Fool Me Twice Page 4

  “Kolb, I want to see that arm. Let’s run some different routes, and lob ’em out there,” Coach says.

  I’ve envisioned playing for Coach Walter Daniels since I was a boy. He’s the most winningest coach in all of North Carolina and has been for the last decade. In terms of college football, he’s brought six national championship trophies back to Warchester, and has produced countless big league players in his almost fifteen years of coaching this team. The man demands excellence, but I’ve heard he isn’t unreasonable and harsh like some other coaches are rumored to be when you get to this level.

  “Yes, sir.” I nod my head, ready to show them all what I can do.

  My confidence in my abilities is unwavering. Not only do I know I’m the best, but I put the practice where my mouth is. I’m the first one in, last one out. I carry equipment the same as everyone else, do extra reps in the weight room, and memorize the playbook until I can write each one out without my notes. In order to be the best, you have to be the best at everything in this sport. So, I am. And yes, I have an ego. But it only serves to make me better. If you don’t think you’re the best, why the hell would other people think that?

  “Matthews, down the field.” Coach points his finger all the way to the end zone of the practice field.

  Archie Matthews, a junior and arguably the best wide receiver in the college ranks currently, takes off in a sprint down the field. I get in position, eyeing him and the center about to spike the ball to me. Being a quarterback is all about multi-tasking, remembering your plays, reading the field, watching the defense, and throwing the ball where it’s supposed to be before your teammate even gets there.

  And by the time the ball is in my hands, my fingers flexing like they’ve done thousands of times over the stitches, I know right where Archie will be when he needs to turn over his back shoulder and catch the ball. My sixth sense tingles and I launch my left arm back, all the tendons and muscles trained on exactly how to launch the perfect spiral. Without another thought, I let it go, a smug grin coming over my lips as it sails through the air.

  At the moment I predicted he would, Archie turns, his foot crossing the line into the end zone, and the football lands perfectly in his hands. He secures it, burns off the sprint, and then jumps up.

  “Woo, that boy has an arm!” Archie, who is about a head taller than my six-two frame, claps his massive hands around the ball.

  I give him a nod like I know that I do, and I can feel the eyes on me. I’ve got their attention now.

  After throwing at least two dozen more routes with different spins, options, and fakes, I miss all but two. It helps that these are some of the best receivers and tight ends in the country; Warchester only recruits the best.

  Practice is called a little after that, and we’re all dripping sweat. It’s one of the last afternoons in a North Carolina August, and damn does it feel like the pits of hell.

  “I have so much jock itch, my balls need an ice bath.” Archie walks funny as he falls in line with Derrick and me.

  “Dude, tell me about it. Not to mention, my cup is two sizes too small. Gotta ask them about getting me a magnum cup.” Janssen smirks as he walks backward in front of us to face our trio.

  Derrick throws a towel at his face. “Shut the fuck up. We all know you’re sporting a roll of pennies in there. Remember that brunette he got with?”

  “The townie?” I snicker, because Janssen had been so fucked up he didn’t realize he was trying to bang a cougar maybe fifteen years older than us.

  “Yep.” Derrick nods. “He could barely get it up.”

  Janssen scowls. “I had five shots of whiskey, no shit I couldn’t get hard.”

  “It happens to the best of us, my friend.” Archie claps him on the shoulder. “Just not me. Or any red-blooded male I know.”

  We all crack up at my best friend’s expense, until Coach Daniels interrupts us. From across the field, he calls my name and waves a hand, ushering me over.

  “Catch you guys later,” I say to the group, then jog to where Coach stands.

  “Good work out there today, Kolb. You’ve got a good arm, but we can improve your footwork. I’d like to start working you in with some of the first team guys, so tell Phil tomorrow that you’ll be shadowing them.”

  Phil is the team’s offensive coordinator, and rumor was he was getting called up to the big leagues next year.

  “Thank you, Coach. I look forward to learning and getting more starts.” I don’t leave that part out, because we both know I’m gunning for the job.

