Page 11 of Notorious Man on Campus

The last thing I need is someone accusing me of trading on my athletic status to get favors or grading leniency in class. It’s one of the many accusations that come up, peppered in with the idolization, adulation, stares, sighs, and occasional panty-throwing. I’m almost used to it. Kace says it’s worse for me because I’m aloof and mysterious and that makes me notorious. His other theory is that it’s because I don’t have a girlfriend and never have. He claims that’s like having a bull’s-eye on my ass. He could be right, but I don’t care. I’m not conning some girl into thinking we have a relationship just to avoid being a target for others. I’m not that asshole guy.

We leave class, Nyla in step with me, and meet up with Dooley outside the building. My grin is bigger than usual. He’s the perfect solution to my problem.

“Hey, Dools.” I clap him on the back. “How would you like to do contribute to a great cause?”

“What are you selling?”

I avoid Nyla’s eyes. “You’re perfect to take my place as campus guide for Nyla. You’d be doing us both a big favor.” Pure truth. Nyla can’t hide her annoyance, but she nods.

“Let me think about it,” Dooley says, pretending to think. “Done. Easiest favor ever. You and I can start by going to the football game and the party afterward at BMOC House.” He grins with pure joy. I’ve never seen anyone with the key to enjoying the moment so locked in his grasp. He feels like I do on game days all the time.

“Sounds like fun,” Nyla flashes a defiant look at me. Pins and needles shoot through my gut.

“I thought you were going home this weekend.” I keep my voice neutral, but it’s getting harder to do in her presence.

“Change of plans.” She doesn’t explain. Not that it matters. Fuck. my jaw clenches and I swear the muscle tics. She’s going to kill me with her ambiguous answer.

“Perfect,” Dooley says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go look at your closet. I can’t wait to dress you.” His eyes light up as if he’s a little girl and she’s his personal Barbie doll. A flinch of excitement runs down my spine. He’s going to make her look fucking drop-dead gorgeous beyond what I’ve ever seen her. That’s his reputation.

Dooley sweeps Nyla away and I thank fuck he’s making my so-called assignment disappear. An unexpected twinge of guilt about passing off my responsibility tightens my chest, but hell, she’s better off with Dooley. He’ll work his magic to help her fit in and turn her into a regular campus princess, indistinguishable from the rest of them.

Why doesn’t that prospect sit well with me? It’s exactly what Majik wants, right?

* * *

Practice kicks my butt today. The humidity sucks and I’m soaked in sweat as I wait for the guys to get their Gatorade and file back into the field house. It’s my MO to stand at the back of the line, to lead by going last, making sure my team gets what they need ahead of me. It’s something Jimmy taught me. Who the hell knows where he got it? I suspect he was born that way, thinking of other people, knowing what they need.

The difference between me and him is, he wants to give them what they need and I don’t—except when it comes to my teammates. Not that I was always that way, but I had the goodwill crushed out of when stepmother number one moved in when I was seven. I shudder.

What the fuck am I thinking about that nightmare for? Luckily she was only around for six months.

“Brick,” Coach Radzewicz calls. “My office in ten. Bring your two sidekicks.”

“On it, Coach.” He walks from the room and I exchange glances with the two so-called sidekicks, Roman and Dylan, who flank me where I stand at my locker. I’m still holding my helmet.

“What the hell?” Dylan mutters.

“No worries. It’s the beginning of the season talk,” I say. If that were actually true, he’d have the team captains in and that wouldn’t include my sidekicks. Dressing fast, I lead Dylan and Roman to Coach Radz’s office.

“This can’t be good,” Roman says on the way.

“Don’t sweat it.” I swat him on the back as we approach the door. “If it’s something bad, I’ll take the blame.” Dylan snorts.

“No way. You can’t keep getting away with that shit. Coach already thinks you’re more of a troublemaker than he should.”

“Dylan’s right.” Roman nods his head, frowning. “Nice thought though.”

Without a word, I keep my expression blank, though there’s no way they can stop me for taking the responsibility for whatever is wrong. It’s a compulsion I have. It’s part of how I got my reputation as notorious. Some people have taken to referring to me that way. No one I care about, so I don’t give a fuck. As long as my teammates know who I really am.

Walking through the open door, I nod at Coach, who’s sitting behind his desk. There are only two visitor chairs, so I lean against the wall, folding my arms. Coach eyes all three of us and tips back in his chair. I have no idea what to expect except I know it can’t be good. He doesn’t have a great news, Sports Illustrated wants to do a spread on you look on his face. Not that that’s ever happened or is likely to. More because Coach is of the mind that no publicity outside the sports page and ESPN is any good. He still reads the newspaper. The Boston Globe lies open to the sports page on his desk.

“Have you seen this?” He lifts the paper and waves it at us. I assume it’s a rhetorical question. He should know none of us read it.

“No, sir.” Roman says. I hold back a smirk. Dylan kicks Roman’s foot.

“There’s a feature in the fucking sports page of the fucking Boston Globe about the top-ten wildest football schools in the country. And you want to know why the Globe is bothering to throw this trash on their sports page?”

“Why—?” Roman starts but Dylan kicks him again, harder.