Page 2 of Her Nebraska Touchdown Daddy

Which isn’t to say there’s any chance of Taryn’s vivaciousness rubbing off on me. Especially not with her behavior lately. She seems bent on finding every possible opportunity to get introuble so Coach Vanderman will scream at her. It’s gotten so bad the school’s Athletic Director Franklin has found a graduate assistant from the training department to follow her around and keep her on her best behavior. She might be headed into the living room looking for shenanigans, but I’m betting Franklin’s spy, Bodhi Wells, isn’t far behind.

As for me, I just need a bottle of water and a quiet place to hang out long enough to honestly claim I attended a party this fall. It’ll kill two birds with one stone, in addition to showing up for Taryn, too. My oldest sister, Iris, is convinced all I do is hide in my dorm and miss out on all the fun of college. She nags me like crazy, but I know it’s mostly out of love mixed with a little bit of envy. Iris never went to college. She’s been a stay-at-home mom since my first nephew was born when she was eighteen and I was six. She and her high school sweetheart got married and had enough kids to practically field their own soccer team.

I know she’s happy with her life, but sometimes it feels like she’s trying to live vicariously through me. I snap a quick selfie of myself in the kitchen surrounded by partiers and text it her way.

Me

See, I really do know how to have fun!

My text shows delivered, but not read, which doesn’t surprise me. I know she’s probably in the middle of nightly bedtime battles with my nephews and nieces. Three of my five older siblings are parents now, so I’ve spent plenty of nights babysitting and helping out with nighttime routines. She’ll message me back later—probably about the time I manage to sneak my way out of here—for the details.

I grab a seat on the top step of the back deck and watch an impromptu game of drunken flag football some of my classmates have going on in the yard. This is the kindof socializing I like. Being on the fringes feels safe, but not lonesome. Maybe it would be different if I had a boyfriend, but I’ve been sans-man for the better part of the last year.

Taryn

Wtf! Franklin’s spy just showed up and dude is killing my vibe. Where u at?

Taryn’s text comes through just as the crowd goes silent. I turn from my seat on the steps in time to see Taryn hauled over the shoulder of the grad assistant who has been tailing her for days now.

“Stranger danger! Stranger danger! You’re all just gonna let this asshole kidnap me?” Taryn’s screeching enough I start to go after them, but she arches away from his hold long enough to shoot me a grinning thumbs-up. She’s such a firecracker. Part of me is envious because I could never be so daring, but mostly I’m just glad not to be in the center of the guy’s intense focus.

“Dude, that’s Bodhi Wells. He’s like, a legend.” Somebody breaks the silence to fanboy about the school's former goalkeeping phenomenon who finished school, left to play for the pros in Europe, and then returned to get his graduate degree.

The noise returns to pre-drama levels and everyone gets back to partying. People- watching is my favorite party activity, so I get back to it, too. For a fall night, it’s pretty warm. I’m glad I grabbed water from the table next to where all the alcohol was.

I’m no drinker, but at parties it’s helpful to at least have something to drink in my hand. Otherwise I’ve learned people will push drinks on me until I give in. My anxiety medicine does not play well with alcohol and that’s a level of drunkenness I don’t like to mess with. I twist the lid off the bottle and bring it to my mouth just as someone bumps into me on their stumbling way up the stairs.

It’s just enough of a jostle to flood my mouth with liquid so much that some sloshes down my chin and all over my shirt. It’s not water. My brain registers the burn of high alcohol content at the instant my eyes begin to water from the fiery, odorless fume. Instinct has me gulping the liquid down even as my mind rebels. I’ve been around enough frat parties to realize, too late, that the bottle of what I expected to be water is actually Everclear.

A single shot of the stuff’s got as much alcohol as two beers, and as I look at the bottle it came out of and the damp spot on my shirt, I try to figure how much I drank. Everclear is the kind of liquor that gets unsuspecting people alcohol poisoning, so it’s banned on campus. With my anxiety meds on board, I know it’s going to hit me hard, but I’m pretty confident I didn’t drink enough to need medical help.

I do know that I don’t want to be drunkenly passed out in the backyard of a frat house all night. That right there’s a recipe for disaster. My danger-ranger bells are going off like alarms in my chest, and I know I need to get back to my dorm before things get too bad.

I step down the stairs of the deck as carefully as I can and make my way around to the front of the house. Greek row, where all the fraternities and sororities are at, is adjacent to the boulevard where the athletic dorms are, so I make my way toward the corner.

I’m pretty sure I’m almost to my dorm. I think. Possibly. Although it’s very bright here. And there’s so many benches to sit on. Are there benches like this outside my dorm? I can’t remember, but it seems prudent to sit down on one for a few minutes to figure it out. Prudent. That’s a funny word. Sounds smart. Good smart though. Not snobby smart. Good smart is good.

I’m just gonna close my eyes for a second to figure out which of the buildings over there is my dorm. It’s so bright here. Did I think that already?

CHAPTER 3

Deke

I wishI could say that finding a drunken college student in a puddle of youthful idiot on the benches outside my stadium was an unusual event. In the five years I’ve been a Division I football coach, however, it’s been a semi-regular occurrence, at least a few times every fall.

It’s always been my practice to rouse them enough for security to get their dorm information, then send them on their way. Tonight’s unusual simply because the drunken reveler isn’t a knucklehead boy with more beer than brains rattling around in his head.

Tonight, it’s a girl. A precious, adorably rumpled and soused little girl. Protective instincts, the ones I have been doing my best to ignore for a few years now, surge to life. How did this little doll wind up alone on a bench outside the football stadium, drunk off her gourd?

“Hey there, little lush. Wake up, please. You’re not supposed to be here.” I know better than to touch her to shake her awake, but I do want to touch her. Prudence keeps my hands tucked intothe pockets of my slacks. I don’t want to startle her, or risk any improprieties being alleged later.

“Go ‘way, Daddy. Too early… school…” Her mumbling is adorable. She’s obviously too drunk to realize it’s not her father waking her up to get ready for classes. Hearing her mumbling for Daddy does weird things to my chest.

It’s been a long time since I got to hear such sweet murmurs from a rumply sleepy-headed Little one. The feelings rousing now, at the least opportune time possible, are a reminder that I’ve been neglecting my own needs for too long while I focus on building an unstoppable team this season.

“You need to wake up, babydoll. This isn’t a safe place for you to nap and I need you to show me your identification so we can get you home.” I’m crossing lines left and right already, calling her babydoll and sitting here on the bench next to where she’s curled up.

It’s chilly enough to have her shivering in her lightweight sweater and yoga pants, so I toss my jacket over her. The damn thing is like a blanket. She's so much smaller than me all curled up in a tight ball like a little kitten. She lifts her head to blink owlishly at me, her light hazel eyes swimming with confusion. A messy brunette braid flops like a tail over her shoulder, tousled strands escaping all over to form a dark halo of hair that gleams in the lamplight from above.

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