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  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

  “Morning, 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, probab
ly 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 take on the day. My hair has been thrown up in a messy bun, and I’m making a protein smoothie that will fuel me for my morning classes.

  Just before taking off, I poke my head into Sydney’s room. I know exactly how I’ll find her, and that’s buried beneath a small mountain of blankets. She doesn’t disappoint. We met the summer before freshman year in training camp and have been besties ever since. She’s the yin to my yang. The peanut butter to my jelly. The Thelma to my Louise. Where I’m more introverted and cautious, she’s loud and boisterous. She’s been known to leap without necessarily looking at what she’s jumping into. Every so often, it gets us into trouble. Sydney and I have lived together since sophomore year. I gave up trying to cajole her ass out of bed for a six o’clock run after the first week of us cohabitating when she nearly took my head off with an alarm clock.

  “It’s that time again,” I sing-song obnoxiously, “rise and shine.”

  There’s a grunt and then some shifting from under the blankets that tells me she’s alive.

  When I chant her name repeatedly, each time escalating in volume, she growls, “Get the fuck out!”

  “Awww,” I mock, “that’s so sweet. I love you, too.”

  Sydney snorts before a hand snakes out from beneath the blankets to give me a one-fingered salute. Then she grabs a pillow and tosses it in my general vicinity. It falls about five feet short of its mark.

  I stare at the dismal attempt. “If you’re trying to cause bodily harm, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Piss off.”

  “All right then.” I shrug. “See you after class.” With that, I close the door behind me.

  My farewell is met with another indecipherable mouthful. If this weren’t something we went through on the daily, I’d worry she was in the midst of a stroke. Sydney is definitely not a morning person. She’s more of an early afternoon person. Another thing I’ve learned over the years? The action of waking up to a brand-new day is a gradual process. She’s like a bear rousing prematurely from hibernation. It’s not a pretty sight. She’s lucky I don’t take her insults personally.

  I grab my backpack from the small table crammed into the breakfast nook area along with a coffee before heading out the door. The apartment I share with Sydney is located three blocks from campus, which is highly sought out real estate. We’re fortunate Dad is friends with the guy who manages the building. It’s probably one of the only perks of having a father who is a head coach of a college football team.

  You’d think there would be more, but you’d be wrong. Honestly, being Nick Richard’s daughter is more of a hindrance than anything else. People assume you receive special treatment on campus, from professors, or that you have an in with all the football players.

  Or worse...

  Much worse.

  After a bunch of ugly—not to mention untrue—rumors circulated freshman year, I’ve done my best to distance myself from the Wildcats football team. They’re a great bunch of guys, but I don’t need all the ugly gossip and speculation that comes along with being friends with them.

  As I reach Corbin Hall, the mathematics building for my stats class, my gaze is drawn to a clump of students standing around outside the three-story, red-brick building. In the center of that crowd is Rowan. I don’t have to see him physically to know that he’s close. The muscles in my belly contract with awareness. It’s like a sixth sense. One I wish would go away. He’s the last person I want to be cognizant of.

  As I jog up the wide stone stairs to the entrance, my gaze fastens on him. A smirk twists the edges of his lips, and my eyes narrow before I drag them away and yank open the door to the building. Relief rushes through me as I step inside the air conditioning and disappear from sight.

  “Hey, Demi, wait up!”

  I turn at the sound of my name before slowing my step. The dark-haired guy jogging to catch up smiles before falling in line with me.

  Justin Fischer.

  He’s a baseball player and teammates with Sydney’s boyfriend, Ethan. We’ve been seeing each other for about a month. It’s still casual at this point. With school and soccer, I don’t have a ton of time to invest in a relationship. He seems to understand that and isn’t pushing to be more serious.

  When he leans in for a kiss, I angle my head. At the last moment, he tilts in the opposite direction, and we end up bumping teeth instead of locking lips. With a grunt, I pull away and chuckle. My fingers fly to my mouth to make sure I haven’t chipped a tooth.

  Maybe I’ve been reluctant to admit it to myself, but that kiss sums up our relationship perfectly.

  Awkward and a step out of sync with each other.

  “Sorry,” he murmurs with a slight smile. I search his face and wait for any telltale sign of sexual chemistry to ping inside me. Unfortunately, my insides remain completely unfazed, which is disappointing but not altogether unexpected. I had a sneaking suspicion when we first got together that it might turn out this way.

  “No problem,” I say, hoisting my smile and brushing aside those thoughts.

  “I haven’t seen you for a couple of days,” he remarks as we turn a corner and continue walking.

  “It’s been busy.” Which isn’t a lie. School might have recently started, but the academics at Western are rigorous. And being a Division I athlete is more like a job. If you’re not ready to put in the work, don’t bother showing up. There’s no half-assing it around this place.

  “When’s your next game?” he asks.

  “Tomorrow at six.” My gaze flickers in his direction. Not that I expect him to come, but...

  Fine, so maybe I do. If he wants to be my boyfriend, then he needs to show a little support.

  His dark brows draw together. “That sucks. I’ve got a mandatory study hour I have to attend.”

  I shrug off the disappointment. It’s another nail in the coffin of this relationship as far as I’m concerned. “That’s cool. It’s not a big deal.”

  “But I’ll see you tonight?”

  Oh. Right.

  Tonight.

  Well, damn. In a moment of weakness, I threw out an invitation to join our Wednesday evening dinner. It’s one I now regret. If only there were a gracio
us way to rescind the offer.

  “If you’re busy, I totally understand—”

  “Are you kidding? No way.” With a grin, he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m looking forward to meeting Coach Richards.”

  Great. So this is more about my father than me? Exactly what every girl wants to hear.

  I force a brittle smile. “Awesome. He’s excited, too.”

  That might be something of an overstatement.

  Justin nods toward the end of the corridor. “I better get moving. Professor Andrews is a real stickler for punctuality.”

  “Yup. See you later.”

  This time, when he leans in, our lips align perfectly. The kiss is nothing more than a fleeting caress. There and gone before I can sink into it.

  And I’m left feeling...absolutely nothing.

  I bury the disappointment where I can’t inspect it too closely before giving him a wave as he takes off. For a moment, I stand rooted in the hallway and watch as he disappears through the crowd. There’s nothing to distinguish Justin from the thousands of guys who look exactly like him on campus. He’s of average height and build with dark hair and espresso-colored eyes. He’s nice enough. Although, if I’m completely honest, he’s a little self-absorbed. He talks about baseball all the time. If Ethan hadn’t introduced us, he’s not someone I would have looked twice at. We don’t have a ton in common.

  As much as I hate to admit it, this relationship has probably reached its expiration date.