Campus Player

2020·0.39 MB·english

by  Jennifer Sucevic [Sucevic

CAMPUS PLAYER
JENNIFER SUCEVIC
Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Sucevic
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book
review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events
or locals is purely coincidental.
Cover by Passion Creations- Mary Ruth Baloy
Edited by Once Upon a Typo- Kate Newman
CONTENTS
1. Demi
2. Demi
3. Demi
4. Demi
5. Demi
6. Rowan
7. Demi
8. Demi
9. Rowan
10. Demi
11. Demi
12. Demi
13. Demi
14. Demi
15. Demi
16. Demi
17. Rowan
18. Demi
19. Rowan
20. Demi
21. Demi
22. Rowan
23. Demi
24. Demi
25. Rowan
26. Demi
27. Demi
28. Demi
29. Demi
30. Rowan
31. Rowan
32. Demi
33. Demi
34. Rowan
35. Rowan
36. Demi
37. Rowan
38. Demi
39. Rowan
40. Demi
Epilogue
The Girl Next Door
King of Hawthorne Prep
About the Author
Also by Jennifer Sucevic
1
DEMI
“M
orning, Demi!” Gary, one of the stadium custodians,
calls out with an easy smile and wave as he
saunters toward me. “Up and at ’em bright and early
this morning, I see.”
My heart jackhammers beneath my ribcage from the twenty-
minute run as I flash him a grin. “Always!”
“You have a good one! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Since I’ve already moved past him, I holler over my shoulder,
“Same place, same time!”
Even with The Killers pumping through my earbuds, I almost hear
the deep chuckle that slides from his lips. Our morning greetings are
a ritual three years in the making. I’ve been running through the wide
corridor that leads to the stadium football field since I stepped foot on
campus freshman year. This will be something I miss when I
graduate in the spring. Five days a week, I’m up at six, logging in a
four-mile run before returning home, jumping in the shower, and
heading off to class.
At this time of the day, the stadium is still relatively quiet, with
only a few people wandering the hallways. There’s something both
serene and eerie about it. I’ve been here on game days when there
are thirty thousand fans packed shoulder to shoulder, rooting on the
Western Wildcats football team. Three-fourths of the stadium filled
with black and orange is an amazing sight to behold. Football is a
religion at Western. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the
women’s soccer team. We’re lucky if there are a couple of hundred
spectators in the stands.
I’ve come to terms with it.
Sort of.
I keep my gaze trained on the light at the end of the tunnel and
push myself faster. As soon as I burst out of the darkness, bright
sunlight pours down on me, stroking over the bare skin of my arms
and shoulders. It’s late August, and summer is still in full swing. A
whistle cuts through the silence of the stadium, and my gaze slices
to the field. Nick Richards has been head coach of the Wildcats for
the last decade. He also happens to be my father.
Two days a week, the guys are up at six in the morning for yoga.
Dad is a big believer in flexibility. Even though I’m winded, a smirk
lifts the corners of my lips. Watching two-hundred-and-eighty-pound
linebackers contort their bodies into Downward-Facing Dog, the
Warrior II Pose, and the Cobra is enough to bring a chuckle to my
lips. Some of the guys actually like it, but most grumble when they
think Dad isn’t paying attention. Little do they know that he sees and
hears everything.
My father catches sight of me and flashes a quick smile along
with a wave in my direction. He has a black ball cap pulled low and
aviators covering his eyes. There’s a clipboard in one hand as he
paces behind the instructor.
When I point to the field, he shakes his head. He might make the
guys do yoga, but he refuses to participate. Something about old
dogs and new tricks. Every once in a while, I’ll tell him that he needs
to get out there and set a good example for the team. He usually
shoots me a glare in return.
Every Wednesday night, Dad and I get together. Our weekly
dinners became a thing when I moved out of the house and into the
dorms freshman year. He’s busy coaching football, and my schedule
is packed tight with school and soccer. Getting together once a week
is the best way for us to stay connected. It doesn’t matter if we’re in
the middle of our seasons; we always make time for each other.
