Stars (Penmore #1) (10 page)

If he was a bad boy, I was going to be a cheerleader. And after the mindless dribble the girls in front of me spewed constantly—well, that and my poor sense of body coordination—there wasn’t a chance in hell I would ever be a cheerleader.

When the class ends I am so bloody relieved. I might love learning new things, but all I’m learning in that class is not to use hairspray indoors without proper ventilation. I really should start just watching the online lectures on Fridays. I’m one of the first students to step outside the glass doors and I immediately stop, causing the girl behind me to bump into my back and give me an evil glare as she walks around me. Not that I care, because I’m stuck staring at the vision in front of me.
Oh, God, I’m hallucinating again.

Grayson Waters is leaning against a pillar, his brown hair slightly falling in front of his eyes and his checkered shirt rolled up at the sleeves, exposing the white shirt he’s rocking underneath. He looks relaxed, and a little like he just stepped off a yacht or possibly a Ralph Lauren advert. My mouth drops open a bit over the fact that he has two coffees in his large hands and is staring straight at me. A small smirk pulls at the edges of his lips.

“Parker.”

And now he’s saying my name.

There is no flipping way Grayson Waters is saying my name and waiting for me outside my class
with coffee
.

I really need to get my brain injury checked out professionally. This was going too far.

Before I can unfreeze myself, Grayson saunters toward me, puts one of the coffees in my left hand and says, “So, I bought you coffee. Hope you like caramel lattes. The coffee girl said they were most of the girls’ on campus beverage of choice. Not that I think you’re like the other girls on campus. Anyway, I don’t suppose you mind walking me to my next class? I really wanted to talk, but now I’ve got about ten minutes left before it starts and I’ve already missed two classes hanging out here.”

Before I can process the words coming out of his mouth, and the fact that Grayson Waters is asking
me
to walk across the quad, he takes my right hand in his and starts directing us toward his next class. I guess it was less of a question and more of a statement.

“So, I forgot to ask you last time we saw each other what you’re studying. Do you have a major yet?” he asks while sipping on his coffee and strolling along the path. As if this, him walking hand in hand with me, wasn’t a sign of the world coming to an end. Seriously, I do not know what I’ve done that might make him want to ask me questions. Acting like he’s interested in me.

Okay, I’ve never made eye contact with him before last lesson and yeah, I’ve always hidden from him, but surely eye contact, a pair of tight jeans and curling my hair suddenly didn’t make me interesting. “I’m pre-med,” I reply, thinking maybe he’s doing some sort of weird community outreach program. Maybe all of the football players have to do some sort of school survey, which okay, wouldn’t exactly explain the coffee, but I makes much more sense than the notion that he’s trying to
flirt
with me.

“Very impressive. Almost as impressive as your honey eyes,” he states, giving me his cheeky smile. The one I know he usually saves for his mom and his best friends when he’s up to mischief. So bizarre.

“What about you?” I ask. Okay, so even if this
is
a strange mandated study, I figure I might as well find out a little bit more about this coffee-buying, sandstone-leaning, possibly-flirting-with-
ME
college Grayson. I might know he isn’t a bad boy and how he tends to look when he first wakes up. Yes, my creepiness had no bounds when I was about twelve, until I realized that maybe that was going
too
far to watch him get up in the morning. Especially when he started to wake up a little differently at thirteen, which, by the way, was a
super awkward
way to learn about puberty for a twelve-year-old girl.

I did
not
know, however, why he never went pro and why this new college Grayson Waters might bother to spend time with some nobody freshman rather than maybe find an aspiring model who would look great in future tabloids reporting on famous players.

“I’m an English major,” he tells me quickly. Uncomfortably.

“Wow.”
Nope, can’t let that go.
“Are you interested in writing?” I ask, having flashbacks of how he used to sit at the long wooden desk his mom gave him for his tenth birthday, energetically scribbling in his worn notebook.

“Yep,” he tells me.

I wanted to ask him more questions, ones I was burning to know the answer to, like was he into Dostoevsky, James Patterson and/or planning to write a sport autobiography.

But he quickly changed the subject. “Did you grow up around here, or are you from out of town?”

Oh, no. Great, let’s go from the subject he clearly doesn’t want to talk about to the one I don’t want to discuss.

Or is this when I tell him that I’ve lived right next door to him for nearly his entire life? Between the lecture hall and busy classrooms, do I just casually mention that Dr. Elliot, who used to pay him cash to mow the lawns for both his and our house when he was sixteen, is actually my dad? Let him know that I used to hide behind our drapes to watch the sweat drip off his shoulders when he rode the riding mower during the summer. Sometimes wondering what he might taste like if I had the chance to lick a droplet off his shining body.

Is this my chance to confess my sins? In front of half the student body?

Do I also suddenly remind him that I’m the girl he might have seen once or twice hunched over wearing a kitten sweater in the high school cafeteria before she managed to escape and hide in the library? Or the girl who tried to say hello to him by the creek when he was eight and his family fell apart?

I’m thinking not.

“I’m a local.” And a
big
fucking
liar
.

“Great. Maybe you can show me around sometime. I’m sure between football practice and hanging out with the boys I haven’t seen nearly enough of this town,” he tells me with a genuine smile.