  “Being a great football player doesn’t mean anything if you don’t act like a leader. I’m not saying you’ve shown me otherwise, but I expect my players to be both good athletes and great men alike. Nice work today; hit the showers.”

  He dismisses me and I’m smart enough not to say more.

  I’m behind the team, so by the time I take my shower and throw on clothes to head to class, I’m the last one out. It’s nice to have the quiet, to not have to shoot the shit or pretend to be macho for a minute. I thrive in groups, but sometimes being alone is what I need.

  I’m headed to my play and leisure course, which sounds like a lot of bullshit, but is required for my physical education teaching major. That’s right. My fallback is becoming a gym teacher. Which, let’s face it, is never going to happen. I can’t think it actually will. I’m going to be playing football until my body gives out on me, which is hopefully twenty years from now. Any other outcome is not acceptable.

  Across the quad, I spot a familiar figure. Crouched down low, with an old-school camera pressed against her face, is Henley. Her curls are piled in a mass on her head, secured by two pencils, and fuck, if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Just pulling one out like a Jenga piece would make the whole thing unravel, and wouldn’t that be a sight to see?

  She’s snapping away, of what I’m guessing are shots of the quad. What does she see? And why does she have to have that sexy pout, like she’s chewing on her tongue, while she does it? I suddenly have the urge to chew on that tongue.

  “Henley Rowan.” I whistle in a low, appreciative tone as I walk to her.

  Her head snaps up from her camera screen, and I see it in her eyes, that split second of panic. She’s contemplating making a run for it. And then, in the next breath, she’s cooling her features. More than likely, she thinks I didn’t see that. This is a girl not used to being caught off guard, and I like that I rattle her.

  Those full cherry lips slide into a smirk. “Lincoln Kolb, what a surprise. I thought they keep you in the locker room and only take you out for games. Wasn’t aware you actually knew how to get to academic buildings.”

  “Oh no, they let us out to eat and fornicate, too.” I wink.

  Her eyes flash with amusement. “Good to know. Go on, fornicate. I’m busy with something.”

  The nails on her hands are polished a dark purple gray, and they twist different buttons and circles on her camera.

  “You like photography?” I venture a guess.

  Not sure why I’m asking. Maybe it’s another way to get her to come up to my dorm room. Because damn, with a mouth that can verbally spar that well, I need to know what it can really do in the bedroom.

  Her whiskey-colored eyes roll so hard, I’m afraid they might fall out of her head. “I don’t like photography. It’s my career. My passion. The thing I want to do with my life.”

  That honest answer hits me like a punch to the gut. Since I’ve known this girl, she’s done nothing but flirt with, chastise, and taunt me. Hearing the thing that she loves most … well, it’s like football for me. I get it; I get that soul deep need to do it.

  “What were you taking photos of? What out here is interesting?” Suddenly, I’m invading her space, sitting on the bench she and her equipment are occupying.

  Henley grabs at her lenses and the bag they go in, acting like my grubby paws might break one. “You wouldn’t get it.”

  And just like that, I’
m shut out. But I don’t go down that easily. No, something about this girl has wedged itself under my skin. And whether she be a splinter or the warm fuzzies, I want to know why.

  “Well, you can’t sit out here and play paparazzi forever. Why don’t you—”

  Just as I’m about to swoop in for the kill, convincing her to have lunch in the dining hall with me, my phone vibrates at my thigh.

  Shit. Nine times out of ten, if I’m in a situation where my penis will be rewarded, I’d ignore it. But as I glance at the screen and it reads Dad, I know I can’t just send it to voice mail. There was a hearing today, and I want to know what the outcome of it was.

  “You know what? I have to run. Maybe I’ll see you around, Jimmy.” I use the nickname I gave her back on the first day we met.

  Henley looks a little shocked before I turn on my heel and walk off, and maybe it’s a good thing I had a call come in.

  Because I think I just took that upper hand back.

  7

  Henley

  Staring at the box of hair dye in my hands, my mind starts to go into panic mode.

  “I really don’t want to do this,” I tell Rhiannon as she snaps a rubber glove on her hand.

