Dumb jock.
That's what she called me. I don't know why it grates on me the way it does. I've always been a dumb jock – not like my brother Drew who's smart as hell. Of course, he's not going to get drafted into the pros with a multi-million dollar contract, either.
So, writing some bullshit history paper is irrelevant. Studying plays, that's relevant. That's what my future is about. Not writing some crap about stuff that happened a million years ago.
* * *
I glance up from my playbook at my watch again. Three minutes past the start of our tutoring session. One minute since the last time I looked. Not that I'm counting or anything.
She probably reconsidered after the last session when I lost my shit. I shouldn't have lost my shit. But she was sitting there across from me, and that look on her face… smug, like she was better than me just because she's good at schoolwork. It just got to me.
She's the kind of girl who doesn't understand wanting to move up in life. She's smart and pretty and I'd bet a million dollars she didn't grow up poor on a farm in East Texas.
"Studying?" A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see her standing there. This time, she's not wearing a little skirt and heels, no longer the hot librarian. She's wearing jeans that hug her curves like they were designed for her body, a pink tank top that skims over her full breasts, with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
Her cheeks are flushed, her breath is short, and all I can think about is that she'd better not have just come from hooking up with someone.
"Yep," I answer, my voice tight. She crosses the room and slides into a chair on the other side of the table. Why the hell am I so annoyed at the thought of her being late because she was with someone?
"That's not school stuff," she says, eyeing the playbook. "Sorry I'm late."
"It's the only studying that matters," I say.
She purses her lips. "Unless you're ineligible and can't play," she says. "Then knowing all those football diagram thingies won't help at all."
"Football diagram thingies?" I ask, leaning back in the chair. "Do you know anything about football at all?"
Her cheeks flush and she looks down, digging in her bag for a notebook and a pen. "It's not my forte."
"It's not your forte?" I ask. "What does that mean? You can't use your fancy words around me."
I'm only half-joking. I don't know what the fuck forte means.
She sighs. "I know nothing about football, okay? Nothing. Not a single thing."
"But you're in Texas," I point out. No way does this girl go to a huge football school in Texas, for shit's sake, and know nothing about football. That would mean she genuinely knows nothing about me.
"I know." She shrugs like it’s irrelevant. "I just never got into it. So, did you read Pride and Prejudice?"
"Yeah." I wave my copy dismissively at her. Of course I didn't fucking read it. Not only am I not reading something like that, but I was busy staring at my laptop and trying to write that stupid history paper. "Have you ever even been to a game?"
She pulls out her copy of Pride and Prejudice. "I sold my student season tickets last year."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"What do you mean?" she squeals. "There are plenty of people in the world who don't watch football."
"Not in Texas."
"Stop avoiding work," she says. "Did you do your History paper? It's just a reaction paper, so it's short. Do you want to talk about Pride and Prejudice or do you want me to look over your work?"
I open my laptop and the document containing the paper, then turn the computer to face her. "If I have to learn this bullshit English stuff, you should have to learn football. It's called quid pro quo."
That's literally the only Latin phrase I know. My brother taught it to me when we were in high school, said it's a smart-sounding way of getting girls to put out when you take them out someplace.
She laughs. "Yeah, sure, if you think you can teach me something about football."
"Okay," I say. "My place. Eight o'clock."
Cassie looks up at me, surprised. "I wasn't serious. I was kidding. You're not teaching me about football."
"Oh, 'cause you're too good for it?"
"What?" she stammers. "I did not say that. I didn't even imply that."
I raise an eyebrow. "I learn, you learn."
"I am not going to your house," she says. "That's such an obvious ploy. Does this stuff really work on women?"
"I've never offered to teach a chick about football," I admit. That’s honesty right there. I really haven't. Why the fuck would I need to teach a girl about football? The girls I screw know exactly who I am. They're groupies, fans of the game. And of mine.
She rolls her eyes. "'Come over to my house and I'll teach you all about the game?'" she asks sarcastically. "That's so transparent. What's next? 'Baby, I need you to help me get a home run?'"
"Are you just fucking with me now? Home run is baseball, not football."