“Oh yeah? Never heard that one before.” I rolled my eyes.
She shook her head, taking two small steps toward me. Even with her “not little” height of five foot six, I still towered over her.
“You’re infuriating, you know that? And full of yourself. And you don’t listen.” She stopped walking, her temper flaring as she glared up at me. “I. Have. A. Boyfriend,” she enunciated each word slowly, as if it reinforced her point somehow. As if it mattered. “And even if I didn’t, you. Are. Not. My. Type.” Her finger poked my chest with each word.
Her eyes betrayed her yet again. The attraction that simmered behind them flared to life.
“You’re not mine either,” I lied because she was fucking gorgeous and mouthy, and if I had a type, she might be exactly it. “What’s with the all black?”
“It matches my soul,” she spouted, and I could tell that my question had annoyed her.
I truly hadn’t meant to come off like such a dick, but I couldn’t help it. She pushed all the buttons I hadn’t even known I had, and this verbal battle only served to fuel whatever else it was that existed between us. It sparked in the air, creating little bursts of energy that I felt like I could reach out to touch and put in my pocket to keep for later.
“Your boyfriend’s one lucky guy.”
“He knows.” She shot me a look as she tried to fight back a grin.
I could deal with her being attracted to me. I was used to that from girls. But I couldn’t deal with the fact that I was attracted to her. That, I wasn’t used to. I wanted to grab Danika by the back of her neck and shut her little sassy mouth up. I wanted her lips on mine, so I could do whatever I wanted to them. I wanted to taste her tongue, to feel it everywhere.
I wanted all of her soft parts pressed against all of my hard ones. Her long ponytail was practically begging to be wrapped around my hand until she stopped thinking that she was the one in control here. I wanted Danika whimpering my fucking name as I drove myself inside her and made her see stars until we both collapsed, sweaty and thoroughly fucked.
And I’d never in my life, up until this exact moment, wanted to do any of those things the way I wanted to do them to her.
This was going to be a problem.
A big fucking problem.
And it was only day one.
Tutoring Athletes
Danika
Tutoring male athletes had become my least favorite thing to do. Which was why I’d stopped doing it last year after a certain football player wouldn’t take no for an answer. He actually thought my signing up to help was some sort of ruse … that I secretly wanted to get closer to him because he had a good shot at the NFL draft later that year. When I told him that I didn’t care about any of that, he didn’t believe me and suggested we go study somewhere more private—his bedroom. It took everything in me to not lose my temper and do something stupid.
My having a boyfriend didn’t deter him. Nothing I did or said made him stop his advances. It was like he didn’t understand how any girl in her right mind could not want to date him, no matter her personal situation, preference, or taste. The guy harassed me online, waited outside of my classes when they ended, and even showed up at my apartment twice. I threatened to go to the athletic director and the Compliance Department about his behavior if he didn’t stop.
Screw the cops. Going straight to the top of the university scared him more than anything else ever could have. I had grown up learning that money talked more than sense, so if someone could be paid off, they usually would be. I also knew that this guy could most likely talk his way out of a situation with the police or at least have someone of authority do it for him, and the last thing I wanted was to end up in some he said, she said situation that spun out of control and turned ugly.
I knew that if I filed a formal complaint with the head of Compliance, they were required to report it, and bigger institutions got involved, like the national committee for sports. He obviously knew it too. That was why he finally stopped trying to contact me and disappeared from my life like he’d never existed in the first place. And I’d stopped tutoring male athletes, only offering my services to females, from there on out.
It wasn’t like I needed the money from the tutoring gig, so I could have quit it altogether, but I liked the challenge. I hadn’t failed an athlete yet. I was the only tutor with a one hundred percent success rate going into my senior year. My boyfriend, Jared, never understood why I had even started doing it in the first place, but maybe that was part of the exact reason why I had.
When my freshman math professor had asked me to help out a basketball player in class, Jared hadn’t liked it one bit and told me as much. Apparently, his disapproval spurred my rebellious nature, and I said yes, partially out of spite.
That single tutoring job spiraled into one that paid. Word of mouth took off, and before I knew it, I was being requested by name. It felt good to get something on my own, with my own skill and talent, instead of my last name or my dad’s help. And the ironic thing was, I’d had no idea up until that point that I could even be a good teacher. Or that I’d like it as much as I did. People my age generally tended to annoy me and get on my nerves but not in this student-teacher scenario. I’d found myself genuinely enjoying helping someone understand a concept that had seemed completely foreign to them before I came along. It felt satisfying to know that I had a hand in a person passing their class so that they could continue to chase their dreams. I knew that I made a difference in someone’s life even if it was only for a brief moment.
So, when I’d gotten the call this morning, basically begging me to help one last male athlete, I’d almost said no without another thought and hung up. When they told me who it was for, I pretended not to care or be fazed, but Chance Carter was a legend on campus, whether he wanted to be or not. I assumed he wanted to be. Allegedly, without my help, he wasn’t going to be able to play this season. Not a single game.
“His draft year,” they had added.
As much as I hated to admit it, I did not want to be the reason that he couldn’t play. Not when I knew that with my tutoring, he’d be able to.
I stupidly cared about his eligibility and wanted to help. A perfect stranger who meant nothing to me. A stranger who I currently couldn’t stand. He was so arrogant and typical, thinking I wanted him the same way that idiot football player had once before.
I’d tried to convince Chance that he wasn’t my type, but I wasn’t sure he’d bought it. Which wouldn’t surprise me, considering the fact that it was a bald-faced lie. Chance Carter was definitely my type in the looks department—all dark-haired and green eyes that saw way too much and that I swore looked right through me. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders and thick thighs. He was a freaking god, and I was certain he was more than aware of that fact.
But none of that mattered because I wasn’t available. And even if I were, dating an athlete sounded like the worst idea on the planet. Most of them couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants, and the last thing I needed was some cheating asshole in my life.
No, thank you.
I wish someone would tell my body that we aren’t interested because it clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. No, we can’t touch him! No, we can’t sit on his lap and talk about the first thing that pops up! No, you cannot kiss those luscious-looking lips.