Page 4 of Out of Bounds

He chuckled under his breath while one of Cleo’s many assistants combed his hair which seemed determined to follow its own rules. Finally, without him staring at me, I could get a good look at the specimen.

Damn. I do recognize him.

It was a wonder I didn’t place him before. After all, his gigantic, overblown face was plastered on every TV screen in the art building for the first two weeks of school.

Ryan Cross.

Professional football player, team captain of the Marrs University football team—the Romans—designated to go pro. Golden boy of the university. The number one face on all of our ads. A guy with our whole college willing and ready to get on their knees and suck him off.

Ridiculous.

I knew his type. Ryan Cross could’ve been any of the arrogant jockhead jerks who made my Thursday night bartending shifts absolute hell.

"I figured out who you are."

"You pieced it together?" He smirked.

"You’re one of those…ball dribblers, right?"

The smirk vanished. "Football player."

"That’s what I said."

His cool presentation cracked. "We’re not the dribbling ones."

"You sure?" I pursed my lips together. "Saw a game my freshman year. Pretty sure I saw some dribbling."

He cocked his head to the side and watched me with those dark honey eyes. Ryan spoke in careful sentences like he’d been trained to give monologues. "We’re in the middle of a one hundred and fifty million dollar football campaign, in the running for the Birchwood Bowl. Trust me. We’re not the ball dribblers."

"You guys are what they waste my tuition on?"

Ryan leaned in close enough that I could smell his cologne. It was either mouthwatering or I was hungrier than I thought.

"You showed up here to meet a stick figure artist."

I scoffed. "How crazy is it to meet someone who doesn’t crack heads for a living?"

"Marrs football pays for every blade of grass you’ve ever stepped on."

"And that fake as shit astroturf."

His jaw set. "Your art building wouldn’t evenexistwithout football donors."

"Listen here, ball dribbler." My eyebrow twitched. "Why don’t you go dribble some balls and shove them right up your—?"

"Pictures!" Cleo clapped her hands and I jumped.

Somehow, I’d honestly forgotten she was there.

Clicking her earpiece, she snapped her fingers at the cameraman and set a bobblehead between the two of us.

Wonder who that could be?

The dark, messy curls, the drawn smirk, the crisp football uniform, the empty space in his plastic helmet…

He tried to warn me. "Don’t."

"The head’s too small on your doll." I smiled for the camera. "Got to complain to somebody about that."

---