Head in the Game: A College Football Romance (Game Day Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One - Lilah

  Chapter Two - Riley

  Chapter Three - Lilah

  Chapter Four - Riley

  Chapter Five - Riley

  Chapter Six - Lilah

  Chapter Seven - Lilah

  Chapter Eight - Riley

  Chapter Nine - Lilah

  Chapter Ten - Riley

  Chapter Eleven - Lilah

  Chapter Twelve - Riley

  Chapter Thirteen - Riley

  Chapter Fourteen - Lilah

  Chapter Fifteen - Riley

  Chapter Sixteen - Lilah

  Chapter Seventeen - Lilah

  Chapter Eighteen - Riley

  Chapter Nineteen - Lilah

  Chapter Twenty - Riley

  Chapter Twenty-One - Riley

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Lilah

  HEAD IN THE GAME

  Lily Cahill

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Nameless Shameless Women, LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lilah

  “THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IN my wardrobe that says ‘college professor.’’’

  My grandmother glances over to where I stand in the kitchen doorway, wearing two different shoes, a bell skirt, and a bra. “Why don’t you go like that?” she says dryly. “You’ll certainly make an impression.”

  I am not in the mood for humor. “Gamma, what was I thinking? I can’t teach a college class.”

  “And why not?” she says with an arch of her eyebrow. She pulls a bowl out of the cabinet and fills it with granola.

  “I never should have agreed to this,” I say, flopping down in one of the chairs in my ridiculous half-outfit. “Did I tell you? When Marty first asked me to take over his classes for the summer session, I laughed in his face. I should have stuck with my initial instincts. This is a terrible idea.”

  “Oh, hush,” Gamma says as she pulls berries and milk out of the fridge and adds them to the bowl. “Eat this, and I’ll fix your hair. You are going to be a wonderful professor.”

  “I am basically the same age as all of the students,” I say, snatching up the bowl. I’m not the kind of girl who lets anxiety affect my appetite.

  “But far more experienced,” Gamma points out as she slips behind me and gathers up my hair. “Did you or did you not start painting landscapes before you could talk?”

  “All babies finger paint,” I point out through a mouthful of granola, then wince as Gamma tugs on a strand of the loose braid she’s weaving down the top of my head. I recently shaved the sides of my head on a whim, leaving me with a mohawk of thick, black hair.

  “You started winning contests when you were ten,” my grandmother points out. “And started selling paintings before you were in high school. God knows, that money has helped us through some tough times.”

  “I don’t mind,” I tell my grandmother for the thousandth time, and though I can’t see her, I know she’s shaking her head.

  In my artist’s eye, I can see the way we look together. We’re both big women, tall and curvy, with the same mahogany skin. Gamma wears a crisp, white blouse with pink piping, a matching pink sweater, and a small gold cross necklace. Her hair is shaped into the same gray ball that has surrounded her face since I was born. I, on the other hand, am wearing a combat boot on one foot and a spiked heel on the other. Colorful tattoos spin up one arm and across my chest, where my sizable breasts are displayed in a zebra-print bra. And my grandmother is putting the finishing touches on my two-inch-high mohawk.

  It would make a good portrait, I muse. If I did that kind of thing.

  “I’m both ashamed and proud to say that you’ve had enough success over the years to support us both,” my grandmother says. “But I still wish you could have gone to art school.”

  I reach up to touch her hand, so familiar within my own. “I didn’t want to go to art school.” That isn’t true, and we both know it. Still, I try to put a good face on it. “Fifty grand to learn stuff I can find on the Internet? Not worth it.”

  “I know full well you stayed home because of my heart,” my grandmother says as she ties the last strands of my braid into place. “It’s been three years since my heart attack. When are you going to stop worrying?”

  As if that’s an option. I had come home from school when I was seventeen and found my grandmother collapsed, barely breathing, surrounded by the bags of groceries she’d been carrying into the house. I’d almost lost her, and I’ve worried about her every day since.

  “You’re a good girl, Lilah,” Gamma continues when I don’t answer. “You’re going to knock the socks off those college kids. I bet none of them have won the Pitkin Prize.”

  I squirm a bit. “I bet none of those college kids have even heard of the Pitkin Prize.”

  “Well, then they’re ignorant, and you should tell them all about it,” she says. “Lilah, you won one of the most prestigious contests in the nation. You have a painting on display in the MOMA. If you aren’t going to brag about it, I’ll just have to do it for you.”

  Just to prove her point, she pulls her phone out of her pocket.

  “Don’t you dare,” I burst out as she busily works the screen.

  “You think I’m not going to tell my friends that my baby is teaching a college class? I’m proud as a peacock.”

  That warms my heart and eases my nerves. “All right, fine. But don’t mention the Pitkin.”

  “Why not?” she asks absently, busy composing the perfect humble-brag.

  “I don’t know.” On the table, I sketch mountains with the tip of my finger. “It feels like bragging.”