  My roommate looks like she’s about to give me a rectal exam, or maybe I just feel like that. I hate that Catherine had this on her bucket list, that I have to paint my virgin locks a different color.

  But I made a commitment, and college rebellion and all that. Catherine would be proud of me; she could barely get me to put my curls through a straightener. Unlike ninety-nine percent of teenage and twenty-something girls, I have always loved my natural hair. The color, the thick, ropy curls, the way it seems to take on its own presence in humidity. I love my hair, and the fact that I’m about to dye it scarlet fever red, as the box says, really freaks me out.

  “Oh, stop it. The dye will wash out in the shower tomorrow morning. You wouldn’t even let me get the good stuff, so quit being such a chicken bitch.” Rhiannon rolls her eyes.

  In the week since classes have started, we’ve eaten almost all of our meals together, joined the Habitat for Humanity club on campus, and she’s begun schooling me on all things hip-hop and R&B. I’ve really grown to like her; she both makes me laugh and doesn’t put up with shit. We’re very similar in our blunt approach, which normally doesn’t work in a friendship, but for us, it does.

  And forming a bond with Rhiannon only makes me miss Catherine more. What would our college years have been like? Visiting each other’s schools, possibly studying abroad together, talking on FaceTime about our new crushes or how drunk we got last night. She knew me inside and out, and now that she’s gone, it feels like an expanse has opened up in my chest. I’m not sure anyone or anything will ever be able to fill it.

  “Okay, let’s just do this before I change my mind.” I blow out a long breath.

  “Plus, think how amazing you’ll look at the CEOs and hoes party. You’ll be like that sexy secretary on Mad Men, with her silky red hair and huge tits.” Rhiannon points a gloved finger at my chest.

  “I don’t have huge tits.” I cross my arms over my chest, and it serves to highlight her point.

  She raises one eyebrow as she shakes the dye bottle and squirts the first batch onto my scalp. It’s cold on my skin, and I’m not sitting in front of the grungy mirror of our dorm room because I didn’t want to watch this in real time.

  “Um, honey, you have like Emily Ratajkowski tits. Perky, huge, stick out in that supermodel way from your chest kind of tits. It’s no wonder football guy was trying to get into your bra at that last party.”

  “Who Lincoln?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Um, yeah, Lincoln. I don’t even like jocks, and I could drool over that. He’s too much of a hunk, too meaty, for me, but damn, if he offered I’d probably take the ride for one go round. Why didn’t you jump on that? You know I would be cool with a scrunchie on the door.”

  I feel it as Rhiannon slathers another goopy hand on my head. She works the dye into my roots, down my long, long locks, and I can feel this side of me come out. When I wash this out, when I let her style my hair, I’ll look like a completely different person. Along with the high-waisted black lace underwear, no bra, and oversized suit jacket I’ll be wearing with black pumps tonight; Lincoln Kolb won’t know what hit him.

  Theme parties have never been my thing, but tonight, a racy thrill runs up my spine. It feels naughty to be so bad, so secretive and deceptive. That sounds terrible, but a dark part of me is really enjoying this.

  He tripped me up, and he knows it. I was too busy and hyped up about my first photography assignment for Kyle’s class, that I didn’t notice him. I didn’t have my game face on. And for that, I’m pissed at myself. Yes, photography is what I want to do with my life, but I need to finish Catherine’s list on my way there. This is the top priority right now, and the fact that he just got under my skin really frustrates me.

  But tonight, I’m going to change all that. I have to bring in the big guns, and a themed party with lots of alcohol is just the way to do that.

  “Oh, would you? Does that mean I can expect a scrunchie on the door?” I look back, raising an eyebrow at her.

  She smirks. “Maybe. I have this guy back home though … it’s kind of on and kind of off. He may come visit, but we haven’t ironed out the details. So, no, I guess no random scrunchies, but I’ll tell you if there is a scheduled scrunchie.”

  “Oh, I want to see a picture of this on-and-off boy. But to answer, maybe. Maybe I’ll put a scrunchie on the door. Though, I don’t like to shit where I sleep.”

