Page 31 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“You’re telling me?” I blow out a breath. “I need a shower.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” He pushes from the chair and walks to the door. “But don’t think about her in the shower.” He’s serious, and he’s right. I shouldn’t.

But I do. And I think about the fact that I’d get kicked off the team at the very least for fooling around with a coach if I ever got caught. Coach made it clear it’s against the rules. And the way Dean Lassiter takes the catholic university standards so seriously, I might even get expelled from SPU.

Chapter Fourteen

Amanda

Standing in the driveway with my SPU T-shirt covering most of my cut-offs and wearing my favorite comfortable sneakers, I grin as Brook and her husband pull into the driveway. I can see that she’s immediately annoyed with my outfit. My eyes travel to the guy sitting up front with my brother-in-law. He’s wearing a button-up shirt. Plaid. Brook told me he’s a college friend of her ball-and-chain, so my expectations are appropriately low. Lucky for him I am stratospherically desperate. It’s been a long fucking week.

As soon as Brook gets out of the car, and before she can say a word, emotions well up and I rush her for a big hug, holding on for all I’m worth. She laughs and squeezes back.

“I missed you too, Mandy,” she whispers. Then she backs up and introduces me to her idea of a hunky specimen who’ll impress. Clearly, she doesn’t hang around a building with elite athletes in their budding prime, half naked with all their sweaty muscles showing, all day long like I do.

We’re introduced and I whiff on his name. He’s handsome in a Clark Kent sort of way. Not wimpy, but not exactly Superman either. He likes football, though it’s clear he never played anytime recently if at all because I have more muscle than he does. But he likes numbers and he’s delighted that I teach a class in finance.

“I’m an adjunct professor. I got my Master’s degree in finance while I was an assistant coach at St. John’s.”

“Assistant coach?”

I look past him at my sister who has her hand over her mouth and I know she’s hiding a laugh. “Guess that was left out of the bio,” I say. “You didn’t know I’m the assistant basketball coach here at SPU, did you?” His eyes go wide and I have my answer. Brook cough-laughs and her ball-and-chain pats her back.

The guy didn’t know I’m a jock and I wonder why Brook didn’t mention it. Female athletes seem to intimidate some men. The kind who never played sports.

“Let’s get your bags inside and then we need to get going,” I say. A butterfly tickles my belly but not because of Clark Kent. That’s all because of the prospect of seeing Jonesy in action—on the field. “The game starts in fifteen minutes.” Brook laughs at me and the guys bring in the bags.

“What’s the hurry?” she asks.

“I don’t want to miss the kickoff. We’re already missing SPU’s kickass marching band.” I don’t mention that I wouldn’t mind seeing the team—and by team, I mean QB1—warm up. Or see him do anything in real life because I’ve been picturing him in my head all week and I need the real him to settle me down, to prove that he’s a mere mortal and not as ridiculously attractive—and by attractive, I mean sexy as fuck as he is in my mind where I keep replaying the kiss in an unhealthy loop of shame.

“She’s right. We can’t miss the kickoff,” Clark Kent says. Wish I’d paid attention to his name. But I treat him to a big smile. How bad could he be?

* * *

“These seats are great,” Brook says. I sit next to her, breaking the boy-girl seating rule, but no one complains. My date dutifully sits next to me and poor Brook’s ball-and-chain—who’s really a good guy so I shouldn’t keep thinking of him that way—sits next to his friend, even more dutifully.

The game is on and my belly goes from having a few butterflies waving their wings to a jungle filled with the suckers flapping and flying. Why the hell should I be so excited for a stinking college football game? Just because I know the QB? Just because he happens to be a sex god among men—or rather boys—and happens to be interested in me? Or at least interested in kissing me, probably interested in more than that if I let him. More likely the butterfly excitement is a symptom of acute sex starvation and serious reversion to my adolescence due to prolonged deprivation of adult male physical relations. Sure. That’s it. I’m fucking crazy out of my mind and I need to handle it.

Too bad the conscience lecture doesn’t help my gut, doesn’t keep me from enjoying the view of my . . . student. I need to remind myself he’s a student, not an available adult male, and certainly not a wedding date prospect. I shiver. I wish I could say the shiver was horror rather than excitement, but I’m that far gone.

“Hey, this QB is pretty good, Mandy,” my b-i-l says. I don’t bother answering because I can’t trust myself not to say something inappropriate or sarcastic, or likely both.

“He’s a contender for the pros,” my date says.

“He’s definitely a contender,” I say. Brook elbows me.

I give up trying to figure out Clark Kent’s real name because there’s a reason I can’t remember it and I don’t think I need to strain myself in the effort. We’re going nowhere after today. No chemistry whatsoever. And even though I don’t necessarily need chemistry for a wedding date to impress the uppity crowd Gary will have attending, I was hoping for a wild night of sex to go with the wedding since it’s what I’m starving for. And as far as I can tell, a night of wild sex is the only thing that’ll rid me of my obscene crush on Dylan Jones.

I’m not taking Clark Kent to the wedding or to bed. But I will make him coffee in the morning before I show him the door because, once again, I’m not a bitch.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she whispers.

“What?” Alarm hits my nerves because my thoughts are off the reservation and if she has any hint, I’ll be embarrassed.

“The QB. He’s gorgeous, if that close-up on the Jumbotron isn’t exaggerating.” I want to tell her it’s not an exaggeration, that he’s even better in real life because then you can feel his energy, take in his all-male scent, get the close-up version of that strong jaw and—do not think about his lips on yours.

“Probably an exaggeration. No one’s that sexy in real life, right?” I say. She snaps her head around to look at me.