Page 2 of Possession

Bax

“FUCK,” I MUTTER as I brush myself off. Climbing in and out of Olive’s window is getting old. I know I shouldn’t call her at all hours, but I swear, if I don’t see her at least once every day, I feel tight through my chest. Like my skin doesn’t fit.

She has absolutely no idea what it does to me when she sits with me on that damn musty couch she’s got in her dorm room. She wraps her soft little body against mine and it feels so fuckingrightthat I have to remind myself that it’s 100% wrong for me to have the filthy thoughts I have about Olive Hampton.

Liv is like family to me. Scratch that. Liv is the only family I’ve got left. Until my family moved next to hers, I didn’t know there were other kids who lived with constant screaming and terror. I always thought I was some shitty ass outlier whose parents only spoke in mean digs and cutting exaggerations.

My dad’s a football coach—they’re supposed to yell, right? Yeah, not like my old man. Something turned sour inside him a long time ago. The old fucker stopped raising a hand to me when I got big enough to let him know I wouldn’t hesitate to hit him right back, but he hit me plenty when I was smaller. Olive was the only one who knew the bruises all over my legs weren’t really from peewee football. She used to risk her own neck stealing Tiger Balm from her parents’ bathroom after they passed out. I got my first hard on trying to ignore Olive’s touch as she rubbed that shit into my black and blue back.

Me and Liv had a secret spot in the back yard, hiding inside the forsythia bushes neither of our parents ever got up the energy to prune. By the end of middle school, I had rigged a hammock in there, and I spent most evenings with Olive, tucked inside, trying to convince myself that the feelings I was having were brotherly.

There’s nothing brotherly about the way I inhale Olive’s shampoo when she leans that blonde head on my shoulder. Her big, brown eyes are always so kind, and she sees everything. She can look right into my soul. My heart races when our skin connects. But I know I can’t cross a line with Olive. She trusts me, and I know what that means. I can’t fuck that up for her.

That’s what I do with women. I fuck shit up. Hell, I never had anyone to show me how human beings are supposed to interact with each other. Nobody but Olive.

By the time I get back to my suite, my dick has pretty much calmed down. The football team gets some pretty nice living arrangements. I feel bad that Olive only has a tiny-ass room and has to share a bathroom with her whole hall. She’s here on an academic scholarship that includes room and board…but the smart kids don’t get anything like what they give the football team. I’ve got my own room with a king sized bed and only have to deal with one other guy’s funk in the bathroom. Plus we’ve got people who clean for us.

When I open the door, the other 3 guys in my suite are spread out in the living room, watching Maryland’s game against Arkansas from last week. “Morgan,” they grunt in greeting.

I kick Finnegan’s leg out of the way and sit on the couch, studying the Maryland running backs, watching the lines they run. Most guys dream of being a quarterback or some shit when they fantasize about professional football. I always figured, if my old man was going to force me into this sport, I was going to play where I could fucking hit someone.

Defensive players don’t get much glory in the grand scheme of things, but I can pretend each one of those fucking RBs is one of my asshole parents, and trust me. Years of frustration make a pretty damn good motivator. There’s a reason I’m here on a full ride.

Scotty hands me a beer and I crack it open, trying not to think about my fucked up family. We’ve got a game this weekend. One thing I know is I’m not going to be able to climb any further away from the hell-hole of my childhood without going pro.

Olive Hampton is going to go anywhere she wants after SCU. My girl’s a damn genius. My dad wasn’t wrong about me being dumber than a bag of rocks, though. This game is all I’ve got going for me.

“Coach said new guy’s going to see some playing time against Maryland,” Scotty says, referring to the QB transfer. Our guy JT sprained something in his thumb. Scotty fucking knows I don’t like this new asshole, because he doesn’t treat Olive with the respect she deserves.

“Hm,” I grunt. I don’t like it, and I don’t like him.

Players’ family gets treated like royalty. It’s a fucking unspoken, common sense team law. You do not fucking stare at the tits and ass on your teammates’ sister or their girlfriend. And this new guy hasn’t got it in his thick head yet that Olive Hampton is off limits.

I have years of experience keeping other assholes from acting on their dirty thoughts when it comes to Olive Hampton.

The thought of any other guy laying a hand on her body makes my blood boil. In high school, it was easy to step in whenever any of the scumbags from Fulton High School got ideas. None of them were worthy of her. It’s a hell of a lot harder to make sure she’s safe now that we’re at a huge university.

We have a kind of unspoken rule about not telling each other about sex stuff. I’d probably puke if she went into detail about that like she tells me about her literature classes and the “utterly breathtaking” books she’s reading for her fiction class.

But at least I know that nobody from the Otters athletic department will come within winking distance of my Olive. I really don’t want to have to get my ass suspended over this, but as I finish my beer I decide I’m going to have to make it crystal clear how far off limits my Liv is.

CHAPTER THREE

Olive

“THAT’S A WRAP, folks.” Justin, the head trainer, tosses the last roll of bandages into the bucket, declaring the training room ready for the coming week. With four of us working, the grunt work of restocking flew by. I stand and do a little dance, happy that Justin is going easy on us.

Even though I’m just an undergrad, I’ve gotten to work in the football team training room all four years. I’m sure Bax had a lot to do with SCU’s decision to allow a work-study student anywhere near their valuable football players.

I’ve gotten some amazing opportunities in this room, and I’ll fold splints and stack tape as long as it takes to stay here.

My other friends studying kinesiology get to do a few weeks here and there with some of the smaller sports. They’ll wrap wrists with tennis or help massage the gymnasts. I know I’m lucky that I not only get to beinthe football space, but I actually get to help work with the players hands-on.

It helps that Bax tips me off when he hears someone’s been struggling. He’ll text me if someone’s shoulder aches or some else’s hip stings after tackle drills. Often, my “hunches” about a diagnosis sound downright clairvoyant to the training staff when I reveal a blossoming stress fracture or ligament sprain. I grin, remembering the wide receiver whose shin splints I was able to ease up before he missed a game.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. Julia and Gabe gesture toward the door. “It’s early,” she says. “We’re all grabbing a drink. Come with us?”

I should go home and study. I should go home andpretendI’m not waiting for a text from Baxter asking me for chicken nuggets or hot pockets. “Yes, Hampton,” Justin claps his hand on my other shoulder, steering me toward the door. “Staff meeting at the Dark Horse. Pronto!”

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