  This makes Rhiannon laugh so hard, she snorts. “Girl, I knew I liked you.”

  I nod. “It’s easier to do my business, get my orgasm, and be on my way. If the guy is clingy, or worse, drunk, then he stays the night in your bed. Those extra-long twins are small as it is, so hell no do I want a sweaty dude smelling of alcohol hogging my cover.”

  At this point, I almost have Rhiannon in tears. “Jesus, you’re like one of those bugs who eats its young.”

  “Just honest.” I shrug.

  “All right, honesty queen. Time to rinse this out. And then, I’m going full curling wand on your ass.”

  Oh, goody. Can’t wait to see how different I look. At least it’ll take Lincoln by surprise and possibly give me the upper hand.

  * * *

  There are way too many dudes in pimp hats here.

  I’m not sure who thought a CEO wore a black top hat, but someone here clearly sent a memo and these frat bros and jocks took notice in full force. Shirtless guys in tux pants, girls in librarian skirts with bras and fake glasses—this surely is a theme party at its best.

  And after slamming a tequila shot with Rhiannon immediately after walking through the doors of this random frat house off campus, I’m ready to find the target of my mission.

  Lincoln stands along the wall, talking to a group mixed with both guys and girls. He’s edible in black fitted suit pants and a white button-down that has two too many buttons open. An untied tie hangs from the collar, and he looks like his secretary just fucked him on top of his desk.

  The thought has me squeezing my thighs together, and the friction is so delicious. It’s been since before Catherine’s funeral that I hooked up with anyone, and my horny meter is at its peak.

  Sauntering over, I can feel the eyes on my tits. They’re bouncing free, everything above my navel visible in this oversized suit jacket. Thank God for double-sided tape.

  I wiggle into the group until I’m pressed against the wall next to him. Either he didn’t notice my arrival or he’s already too drunk to care, but Lincoln doesn’t even look my way.

  “Hey, Stallion,” I say, only for him to hear.

  His head turns, taking me in. Those eyes, one blue and one green, have no hint of familiarity there. He drinks in my face, my hair, my cleavage, and down to the six-inch heels Rhiannon convinced me were a good idea.

  “Holy shit
… Henley?” His face lowers closer to mine, his lips just inches from my mouth.

  I nod, a smug smile gracing my lips. “Did I catch you off guard?”

  This was my plan. Throw him for a loop, make everything about me unpredictable. Because if there is one thing guys like Lincoln love, it’s an unpredictable girl. They love the chase, the adventure, the insanity. How fun is it to be with a girl you’re not sure will remain the same in the next second?

  “Your hair. It’s … different.” He eyes me skeptically, and suddenly, we’re not standing in the group anymore.

  I’m not sure when he gently pushed me farther down the wall, so we could be in our own little bubble. But when I glance up, his elbow is propped against the wall, shutting the rest of the party out.

  I nod, because boys are morons when it comes to noticing beauty trends. “It is.”

  “I don’t like it,” Lincoln states matter-of-factly.

  My jaw drops a little with shock and at his rude bluntness. “And that’s supposed to matter? Last time I checked, you have no say over what I do. With my body or otherwise.”

  I feel my blood pulse with rage. How dare this scum of a human, who dumped my best friend over cancer, make comments about my appearance?

  Lincoln reaches out, his large hand catching my elbow. The touch sends lust plummeting low in my belly, and I hate both of us for it.

  “Henley, that’s not what I meant. It looks great, anything would look great on you. I just … I love your hair. All of those blond curls. I’ll miss them.”

  And there, in the middle of a noisy, rambunctious college party, Lincoln Kolb melts a piece of my frigid heart. He used my name; he complimented me on something I love about myself. And even though he’s only met me a handful of times, he’s claiming he’ll miss them, which implies he’s going to see me again.

  I get it now, why he’s so dangerous. This charm, whether it’s an act or the real thing, he’s got it down to a science. The way he makes eye contact with one blue, one green, hypnotizing you into believing him. The small gentle touch, the whisper of his husky voice …