First Down (Beyond the Play, #1)
Grace Reilly
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While I have tried to stay truthful to the realities of college football and college sports in general throughout this book when possible, there will be inaccuracies within, both intentional and unintentional. To my fellow football faithful—I hope you enjoy!
Please visit my website for full content warnings.
1
JAMES
I’ve just arrived on campus when my phone starts ringing.
My asshole little brothers made their ringtones match, so whenever either one of them calls, vintage Brittany Spears blares out of the speaker. I’ve got nothing against Brittany, obviously, the woman’s a goddess, but nothing about “Baby One More Time” screams number one nationally ranked college quarterback.
Of course, those fuckers know I don’t know how to change it back to something normal. I may be twenty-one and grew up on my phone like everyone else, but technology has never been my strong suit. And I’d rather strangle myself with my jock strap than ask either of them to help me with it.
And fine, maybe I like it. Just a little. I get out of the car and hum along as I pick up the phone, grateful no one is around. It wouldn’t do for McKee University’s new QB to make a first impression as a 2000s pop lover. I have a reputation from Louisiana State University to uphold.
Cooper’s voice fills my ear, rough and impatient like always, as I walk toward the administrative building. “You here yet?”
“Not near the house. I need to talk to the Dean first, remember?”
He makes an agonized noise that sounds akin to a dying animal. “Dude. We’ve been waiting forever. If you don’t hurry up, I’m taking the owner’s suite.”
“What if I want the owner’s suite?” I hear my other little brother, Sebastian, say in the background.
“That should be for the guy who fucks the most, Sebby,” Coop says. “And you never bring chicks home and James is sworn off the V until he’s in the league, so that leaves me.”
“Age trumps fuckboy status,” I inform him.
“You’re barely older.”
“Irish twins,” I say with a grin, even though Cooper can’t see me. We’re technically not, since we have about two years between us, but our last name’s Callahan and we’re super close, so it’s a joke that’s always stuck around. (Although never in front of our mother, who can make balls shrivel up with a single look.) “Right, baby bro?”
I pull open the door, flashing the receptionist a smile. On the line, Coop and Seb continue to argue. I have it on good authority that my smile makes panties melt away, and this time is no exception. I see the moment the girl—a student worker—flicks her gaze down from my face to my groin.
“Hey, I gotta go. See you soon.” I hang up before Cooper has a chance to try and keep the conversation going. Despite his bluster, I know he won’t pull a move like that without talking to me first. And maybe I will let him have it—he’s right about the fact I’m not letting girls into my life right now. Not if I want to win the national championship and get drafted to the NFL in the first round.
“Hey,” the girl says. “Can I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Dean Lionetti.”
She leans over the appointment book in a way that very obviously lets me see the swell of her tits. She does have a fantastic pair of them. Maybe in another universe, I’d ask her out for a drink. Hook up with her. It’s been ages since I’ve seen a pair of tits, much less got to play with them. But that would be the definition of distraction, especially if she turned out to be all drama.
No distractions. I didn’t come to McKee for any reason except getting my football life back on track… and fine, yes, to get my degree. Which is why I’m in the Dean of Student Affairs office instead of on my new field, scoping out the territory.
“Name?” she asks.
“James Callahan.”
Her eyes widen in recognition. Maybe she’s an NFL fan and thinks of my father first. Or maybe she read something about me transferring schools. Either way, she looks about ready to climb me like a tree.
“Um, you can go on in. She knows you’re coming.”
“Thanks.” I’m proud that I manage to resist winking at her. If I do that, she’ll just find me on campus somehow and insist we’re soulmates.
I stride down the hallway and into Dean Lionetti’s office, taking stock of the surroundings as I do. I can’t help it; I notice everything. I’m used to taking in the other team’s defensive line, looking for subtle shifts in their play calling, figuring out where they’re going to try and crush our rush or passing game.
Dean Lionetti has a sweet set-up. Fancy dark wood desk with a glass case of awards behind it. Books all along one wall, plus two velvet-covered chairs in front of the longer part of the desk’s L-shape. Behind the desk sits Dean Lionetti. Her gray hair must be natural; it falls at her chin-line in a severe bob. Her eyes are slate gray too, and her 80s-style power suit? You guessed it, gray. She stands when she sees me, holding out her hand for a shake.
“Mr. Callahan.”
“Hey,” I say, then wince internally. Not that I seek this out, but usually people—women especially—are a bit warmer to me when they meet me. My mom calls it the Callahan charm, and it’s foolproof… except for now. Dean Lionetti is looking at me like she can’t believe I’m standing in her office. She must have some sort of immunity to all things dimples, because her gaze only sharpens as I take a seat.
“Thank you for coming in on short notice to talk,” she says. “I have some updates about your classes this semester.”
“Are there any problems?”
I only have a couple of major requirements left to fulfill in my senior year. My major is mathematics, so most of the classes I take deal in numbers alone, but I have space for an elective or two. This semester I signed up for marine biology, which is apparently easy and involves no essays, thank fuck. According to Seb, the professor is ancient and spends most of class showing National Geographic documentaries.
Dean Lionetti raises a gray eyebrow. “There is an issue with your writing class.”
Fuck. I have a lot of regrets about last year and letting myself fall off the wagon with schoolwork is a major one. I’m terrible at writing, but it’s still pathetic that I failed a writing class as a junior that I was supposed to take and pass freshman year anyway.
“I thought everything transferred.”
“Primarily, yes. But when we reviewed your records more closely, it revealed that you failed the required writing course the first time around. Perhaps at your old university they made concessions for athletes”—she says athletes like we’re all a fungal disease— “but here, we hold everyone to the same academic standards. The professor was kind enough to open a spot in his class, which you will retake this semester since it’s only offered in the fall.”
I feel that marine bio class slipping away by the second. Dean Lionetti’s tone makes it clear she thinks I’m dumber than a sack of rocks. She probably feels the same about all athletes. Which is total bullshit. What happened last fall was the anomaly; I’ve worked hard for my degree. As Dad constantly reminds us, our athletic careers will only last so long. Even if I have a successful NFL career—which I fully intend—most of my life will take place after I retire.
“I see,” I bite out.
“I’ve updated your schedule accordingly—the class will take your elective spot. If you have any questions, please take it up with my office or the registrar.”
She stands. She’s dismissing me without a discussion.
I swallow down my embarrassment, although my ears feel hot.
Welcome to McKee University.
I take a deep breath and remind myself why I’m here. Degree, then the NFL.
I just have to find a way to get through this class first.
When I arrive at the house, Seb is sitting cross-legged on the floor, untangling a ball of wires. I give him a wave as I set my keys down on the foyer table, then look around the den. Aside from Seb and his mess, there’s not much going on yet, just an L-shaped leather couch, a coffee table, and a TV mounted on the wall. When we decided to rent this place for the year, seeing as all three of us would be at the same university, the listing said it wasn’t furnished. I have a sneaking suspicion about who made this happen.
“Sandra sent it all,” Seb says, gesturing around the room with the ball of wires. “The delivery guys set it up like this, but we could move it if we need to.”
Mom works scary-fast. I’m sure that the moment she heard her boys, the two she carried and the one she adopted, were sharing a house together, she went to Pottery Barn. Lucky for us she has nice taste.
There’s a crash overhead, and we both glance up with a wince.