happened?” I ask, even though there’s no doubt the girl just got hazed. I’ve seen the chocolate syrup trick a time or two and the opportunity to tease is too good to ignore. “Was it a kinky sex game gone wrong?”

  There’s something familiar in the clear blue eyes that narrow at my insult, but I don’t know what it is. I cock my head, bringing a smirk to my lips. I’m being an asshole, but better her anger than pity. “You know you’re supposed to take your clothes off before you let some guy lick syrup off your tits.”

  Jordan studies me for a moment. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”

  I want to roll my shoulders, defuse the annoyance because I haven’t managed to rile her. In fact, I just want to leave. “Look, Jordan, I don’t know what they’re paying you to tutor me, but whatever it is, I’ll double it so you don’t.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up underneath the chocolate coating her face. “You’ll pay me not to tutor you?”

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

  Jordan shakes her head. “I guess I wasn’t sure I heard you right.”

  “Well you did, so what are they paying you? Twenty bucks an hour?”

  After laughing outright, she says, “Seven-fifty.”

  “Is that all?”

  I don’t believe
it. No one in their right mind would agree to that. Jordan has a secret agenda and it could only be one thing. Fury begins to build in my chest. Dumping my backpack on the floor, my eyes narrow as I stalk toward her, my steps slow and deliberate. She shifts backwards, eyes widening. I press my advantage by standing over her, the broad width of my shoulders intimidating and hostile.

  “What do you want from me, Jordan Elliott? Money? The inside scoop on my life so you can sell it to the press?” I grab her chin in my hand, forcing her face upwards so she can see the contempt blazing from my eyes. “Or are you just after a fuck? You want everyone to know you had the honor of sucking my dick?”

  Jordan jerks her chin free of my grip, and finally I have her anger. “You jerk!” She shoves me in the chest, and she may have strength, but it’s not enough to push me off my feet. I don’t even budge. “You may be a pretty package, Kyle Davis, but inside you’re an ugly, conceited donkey,” she hisses angrily, “and I have no time for people like you!”

  A grin forces its way to my lips. “You think I’m pretty?”

  Jordan jabs a finger in the direction of the apartment door. “Get out!”

  It’s a hollow victory, but I’m taking it anyway. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I’m halfway out the door when I realize she called me Kyle Davis. “Wait.” I pause and turn back around. “What did you just call me?”

  “A jackass!” she yells, and I duck when a soccer ball comes flying at my face. Jordan has exceptional aim, but I have better reflexes. It sails past, hitting the hallway wall behind me before bouncing back and whacking her doorframe with a loud thump. The makeshift weapon drops to the ground, and I put a foot on it, steadying it before I reach down and pick it up. I step back inside her apartment, the ball tucked under my arm. “Did you just call me Kyle Davis?”

  “Sorry, Your Highness.” Jordan bows theatrically, and it looks ridiculous considering she’s a human éclair in soccer cleats. “Will I spontaneously combust if I say your name out loud? Will it jinx me? Or do you prefer something more formal, like Mr. Davis?” Jordan sneers at me. “If you ask me, I think asshat has a better ring to it.”

  My lips twitch and I have to bite back the urge to laugh out loud. Jordan has no idea who I am. For some reason, she seems to think I’m my uncle’s douchebag TA. That means I must be wrong. How can Jordan have a secret agenda if she has no idea who I am?

  Reaching behind me, I pull the door shut, closing us both back inside the apartment again.

  Her brows pinch tight. “What are you doing?”

  “You want to know what to call me?” Dropping my bag and the soccer ball on the floor, I lean against the back of the door, fold my arms, and smile lazily. “How about Lord and Master?”

  Jordan makes a sound that comes out something like a high-pitched growl and reaches for a phone that’s resting on the kitchen counter beside her. “How about you leave? I’m sure Professor Draper can arrange another tutor for you.”

  I shrug as if I don’t care, but I know my uncle will only assign another tutor in Jordan’s place. As much as I don’t want to be here, I’d prefer Jordan over someone else. I might not know her reason for signing up for this, but at least I know it isn’t because she’s looking at me with dollar signs in her eyes the way most other girls do.

  “If you can’t handle being my tutor, then by all means, give him a call.”

  Jordan huffs, her fingers pausing over the screen of her phone, and I know I’ve got her. No one would ever tell my uncle they can’t handle whatever he’s dishing out and she knows it.

  “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

  I grin, for real this time, and walk toward the living area. “You think it’s easy being this much of an asshole?” Sinking down on the sofa, I reach for the remote and kick my legs up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankle. “Getting soccer balls thrown at my head and being called a conceited donkey is not as fun as it looks.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she mutters and slaps her phone back down on the counter.

  Pointing the remote at the television, I find ESPN and settle in for whatever sport is playing. “Go have your shower, Jordan,” I command, my eyes fixed on the screen, “and when you come out, you can make me something to eat because I’m hungry, and then you can pretend to teach me something.”

  “Making you something to eat is not part of my job, unless you want to end up wearing it,” she gripes as she stalks past me.

