Page 7 of Pump Fake

“What’s the point in bringing that into the presumed problem with Preston? Look, I’ve had a helluva day, and I came here to help. So, why don’t you stop being antagonistic, and we can make some headway here?”

My mouth fell open. He didnotjust question my authority. All my pent-up anger spiked, focusing on the very large figure in front of me. “Listen, jock-ass”—my index finger jabbed his rock-hard pectoral—“I may not be one of your jersey-chasing fans willing to fall onto your dick at the crook of your finger, but I’m struggling here, and it would be nice if you could have an ounce of compassion and help me with your juvenile delinquent nephew.”

His large hand curled around my wrist, removing my finger from pressing on his chest. An electric current shot through me from the contact.

Something dark and sensual flashed in his topaz eyes. “Maybe things are out of hand because all you can picture is riding me.”

Oh, hell no.I jerked my wrist from his gentle hold, desperate to sever the connection. “You didnotsay that to me.” Even if it was true—I’d imagined it too many times while watching the tape more than once, in the shower, late at night, when my roommate wasn’t home.

Ares pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly. “Look, we’re getting way off track. For whatever reason you don’t like me, that has no bearing on Preston.”

He kept trying to end our childish bickering, but I couldn’t stop making it personal. I had no idea what was wrong with me—other than thinking that making a sex video was a self-centered act and just like something my father would do. “You’re right, but your nephew isn’t just failing my class. He’s such a disruptive presence that I may have no choice but to recommend exclusion from extracurricular activities and even expulsion.”

“I’ll fix it.” Ares dropped his arms, the anger that had clouded his face disappearing. “No matter what, I’ll straighten Preston out.”

He left without a word, and I slumped back against the desk. Fumbling behind me, I found my phone to text Mallory. Maybe she would know what had infected my brain, destroyed my professionalism, and caused me to insult and attack the most drool-worthy guy I’d ever encountered.

CHAPTER SIX

ARES

“Not a word.” I cupped the back of Preston’s neck and guided him outside and away from his acid-tongued smoke show of a teacher. My nephew knew what was good for him and kept his mouth shut while I wrestled with what had happened in that classroom.

I replayed everything she’d said—including the references to the sex tape. It was bullshit and unprofessional. And when she’d flashed the hint of skin and perfectly curvy backside, I’d almost lost control. It wasn’t like I didn’t have girls throwing themselves at me. It’d been fun my first year in college, but that had gotten old real fast.

With Miss Sinclair—which was weird to say because I bet we were close in age—energy sparked between us. Sure, it was probably from her anger. But maybe it was something else. It didn’t matter either way. I couldn’t act on the consuming attraction I’d felt to her, not just because she clearly hated me but because she was Preston’s teacher.

I drove through town and back to Mom’s house. When we arrived, I let the car idle and forced my frustration from my expression. “We’re not done here. But for now, we’ll pretendeverything is fine. Nana has been going through way too much with the shit you’ve been pulling, and since… well, you know.” No need to remind him that his parents were dead. “After dinner, we’ll talk. You got me?”

“Sure.” Preston’s hand was on the door handle, ready for a quick escape. “We good?”

I nodded. “For now. Get inside and hug your nana.”

He bolted out of the car and into the house. I sat there for another moment before I followed him. He’d left the door open, and I closed it behind me, breathing in the smell of pot roast and potatoes Mom had made for us.

“Hey.” She rounded the corner from the kitchen and passed through the family room to the entryway. “How did everything go?”

I hugged her, somewhat okay with the little white lie I planned to tell her. “Fine. Preston is on a performance improvement plan at school.”

“Oh, that’s good to hear.” She stepped back and patted my arm, a wide smile curving her softly lined face. “He’s very lucky to have you going to bat for him, and so am I.”

Preston and I put on fake smiles and easygoing attitudes throughout dinner. I stuffed myself on Mom’s cooking. It was a perk every time I came over. She loved to cook, which was a good thing because Preston and I could pack it away. I promised myself when I made it into the NFL, she wouldn’t want for anything ever again. She worked too hard, did too much for everyone else, and that left very little for herself.

After we ate and Preston did the dishes, I told Mom I wanted to talk with him before I had to go. I hugged her, left her to watch TV, then went onto the porch with my reluctant nephew. It was still light out as we sat side by side on the stoop. I scrubbed my hand over my face, dreading any questions he might have about what his teacher had referenced, about me being a bad influence on him.

“What were you thinking?”

“What?” Preston flashed his signature mischievous grin. “You don’t think I did that, do you?”

“Cut the crap. We both know you did.”

He shrugged. “What if I did? Everyone pulls pranks on substitute teachers.”

The kid would be the death of me. “Putting superglue”—or I guessed that was what he’d used—“on her chair could have resulted in a serious injury. What if it’d soaked through the fabric of her pants to her skin? Did you think of that? Or that you ruined her clothes, embarrassed her, and undermined her authority in class even more with the other kids?”

“None of that happened, so what’s the big deal?”

“Everything but the injury did. And it could have been so much worse, resulting in a case against you that the headmaster would take seriously. You have to do better. If you don’t and keep on the same path, you’ll get kicked out of school. Do you really want that? You’ve been there for years. It’s where your friends are—the right ones, not the punks you’ve been hanging out with recently.”

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