Matters to Me: A Football Romance (The Hart Series Book 4) Read online

  Sweet, sickening, you know they’re going to get married and have babies, kind of love.

  It’s actually the kind of love I’d like to find someday. That someday just hasn’t happened yet, and I have a hard time believing it ever will. A girl can dream, though.

  “Hey, Lauren.” Con approaches me as I slip some Nikes on my feet for my trek across campus.

  “Hey. Are you coming to gloat about your obvious superior coaching skills?”

  “Nah. Although I’m glad you recognize them.”

  “Are you always this full of yourself?”

  He stops, like he needs to think about his answer. “Uh… yeah. I guess so.”

  A laugh bursts out of me. I like Con. He’s just arrogant enough to keep me entertained, but down to earth enough to help me out today. Not a bad combination if you ask me.

  “I wanted to see if you’d like to go out tomorrow night.”

  That’s not at all what I was expecting him to say. “Out? Like out, out? On a date out?”

  Con shrugs and the movement draws attention to his traps. And they are very, very defined traps.

  “Why not? You could introduce me to one of your favorite night spots. I’m still kind of new here. It could be fun.”

  I pause to consider his offer, although reality is, I’m not going to say no. I just want to see if I can make him sweat a little. When he holds my gaze for long enough that I feel satisfied he’s serious, I make him an offer I hope he doesn’t refuse.

  “Do you like dancing?”

  “What kind of dancing?”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “Whatever the club is playing. Usually Top Forty, I guess. But they mix it up sometimes. I haven’t been in a while and my roommate won’t go with me. And I have an itch to let loose. Interested?”

  “Yeah,” Con says slowly. “Yeah, I could go dancing.”

  “Great.” I grab my gym bag off the floor and toss it over my back. “I’ll meet you in the student union tomorrow at nine. Is that good for you?”

  “See you then.”

  Without giving him a backward glance, I saunter away, swaying my hips just a bit more than normal for maximum flirt effect. I’m pretty pleased to have killed two birds with one stone—a date with my crush and a night at my favorite club. It doesn’t get much better than that.

  “Be careful with him,” I hear from behind me as I stop to fill my water bottle. Ellery MacIlroy is standing behind me, the top off her bottle as well. I’m not sure if she’s going for discreet or if she wants some water. Regardless, I don’t like that she witnessed my whole exchange with Con or that she thinks it’s okay to have an opinion on it.

  Ellery is nice and all. We’ve roomed together at a couple of away meets. But we’re still not close enough to consider ourselves friends.

  “Why would you say that?”

  She glances over her shoulder at Con who is hamming it up with the other guys like they do after almost every practice. While the women’s team isn’t necessarily close, the guys are clearly bonded.

  “There are just rumors about him at his last school. And they aren’t all good.”

  I keep from rolling my eyes because there’s no reason to let her see how ridiculous I think she sounds. Rumors are everywhere. Hell, I was the subject of way too many of them in high school. What I learned is that rumors are just that—information people spread that has little to no truth to it. It’s why I don’t put much stock into them. Even coming from Ellery.

  “Well, thank you. But I think I’ll be fine.” Popping the top back on my water bottle, I give her a quick wave and head toward the dorm. I’ve got some studying to do if I want to reward myself with this date.

  TWO

  Heath

  Looking down the field, my eyes are trained on my target—Derrick Lucious. He’s positioning himself to catch a pass, and my job is to stop him as quickly as possible.

  As the starting cornerback for Southeast San Antonio State, this is what I live and breathe. Football is my life. My passion. And hopefully my ticket to financial freedom. Not that I’ve lived in poverty or anything. My parents have steady jobs that pay decent, but I’ve got three younger sisters who probably won’t get a full ride to the university of their choice. They deserve to get a good education, whatever that looks like for them, and I know my parents won’t be able to afford it.

  In order to provide the basics for all of us kids, they needed two incomes. And my parents are nothing if not committed to the long-term future of their family. The evidence isn’t just in how long they’ve worked in their respective industries, but in how long they’ve been together. Almost thirty years and they’re still as in love as they’ve always been. It’s nice to know that’s what relationships can be like.

  Not that I have time for a significant other right now. I’m only twenty-two. It’s not like I’m in a rush. Plus, the only love of my life is the game right now. I have goals to reach, and I’ll be damned if I get sidetracked. Unfortunately for me, the stories about football groupies are true. It’s not every woman, but there are enough who want to bag someone with talent on the field so they can bag that contract once the draft rolls around. An older player enlightened me when I was a freshman and I’ve never forgotten the warning.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve been playing defense. But what I lack in physical size, not that I’m small by any stretch, I make up for in speed. It’s what makes me dangerous on the field and how I ended up as a starting cornerback. The other team can’t score a touchdown if I knock their asses to the ground first.

  I take off after Lucious but feel a tug at my shirt. It’s a penalty for sure, but only if the ref sees it. Most times, he doesn’t, so I have to rely on my footwork instead. Spinning to get away from whoever has ahold of me, I break free and keep trucking it as fast as I can. Lucious is reaching to snag the ball out of the air. If he gets it, the only thing holding him back from making it down the field and to the end zone will be tripping on his own two feet. And me, if I can get there quickly enough. But I’m too far back to catch up without him gaining some significant yardage first.