  “Feisty,” I murmur, but she’s too far away to hear, already walking into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

  The second I hear the shower start running, I toss the remote back on the tiny dark timber coffee table and stand. I want to know just who Jordan Elliot is, so I make my way toward her room.

  The bathroom is sitting between two bedrooms so I take a guess and pick the one on the right. I have to blink when I walk inside because it looks like no girl’s room I ever saw, and I’ve seen more than my fair share. There are no knick-knacks lining every available surface, or mementos from past events that mean something, no pictures on the wall, just … no personality at all. I wonder if Jordan even has one underneath that jock-ish exterior of hers.

  There’s a corkboard pinned to the wall so I study her schedule, grudgingly impressed. The list details an unbearable course load and subjects that only someone bright and gifted could possibly handle. It makes me feel like more of a dumb shit, if that’s even possible. Resting up beside a bookshelf sits two rolled up posters. I make the mistake of unraveling one. Cristiano Ronaldo stares back at me with smoldering eyes. I shudder because it’s almost enough to leave me feeling violated. The poster unravels further, revealing him in the buff, and I’m relieved to see him holding a soccer ball in front of his junk. I drop the poster like it’s a rattlesnake and toss it back in the corner. Well. At least I know she’s not a lesbian.

  With a sigh, I spread out on my back on Jordan’s bed, tucking my hands behind my head and closing my eyes. After taking a deep breath, the sweet smell of vanilla tickles my senses and my brows draw together. I know that distinct scent, don’t I?

  “Are you quite comfortable there?”

  My lips curve instinctively, not caring that Jordan’s found me in her room lying on her bed. “Not quite. Perhaps if you dimmed the lighting a little and sang me a lullaby?”

  A wet towel slaps me in the face.

  My eyes fly open and I drag the towel away with a chuckle. It dies quickly when I sit up on one elbow and let my gaze travel upwards. Only one word springs to mind. Delicious. Jordan’s wearing black Lycra gym shorts. They’re tiny, hugging her hips and ass in a way that makes me jealous. I want to be those gym shorts. My gaze climbs higher to the fitted tank top. It’s white and thin, satisfyingly thin, and she’s not wearing a bra. The outline of her nipples is clear and my pulse begins to thump hard. They aren’t erect. Instead, they look soft and warm beneath the snug cotton. I lick my lips. I want to run the flat of my tongue over each one in turn, and suck them inside my mouth until they harden like the sweetest candy.

  “What are you doing in my room?” Her arms cross quickly over her chest when she realizes I’m staring unapologetically at her tits.

  “Huh?” I mumble.

  My eyes finally reach her face, and I suck in a ragged breath. I’m not sure I even let it out. It’s her. The blond jock from Business Law and Ethics who got chewed out for being late to class. Fuck me. How in the everloving hell didn’t I realize?

  “What are you doing in my room?” she enunciates clearly.

  I shake my head to clear it and will the hot throbbing in my cock to calm down so I can take a breath. “I was looking for evidence of a personality,” I retort and wave my hand casually, taking in the barren and boring room. “Clearly I failed.”

  Laughter bubbles out and she quickly presses her lips together.

  “Ha!” I shout, and the sound comes out a little hoarse. “I made you laugh.”

  Though suddenly I wish I
didn’t. The sound is warm and throaty and resonates deep inside me, doing nothing to cool me off. I sit up and let the damp towel fall to my lap, hiding the thickening erection in my shorts.

  “Congratulations.” Jordan rolls her eyes and picks up a hoodie that’s hanging off the back of the chair by her desk. She shrugs it on quickly and pushes back the hood, mussing her long, damp hair.

  “Thanks.” I scan the bare walls of her bedroom again. Textbooks are the only decoration on her shelves. Their spines add color to the stark white furniture. “So what’s with the room, Jordan? It’s like a prison cell in here.”

  Jordan sinks into the chair and faces me, folding her arms. “Seen the inside of one of those, have you?”

  “Nope. My record is as clean as a choirboy’s. So?” I prompt.

  She shrugs. “I’m here on an international sports scholarship from Australia. There was only so much I could fit in my suitcase.”

  Once again, I’m impressed. Those kinds of scholarships are hard to come by. You have to pretty much be an athletic phenomenon to get one. Now I’m feeling the compulsion to go watch Jordan play. I want to know if she lives and breathes the game as hard as I do. I want to see her in action. I want to see her out of breath and sweaty.

  “Mmmm.”

  “What?”

  I flop back down on her bed, tucking my hands back behind my head. My eyes fix on the ceiling. I want to know about the life she left behind to come here, but I save it for another time. Instead, I ask the one that’s weighing on me the most. “Why are you tutoring me?”

  “Professor Draper asked me to,” is her simple reply.

  “And you agreed.”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Why?” I open my eyes and tilt my head on the pillow, staring hard into her eyes. “Why you?”

  “My brother is dyslexic. I helped tutor him through high school.”

  I grind my teeth, irritated. “So what? That somehow makes you an expert?”

  Jordan’s sigh is long and deep. “Not at all. I told the professor I wasn’t professionally qualified to do something like this, but all he said was that I’m to provide you with some study mechanisms to help you through your final year.”