Especially since Mom lives in sunny California. After eighteen years
of marriage, she got fed up with being a distant second to the
Western University football program. She packed up her bags and
walked out. I hate to say it, but Dad didn’t notice her absence for a
couple of days. Which only proved her point. Now she’s remarried,
learning to surf, and is a vegan. I visit for a couple of weeks during
the summer before soccer training camp starts up at the end of
June.
Even though it’s only the two of us, our weekly dinners are set for
three people.
I tell myself to stare straight ahead and not glance in his direction.
Don’t do it!
Don’t you dare do it!
Damn.
My gaze reluctantly zeros in on him like a heat-seeking missile.
Long blond hair, bright blue eyes, sun-kissed skin, and muscles for
miles. And he’s tall, somewhere around six foot three.
I’m describing none other than Rowan Michaels.
Otherwise known as the bane of my existence.
My dad discovered the talented quarterback the summer before
we entered high school and took him under his wing. Which has
been...aggravating. In the seven years since, Rowan has become an
irritatingly permanent fixture in my life. He’s the brother I never
wanted or asked for. He’s the gift I wish I could give back. He’s the
son my father never had but secretly longed for.
On a campus with over thirty thousand students, one would think
that avoidance would be easy to accomplish. That hasn’t turned out
to be the case. Somehow, we ended up in the same major—
Exercise Science. I get stuck in at least one class with the guy each
semester. This time it’s statistics, which is a requirement. Three
times a week, I’m forced to see him. And then there are the weekly
dinners at Dad’s house.
Every Wednesday, Rowan shows up without fail.
It’s so annoying.
No, he’s annoying!
Our gazes collide, and electricity sizzles through my veins before
I immediately snuff it out and pretend it never happened.
I am not attracted to Rowan Michaels.
I am not attracted to Rowan Michaels.
I am not attracted to Rowan Michaels.
Maybe if I repeat the mantra enough times, it’ll be true. That’s the
hope I cling to. I’ve made it through the last seven years trying to
convince myself of this. I only have to get through our final year
together, and then we’ll go our separate ways—me to graduate
school or maybe to the Women’s National Soccer League, and
Rowan to the NFL. He’s one of the most talented quarterbacks in the
conference. Hell, probably the country. There is little doubt in my
mind that he’ll be a first-round draft pick come next spring.
Trust me when I say that Rowan Michaels fever is alive and well
at Western University. His fanbase is legendary. The guy is a major
player.
Both on and off the field.
Girls fall all over themselves to be with him. They fill the stands at
football practice, show up at parties he’s rumored to be at, and
basically stalk him around campus.
It’s a little nauseating. Don’t these girls have any self-respect
when it comes to a hot guy?
I wince at that unchecked thought.
Fine...I’ll begrudgingly admit it; he’s good-looking.
I shake my head as if that will banish the insidious thoughts
currently invading my brain. Enough about Rowan. It’s time to focus
on the reason I’m at the stadium at this ungodly hour. I rip my gaze
from him as I hit the cement staircase. After half a flight, all thoughts
of the blond quarterback vanish from my mind. How could they not
when my quads, glutes, and calves are on fire, screaming for mercy
as I force myself to the nosebleed section. By the time I finish, my
legs are Jell-O, and I still have a two-mile run back to the apartment I
share with my best friend off-campus.
I give Dad a half-hearted wave before leaving. It’s the most I can
muster. His lips quirk at the corners as he shakes his head. He
thinks I’m crazy. At the moment, I can’t argue with his assessment of
the situation. Although, it’s the extra training I put in that helps me
run circles around the other team in the second half of the game.
The jog home feels like it will last forever. By the time I unlock the
apartment door, I’m ready to collapse. I beeline for the shower and
jump in before it’s fully warm. My skin prickles with goose flesh, but it
feels so damn good. Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed and ready to