  “It’s not bragging if I do it for you. And why shouldn’t you be proud of yourself?”

  “I am.” That sounds like a lie, even to me. I repeat the words, making some effort to sound like I mean it. “I am proud. It’s just … with everything that’s happened … I wish I had never gone to New York to accept the prize.”

  My grandmother lays her hand on my shoulder. “You know it’s not your fault. What happened to Natalie.”

  A river of hot emotion runs through me at the sound of Natalie’s name. I nod as I attempt to swallow the flood back down. “I know it in my head. It’s my heart that isn’t so sure.”

  “I know all about regret, my girl.” Gamma presses her lips together. I know she’s thinking about my mother, because her eyes turn heavy and sad. “But you can’t change the past. All you can do is learn from it, and take your joys where you can.”

  I take a deep breath. I’m perilously close to crying, and that would be a terrible way to start any day. But it’s especially terrible today, when I need to feel confident and strong. I manage a smile for my grandmother. “Okay. You’re right. Brag about me all you want.”

  Gamma lights up. “That’s my girl. Now, go put on that pink crop top I like and your leopard print shoes. That gold skirt will be just fine. And,” she says, shimmying her shoulders at me, “after you’ve done your makeup, we are taking a selfie.”

  Gamma has embraced social media to an astonishing degree. I think she has more Instagram followers than me.

  “All right,” I say with mock-exasperation. “But I get to pick the filter. After all, I’m the artist.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  I loose one fina
l sigh, letting my shoulders sag. “Are you sure I can do this?”

  Gamma lay her hands on my cheeks, her eyes filled with love and pride. “Lilah, I’m certain you can do anything.”

  I try to hang on to those words on my way to the campus of Mountain State University. It is a glorious morning. Sun showers down on me from a brilliant blue sky as I ride my bike along the river trail cutting through the town center. The water is running high now at the beginning of summer, and I spy a group of college-aged guys paddling their way through the current atop a couple of huge inner tubes.

  It’s hard not to feel happy when you live in a beautiful place. Even with all the horrible stuff that has happened in the last six months, I still love living in Granite, Colorado.

  I grew up here, hiking in the surrounding mountains and hanging out with the artsy kids on the Diamond Street pedestrian mall. The town built a reputation for hippies and liberal politics in the 1960s. But in the past twenty years, since Coach Moe Foster came to town, we’ve had a reputation for something else—football.

  The MSU Mustangs are one of the best teams in the nation. Or, they were. Before all the shit that went down at the end of last year’s season. A lot of people say they don’t deserve the punishment they got. I say, a lot of people are wrong.

  Someone who cares could give you statistics, but all I know is that every year, for my entire life, college football has been the most important thing in this town. And it still is, but the definition of “important” has changed. It had been something of which we were proud. But then it became the source of the biggest scandal in the university’s—and our town’s—history.

  The river path rises up and I suddenly find myself there—on the MSU campus. I’ve barely been here since Thanksgiving, when Natalie and I came to check out the student film festival. A month after that, I had been in New York accepting the Pitkin, and Natalie had come here to a party. Alone.

  The campus is stately, manicured, and relatively empty since most of the students are gone for summer break. In the distance, I can just see the stadium peeking out from between the golden-pink sandstone buildings.

  Without warning, a wave of anger washes over me. So hot, I have to stop my bike. I’ve never been a fan of football, but growing up, there was no way to avoid it. It was a condition of living in Granite, like snow in the winter. It used to just be an annoyance—not being able to get around on Saturdays due to the tailgates and drunken fans, listening to a persistent buzz about a topic I cared nothing about, struggling to find something else to do during games since every other single person in Granite was glued to the game. Now, everything about football fills me with rage.

  I take a deep breath to settle my nerves. I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to teach Introduction to Art for the summer session while Marty Carlson is on sabbatical. But he caught me at a weak moment, when I had been trying (by which I mean failing) to paint for over an hour. Ever since the Pitkin, I’ve been creatively blocked. I’m becoming a cliché—the artist who can’t handle her own success.

  Marty is a good guy. He’s been selling my paintings in his gallery for nearly a decade. I don’t think I was his first choice to take over while he went back East to help his sick mother, but I’d been the first one to say yes. Which, I’ve come to think, was a terrible idea. I know plenty about painting, but I’ve never had to teach anyone else. And this class covers pottery and line drawing as well. It’s only the first day, and I already feel like I’m in over my head.

  I’m hoping that getting back to the basics will unlock something inside me. Maybe teaching others will help me see where I’ve lost my center. Or maybe it will just keep my mind occupied while my subconscious works through the block.

  Plus, the money won’t hurt. I have other sources of income, but Gamma’s heart medicine costs a fortune. If I don’t start selling paintings soon, I’ll have to dip into the nest egg that I’ve worked so hard to build.

  I agreed to do this. I have to at least give it a shot.