  Damn my luck, the catch is clean, the carry is solid, and his feet do exactly what they’re supposed to do, taking him step-by-step without so much as a wobble.

  Fuck.

  Pushing myself as hard as I can to catch him, I focus on making my legs go faster, my push off harder, my speed quicker. I thought I was giving one hundred percent before. If that was the case, I’m giving one hundred and twenty percent now because Lucious is headed toward the end zone and fast. I’m not the only one gunning for him, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get there first.

  He’s at the forty-yard line… the thirty-five… the thirty…

  And I finally reach him, wishing I could just push him out of bounds but he’s too far away from the line to risk it. Instead, I grab at his jersey with one hand while wrapping my other arm around his legs, bringing us both down on the field in a heap.

  We both groan as we hit the ground and slide to a stop somewhere around the twenty-seven-yard line, whistles blowing on the sidelines.

  Tossing the ball aside, Lucious flips over and looks at me. “What took you so long, man? I expected you at least ten yards ago. You stop for pizza or something? You’re looking a little thick around the middle lately.”

  This is what we do at practice. We run plays. We encourage each other. And we talk a lot of shit. It’s all in the name of pushing ourselves beyond our limits as we perfect our craft.

  Standing up, I reach my hand down to help him up as well. “I got tangled up with your compadres over there. That was a nice catch, though. I’m impressed you didn’t tackle yourself by tripping over your own feet.”

  He shoves me with a grin. “Shut up, man. That happened one time.”

  “One time is the difference between being drafted by the pros and being drafted by your local car dealership to sell automobiles with a smile.”

  Harsh words, but they’re the truth for many
of us. We all have dreams of playing in the NFL, but the reality is, not everyone makes it. Statistics don’t lie and the success rate of playing professionally is close to zero. I remind myself of that daily. I work hard, practice hard, and am constantly trying to perfect my game, but I also know there is a chance it won’t be enough.

  But I’m solid at this point, so I haven’t given up yet. I won’t. Not until every last pro team I can find closes the door in my face. And even then, I may keep knocking until they give up and let me in.

  Trotting downfield, I catch up to my roommate and best friend. “Fucking pissed, man.”

  “You saw his stats, didn’t you?” Jaxon Hart and I have been living together for more than three years now. He knows me better than anyone. I should have known he would figure out exactly what I’m talking about.

  “Damn right, I did. How does this kid keep getting better and better?” For a year, Jaxon and I have been studying Abel Anders on the field. While he doesn’t play on our team, he’s still the biggest threat I have to my dreams. He came out of nowhere and suddenly was pushing ahead of everyone else on the draft board. Last year alone, he had close to a hundred tackles, a practically unheard of number. When it comes to players to watch, he’s made a name for himself and fast.

  “They grow ‘em big in Minnesota,” Jaxon responds, lacking enthusiasm with his words while pulling his helmet off and running his fingers through his sweaty hair. He looks off. His skin is weirdly pale, and his eyes are more sunken in than normal. Plus, he’s been struggling through practice today. Jaxon is third string and content with that, as long as he’s part of the team, but even with his lack of natural talent, he still can usually hang better than he is today.

  Narrowing my eyes, I put my hand out to stop him. He looks back at me, confused.

  “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  He fiddles with the padding inside his helmet and pretends to ignore my concern. “I’m good.”

  Yeah. That’s not convincing. “I don’t believe you. What’s going on?”

  Cocking his head at me, I can already tell how this conversation is about to go. Denial, denial and more denial.

  Jaxon survived cancer as a kid so those of us who know him best pay close attention when he gets sick. It’s usually nothing—a pending cold, stress from finals, not enough sleep. But we can also peg when it’s something more than that. And when that happens, it’s best to remind him that he’s not as hearty as someone who hasn’t had toxic chemicals, also known as chemo, running through their veins. Add in the statistical data his father provided me of how many childhood cancer survivors end up battling the disease again in adulthood as well, and it’s not something to be taken lightly.

  I don’t usually hound him. He’s a grown-ass man and can take care of himself. But something about how he looks is triggering all kinds of alarms in my brain.

  Running his fingers through his hair one last time, Jaxon positions his helmet on his head. “Nothing, Germaine. I’m good. I swear.”

  He tries to walk off, but I put out my hand again. I don’t mind saying this guy is the greatest, but he’s also stubborn as they come. And he becomes a whiny bitch when he’s sick. The man-flu can be strong with this one.

  Getting in his face, I make sure he understands I’m serious. “You know I leave you alone about your health because you get enough coddling from your parents.”

  He snorts a humorless laugh because that’s the understatement of the year.

  “But you don’t look right. Your color is off. Your energy is low. And you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  “Maybe I haven’t. I’ve been staying with my girlfriend for the past few nights, you know. There are benefits to having a solid relationship.”

