Page 40 of Matched By My Rival
Glad to escape the hot seat, I got up and grabbed a plate. The buffet wasn’t exactly the “greasy” breakfast food you’d get at a dive diner, but that suited me fine. I’d rather not clog my arteries this early in the morning. I grabbed a bowl of fruit, some eggs, and two pancakes, and returned to the table.
While the guys were preoccupied, I checked my phone again.
Still nothing, of course. Why did I keep checking?
After everything we did, I was hoping Simon would let down his guard and reach out to me. I wanted him to realize that I’d never meant for anything bad to happen to him. The chemistry between us was off the charts. The friendship between us online was emerging but real. I could feel so much potential with Simon, if he’d only give me a chance.
But hatred didn’t die over one blowjob. I was expecting too much.
Simon was probably never going to touch me again. BiCuriousStud would probably never send me another message. My chest ached, and I didn’t know which made me sadder. They were both so incredible.
Because he’s just one guy, Parker.
It still blew my mind, but I could see it now. BiCuriousStud had a cynical side that matched Simon perfectly. But he was softer. He was a less guarded Simon, a Simon that his friends and family probably saw, but never me.
Until last night.
And probably never again.
* * *
SIMON
HotPan22:I had the weirdest dream last night …
I snorted as I read the message that had come in on my Thrust app. If only it had been a dream. But I’d never have dreamt of Parker Reed on his knees for me.
There was a quiet cough behind me, reminding me that I wasn’t at the library to read hookup app messages. Especially ones from Parker fucking Reed.
I shifted on the hard chair beneath me, lifting my left hip to cram my phone into my back pocket. Out of sight, out of mind? Not likely. Parker was like a thorn in my side, prickling my awareness and distracting me from the homework I needed to focus on.
I should have blocked him—or deleted the Thrust app entirely. The thing had led to nothing but a flood of horny men eager to play with the bicurious guy. It hadn’t taken long for me to feel like nothing more than an object of their porn fantasies.
HotPan had been different though. Nice. Friendly. Flirty but respectful.
Why does he have to be Parker?
With a sigh, I tried again to put him from my mind. To forget the feel of his lips under mine, firm but soft. The stubble that scraped my jaw when we kissed. The hardness of his body.
I raked a hand through my hair, growling under my breath, and pulled my textbook and laptop closer. I didn’t really need the library’s resources, but I’d gotten used to having a dedicated study space when I was in football. People came and went enough at the frat that I couldn’t settle in and really focus.
I couldn’t go back to the tutoring center—not without possibly running into my former teammates—so I’d started hitting the library a few times a week. Right now, I was researching ideas for my Sports Leadership project. I’d narrowed the possibilities to two: financial support for former athletes, including alternative scholarships, but possibly also reduced housing and/or campus job opportunities specifically set up to help them finish school; or prepping athletes for a future after sports, including programming to help them identify new paths, possibly including career counseling, mentorship, and healthy outlets for the energy they used to put into athletics.
I liked the first one, but I wasn’t so sure it was realistic. Athletes got scholarships for performing, for bringing money to the university. Funds for athletes who had to quit—either by choice or not—sounded like a pipe dream. The second one, though, was easily accomplished.
As an athlete, you were pushed to give so much of yourself to the team. You devoted your energy, your focus, youridentityto your sport. Even though the majority of students didn’t continue on professionally, we all tended to self-identify as athletes. The void that was left when that sport was gone was crazy hard for me, and I could only imagine it would be true whether it happened before graduation or after.
Even though I’d had a major and a plan for life after football, I didn’t spend any time on it. It wasn’t my passion. It had been something to worry about later. Something to fall back on if or when my dreams of going pro didn’t materialize. And when I’d first started school, I’d been naïve enough to think the NFLwasmy future. It didn’t even matter to me that I didn’t get scooped up by a big school. I hadn’t wanted to stray too far from my family, and I hadn’t grown up in a big football town. I figured my star quality would shine, and someone would see me.
By my junior year, I knew that was unlikely, but I’d still held out for a future in football. I hadn’t even cared if I had to play arena football or go to Canada. It was less money and fame—but it was still football.
Only after my injuries had I realized I was really and truly done. My body couldn’t hack it. Even if I’d had the talent for the NFL, I’d never hold up on the field.
The hopelessness I’d felt when that realization came—that I’d lost the future I wanted—was incredibly tough. It was at least half the reason I’d lashed out at Parker.
It wasn’t about Kristin. It had never really been about Kristin.
It hadn’t even been that he was making the plays, getting the attention I wanted on the field.