  The art building is easy enough to find, but it doesn’t stop my heart from thudding with anxiety. I haven’t even been inside the classroom yet. And I’m supposed to be the professor? It feels like some sort of joke. A professor who hasn’t even earned a college degree.

  But there’s no going back now—not after how proud Gamma is of me. After a pause, I open the door, and all my apprehensions wash away in a flood of pure pleasure.

  The classroom is an atrium, the north wall made entirely of windows. Beyond the glass lies a breathtaking view of the Rocky Mountains cradling a clear sky. The room smells faintly of canvas and turpentine, and the wood floor is speckled with years of paint. If I had dreamed of a classroom, it would look exactly like this.

  I wander the room, familiarizing myself with the supplies. For this first class, I was planning on covering the basics of watercolors and oils, so I’m pleased to see that some graduate student has stocked the storage shelves with everything I need.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad. I’m already thinking about ways to adjust my prepared lectures. They’re all too formal, too stiff. A room like this is full of distractions, and I can use that. The easels and tables are on casters, which will make it simple to use all the different spaces in the room. What if I ask the students to spend a few minutes each day mixing a color the exact same blue as the sky?

  Behind me, the classroom door clicks open. I turn, expecting to see that the department head has come to greet me.

  The man currently filling the doorway definitely isn’t the dainty, effete department head. This guy is tall, broad, and heavily muscled. And, some part of me adds, mouth-wateringly sexy. His strong jaw is clean-shaven, and his honey-colored hair is still wet from a recent shower. I feel a purely female pulse echo through me as my mouth goes dry.

  Then I notice the silver Mustangs logo on his blue T-shirt and the workout bag slung over his shoulder emblazoned with MSU Football. Dammit. He’s a football player.

  “Are you lost?” I say, my words harder than usual.

  “I don’t think so,” he says, in a voice that holds the cadence of wide open spaces. “I’m pretty sure I’m looking for you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Riley

  “I MEAN, I’M LOOKING FOR this class. Intro to Art, right?” I say quickly, trying to cover my mistake. But the truth is, I feel the same way looking at this woman as I do right after I’ve taken a hard hit. Both things are in danger of taking me straight to the ground.

  She is stunning. Sexy and edgy and soft-bodied, like a wet dream of curves and moldable flesh. She is all color and pattern, dark skin and wild hair and bold makeup. I don’t know where to look, can’t stop myself from dragging my eyes all the way down her body and back up again.

  Right back to her gorgeous … angry face.

  “I’m Riley Brulotte,” I say, flashing a smile. “Are you a student in this class?”

  “I’m the teacher in this class,” she says, her eyebrow arched.

  Wait. What? I pull out my phone and find my class schedule with a couple of clicks. “So you’re Professor Martin Carlson?”

  She frowns and steps closer to me. “They must not have updated the schedule. Marty had to go out of town suddenly, and he asked if I would take over the class. I’m Lilah Stone.”

  She’s wearing perfume, something spicy and hot that makes me wonder how it would taste on her skin. This woman isn’t afraid to make an impact. And she’s certainly having an effect on me.

  I hold out my hand to shake, eager to discover if her skin is as soft as I imagine. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Stone.”

  She frowns again at that. “Not Ms. Stone. That’s way too weird. I hadn’t really thought about … well. You should probably call me Lilah.”

  “Lilah,” I say. Damn, that’s a sexy name. It fits her perfectly. “It’s a pleasure.”

  She stares up at me for a moment, her lips parted, her hand in mine. Something flickers in her eyes before she takes back her hand and sticks i
t in the pocket of her skirt. “Well. Uh … what did you say your name was?”

  “Riley.” I have to be honest: It’s kind of nice not being recognized. I’m the starting tight end for the Mustangs, and I’ve had sportscasters and NFL scouts talking about me for years. They’ve even given me a nickname—“Lotto” Brulotte. Hell, the fans call it “winning the lottery” when I take down the opposing defense. In this little world, I’m famous. But this woman clearly has no idea who I am.

  It’s, well, refreshing.

  “Well, Riley,” Lilah says, “you have your pick of seats.” She leaves me standing in the doorway and busies herself behind the desk, pulling papers and a laptop from her big leather bag. “Class will start in just a few minutes.”

  I drop my backpack and gym bag next to a chair and am about to collapse into it—it was a long practice earlier—but something stops me. I don’t want this conversation with Lilah to be over yet. I wander closer to her and say, “I’m looking forward to this class.”

  She makes a little huffing sound of disbelief.

  “What?”

  She looks me up and down. “You’re a football player, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Tight end. Have you ever gone to an MSU game?”

  She shakes her head, but it seems more in disbelief than an answer to my question. “Look, maybe Marty ran this class for an easy A, but that’s not how I’m going to do it.”

  Irritation prickles at me. “I don’t need an easy A.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Taking an art class?” I keep my voice steady despite the growing indignation at what she’s implying. “I’ve always wanted to.”

  She cocks her head. “What, like, to meet girls?”