  He’s not wrong. After living together over the summer, I knew it would be hard for those two to stay out of each other’s beds most nights. Thank god they mostly choose to stay at her place. Annika is great and all, but I draw a hard line at being in the room when they start getting all kissy face. I’m not sure how Jaxon can stand his girlfriend’s roommate, Lauren. I have tried to get along with that girl, but she has way too much energy for me. It grates on my already frazzled nerves.

  “Don’t think I won’t call Annika myself and tell her you’re dragging from not getting enough sleep,” I threaten.

  He shoots me a glare and pushes away from me, heading back toward the line to set up for the next play. No idea who Coach is talking to or about, but so far, he isn’t worried that we haven’t joined the huddle yet.

  “I’m serious, Hart,” I call after him. “If this keeps up, she’s my next call, followed by your daddy.”

  His only response is a middle finger over his shoulder. He knows I’m not playing around. Their relationship has gotten so much better in the last year after they hashed out some miscommunications and the great Jason Hart finally eased up on his son. But they still butt heads about doctor visits. I stay out of it because Jaxon is my friend. I’m on his side, always. Unless something like this comes up. And one thing I have learned in my twenty-two years of life is that gut instinct is there for a reason. When I listen to it, life is a whole lot better for everyone.

  Jogging up to the loosely-formed huddle, I catch the tail end of Coach’s instructions.

  “Let’s run the play again with that one change. Line up.”

  As we head to our prospective spots, I ask Lucious, “What did I miss?”

  He pats me on the back and replies with a cocky, “Don’t worry about it, Germaine. Let’s see if you can keep up with us this time.”

  I’m not happy to not know what play we’re supposed to be running, and I’m a little miffed it’s because I was trying to get Jaxon’s head out of his own ass. But I remind myself I won’t know what play is coming during an actual game so it’s all about honing my skills. You can study game clips and a team as much as you want and inevitably, they’re going to change things up on you. It’s good to see if I can stay on my toes during the surprise plays.

  Listening to the call, I know the ball is going to Lucious again. He’s the one I’ve got my eye on. As soon as the QB yells his last, “Hut!” we’re off.

  Lucious is trucking it down the field, in position for a catch. But I’m having to keep my eye on Matt Denison when the ball is flipped to him first. I take my eye off Lucious for half a second. It’s only that long at most, but it’s long enough for him to cut toward the middle of the field, making my attempt to reach him that much harder.

  I pump my legs faster than before and strain to get there in time. But it’s no use.

  Lucious is at the fifteen… the ten… the five… and in the end zone with me just a few feet behind.

  “Fuck!” I yell and punch the air in my frustration.

  Lucious flips the ball out of his hands and pats me on the back as he jogs by. “That was quick, man.”

  Not quick enough, though. If I’m getting an invitation to the combine this year, there isn’t room to be a few feet behind.

  I jog back to the line, determined to not be surprised again, and try to push that damn car dealership commercial out of my head.

  THREE

  Lauren

  The bass pounds through my body as we sway to the music. It gives me the ability to let go of my thoughts and anxieties, and just feel.

  It’s why I like dancing so much. Annika thinks it’s because I like to party, and I won’t deny I enjoy that aspect as well. But to me, going to a club allows me to relax. To let go of stress. I don’t know if the beat has some random neurological side effects to the type of anxiety I suffer from, or if I just enjoy it so much it has a calming effect.

  I try not to think about it too much. I’ve been on an antidepressant to control my anxiety for so long now, I almost forget I’m the only person I know who takes them. Not that it’s information I share with just anyone. There’s no need. I perfected my ability to play off bad situations as insignificant to me, even if I feel like dying on
the inside. It’s why I have very few friends. It’s hard not to look like a cold-hearted bitch when you can so easily pretend not to give a shit what other people think. Some call it a defense mechanism. I call it a superpower. I’ve learned people tend to talk less about you if their words don’t throw you into a dramatic rage. The state of today’s reality TV is proof enough of that.

  Do people sit around watching Desperate Housewives for the tea and friendly conversation? No. Catfights and table flipping. That’s what viewers want. And the reality is, the same viewers who love real-life gossip also have no interest in someone like me who doesn’t succumb to the drama. Lesson learned the hard way.

  None of that matters now, though. Right now, I have a beat running through my veins, and a warm body holding me close to him as we dance. My back is to his front as we sway to the rhythm, letting the music carry us away.

  I feel his lips brush my shoulder, and I move my hair out of the way for him to get better access, raising my arm up to grab the back of his head and hold him closer. Generally speaking, this is not a dancing position I’m usually in. At just over five feet, most guys tower over me by well over half a foot minimum. But Con, being an elite gymnast is only a couple inches taller than me.

  And yes, I know people like to make fun of male gymnasts because of their height, but their muscles and stamina are no joke. I don’t know many guys who have the same kind of endurance a gymnast has. And that doesn’t even include the flexibility. Cocky bastards know their strengths, too. Right now, Con’s lips are definitely one of his strong points.

  “There are too many people here,” Con says in my ear. “What do you say we go somewhere to be alone?”

  I nod because I really, really want to be alone with him. Thank goodness he’s on the same page as me. Grabbing my hand, Con leads me off the dance floor and out of the club without looking back.