No. I couldn’t do that. I have no idea where anything is. It would probably take him less than a minute to work out that I know nothing about this town except for Lucky’s and maybe how to locate the best food joints near the football stadium. “Um, I’m really busy at the moment,” I say, trying not to make eye contact or blush. I always blush when I’m nervous and lying. “With school.” Yep, there I go again, blushing like a tomato. It’s probably so I get used to the color red, because I am totally going to hell for being a humungous fibber.

“I guess I’ll just have to keep seeing you in class and maybe bring you coffee on Fridays.” He grins at me before coming to a stop in front of a classroom. “This is me.”

“Okay.”

“Just so I know for next time, caramel latte okay?” he asks, smiling at me before reaching forward to wipe off the small amount of foam with his thumb that I’m suddenly afraid has been stuck on my lip since I took my first sip.

He then slowly licks the foam from his finger, and I am feeling the furthest thing from afraid. I’m suddenly really turned on.

“Yeah, I like what all the girls on campus like,” I say, not thinking about the hot beverage at all.

“Good to know,” he responds with what I think is a little bit of humor. Grayson then grabs my hand, just like he did during sociology, and kisses my palm. He whispers, “Bye, Stars. I’ll see you next week.”

PARKER

Four Weeks Later

Want to join me for pudding?

Grayson was texting me.

He must have stolen my phone during class or during our coffee dates on Fridays.

I can’t help but smile at the realization. Then laugh at the fact that this was the fifth time he had asked me to go eat pudding in less than a week. I had no idea he was so obsessed. He had put his name in my phone as
My Secret Admirer
. The irony was ridiculous.

Thankfully, I was getting ready to go to work, my third game-day job, so I collected my thoughts before replying. In doing so, I realized that if he was texting me I was bound to be distracted all shift, just like during sociology. I already knew I was most likely going to fail that class. For the past four weeks, I have gone to every lesson, sat beside Grayson and been unable to focus on a single thing Professor Gibbons had said. I couldn’t tell you a single topic we were meant to have learned this semester. I could, however, tell you how it felt to hear your name, or assigned nickname, whispered by Grayson Waters in a crowded room as if you were the only person in it.

Fucking. Fantastic.

Each. And. Every. Time.

The sexual tension was becoming almost unbearable. I could scarcely remember why I wasn’t throwing myself at him in my favorite lecture hall now that he finally seemed to notice I exist and wasn’t growling at me to leave.

He also started asking me to call him Gray. I almost fell off my seat. Grayson Waters wants
me
to use
his
nickname.

I was so grateful that sociology was just a fun elective I picked which had nothing to do with my major.

Shouldn’t you be on the field warming up or something?

There. I replied.

Completely natural and not filled with giddy girly comments that reveal how excited I am that he’s texting me.

Look at me winning at life.

Just about to go on the field. Thought I would test myself, see if I can figure out if you’re going to the game or not.

Did you pass or fail?

I think I failed. Can’t work out if you’re going to be here cheering me on or not.

I’m getting ready for work.

I thought you didn’t start work until 5pm tonight?

I haven’t told him where I work yet, but I did let slip that I had finally gotten weekend shifts at work that usually start at 5pm.

Stupid. Stupid girl.

Yeah, I like to get ready early.

I don’t tell him I get ready early so I can spend the following six hours reading. I have learned in the past that if I read first and get ready second then I will most likely be late. It’s not always a foolproof plan, but it definitely reduces my chances of making Marissa angry with me.

Stars, I think more than 2 hours is a bit much. The game starts at noon. You’ll be out by 2.30. Plus, we have away games the next two weeks. This might be the only chance you get to see me play this month.

He may have let it slip last class that he had yet to see me in the stands marveling at his athletic superiority. I didn’t bother correcting him. I didn’t tell him that, just like in high school, I went to every single game by myself. Always hiding in the back, never frequent enough to make any friends and I was gone before someone might notice me. I also didn’t tell him I was getting a lot of pressure from both my roommate and favorite work colleague to go with them to watch him. To make sure I sit in the front row and let myself be seen. But no matter what Keeley and Nate say about how they think Gray will want to see me, cheering him on, I keep making silly excuses to avoid watching the games like everyone else.

I never admit that I’m afraid.

Afraid that if I’m not hidden at the back by the masses, or under the bleachers, Gray will realize that I’m just a nerdy girl who doesn’t belong. I’ll appear sad and pathetic, openly moping after the star quarterback.

I’m also afraid that someone might notice that I actually don’t know much about football. I stupidly never paid a lot of attention to the rules and every player’s role on the field; I was always too busy chewing my fingernails and solely focused on Gray’s movements. I kept worrying that one day he would get sacked and never get to his feet again. I might not know all the rules, but I had seen the TV shows and movies; I knew the dangers and foolishly felt that if I never took my eyes off him, he couldn’t get hurt.

From the back of the stands, I’ve also only caught glimpses of the theatrics other girls will go to in order to get Gray’s attention. I don’t know how I’ll feel being able to clearly see every girl from the university throwing herself at the star quarterback. How I’ll handle reading their posters and propositions.