Teach You to Love Me (Lindon U #4)

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Rachel

T he Sports Complex looks like most of the other brick buildings on Lindon’s campus, except for the gigantic red dragon painted onto the side by a few students from the art department, and the large lit-up signs pointing toward the football field entrance that the school invested in when ticket sales for games went up.

It was blatantly obvious when I moved here from Devon, a suburb of Philadelphia, that the town took their football seriously. I never understood the love for the sport until a few girls I roomed with my freshman year took me to the home games held on Friday nights. I was hooked by the addicting atmosphere of the crowd whenever the Dragons would get the ball and run with it seamlessly to the end zone.

I never expected that love to grow into an independent study with the football team until my professor, Dr. DuBois, offered me an opportunity after seeing the knowledge I held for the game. I’d gotten into a passionate, although some would argue heated, disagreement during one of his classes on athletic communications with a peer about the school’s stats over the past three years and how the current team had a better chance at getting drafted into the pro league over any other Dragon in the past. When the elderly professor told me to stay behind, I thought I was going to get into trouble for the slightly aggressive conversation. Instead, he offered me an opportunity to put my skills to good use and help the current players make it to their full potential.

I got instant gratification that I may or may not have rubbed into Palmer’s, my classmate, face. So I agreed.

“Kick slide, Chambers. Kick slide,” I hear Coach Pearce yell loudly from the tunnel leading into the stadium.

Walking toward the coach’s voice, I stop and study the field where the team is split in a Tformation. Ever since accepting this position, it’s given me an inside look that I’ve never gotten before. It makes me wonder if this is how my father felt when my late mother bought him sideline tickets to see the Eagles, his favorite football team.

The thought of them hurts. Because no matter how much I used to bond with my father over college and pro football, it doesn’t excuse what he’s done since Mom passed away from Huntington’s disease only a short eight months ago. Losing her felt like losing a limb. And losing my father…it was a lingering phantom pain. There, but not.

Pearce blows the whistle around his neck and waves his clipboard in the air. “That would have gotten you flagged, Wallace. Anyone want to tell him why?”

It’s number eleven who calls out, “Illegal blocking, Coach.”

Matthew Clearwater.

My body tingles with the memories I’ve tried my hardest to push away for the past week. But every time I close my eyes, I swear I can feel his body hovering over mine, the slick sweat under my palms as I touch every inch of him, and the blissful release that took over me when his mouth worked the nerves between my thighs before feeling him slide inch by inch inside of me.

Stop , my conscious snaps.

I roll my shoulders and block out the pornographic replays happening in my mind.

“Go again,” Pearce tells them. “And don’t fuck it up this time, Wallace.”

From a distance, I see Ricky Wallace lift a finger in the coach’s direction. And it’s not his index. He’s lucky Pearce was looking at the clipboard, or he would have gotten benched.

They get back into formation, but my eyes are on one person only. When the ball snaps back, Ricky Wallace, the quarterback filling in following Justin Brady’s ACL injury, runs with it until the left tackle gains on him. Wallace tosses the ball to Matthew, who catches it effortlessly and runs faster than anybody can catch him.

Five yards.

Ten.

Twenty.

Holy shit. Nobody gets close to him as he runs to the end zone, dropping the ball and moving his hips with number eighty-one—Daniel Bridges.

Junior.

Shaking my head at the dance Matthew and Daniel have clearly done plenty of times in celebration, I turn on my heel and head back to my office to get a few things done. Before I disappear into the tunnel, I feel a pair of eyes on me from the other side of the field.

It’s not Matthew who’s looking.

It’s Aiden Griffith.

I force a smile, lifting my hand to give him a wave. His head dips in a singular nod, but that’s it. It’s only after he turns away that I feel my feet unglue from the ground so I can walk away.

I decide to focus on pulling grades for a few of the team members I haven’t had check-ins with lately instead of thinking about what Aiden may or may not know.

I’m hunched over my laptop and jotting down notes on the infamous Ricky Wallace, whom I’ve heard very few good things about, when there’s a knock on my door an hour and a half later.

Glancing up at the freshly showered wide receiver at my door, who resembles my mother’s favorite country singer, Dierks Bentley, I offer him a smile. “Hi, Mr. Clearwater. What can I do for you?”

He walks in and sits down. I’ve studied his file enough to know that the six-foot-two football player is two hundred and twenty pounds of lean muscle with a borderline B average at Lindon. And after last week, I could confirm that was still true despite those stats being submitted two years ago during his sophomore year.

“It’s Matt,” he reminds me nonchalantly. “I’m way too young to be called mister anything; you should know that by now.”

“Should I?” I question pointedly, eyebrows arched to remind him where we are. Familiarity doesn’t belong in my very public office.

“I’m just pointing out that you age yourself by calling me anything other than my first name,” he says with a lift of his shoulders.

“I’d hardly say I’m old,” is my only reply, eye twitching over the fact that I’m five years older than the boy occupying the seat across from me.

“You never told me how old you are,” he realizes, studying me. “Why is that?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s rude to ask a woman her age?”

Matt snickers. “She did. She also told me never to ask a woman how far along she is. Forgot about that one and nearly got a yardstick to the face in eighth grade Spanish because I thought Mrs. Hubberman was pregnant.”

Internally, I flinch. The poor woman.

“Speaking of Spanish,” I tell him to diverge the conversation. “Your grade in Spanish One is low. You’ve only got a few months to fix it before it tanks your overall GPA.”

“That means I still have a couple of months to get it up. Speaking of which—”

“Nope,” I cut him off before he finishes whatever dirty thought he’s thinking. I know him by now. He gets a gleam in his eyes when he’s about to say something sarcastic. “Just make sure you study, okay? It’s going to be easier to raise your grade now versus rushing to do it at the end of the term.”

He salutes me. “Anything for you, Rach.”

“Ms. Holloway,” I correct.

“You’re too young for that.”

“Do you flirt with everyone?” I question, one I’ve asked him a number of times.

“I didn’t flirt with Dorothy,” he remarks with a smirk. “If I’d tried to, she probably would have castrated me.”

I didn’t know the woman, but I can believe it. With a name like that, I bet she had a feisty personality.

Shaking my head at his antics, I drop my pen and turn my computer screen away from his line of sight so he doesn’t see the file on the second-string quarterback he’s got beef with.

“I have work to finish,” I tell him.

“Didn’t your mom tell you it’s impolite to ignore guests when they visit you?” he quips.

Without thinking, I say, “Maybe she would have taught me that if she were still alive.”

Matthew frowns, making me feel bad for dropping that tidbit of information so coolly. But I’m tired. I feel guilty. And I’m confused.

None of those help my filter.

I murmur, “Sorry.”

His slick grin is officially gone. “Shit, Rach…el. I’m sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I ask how she…?”

Wetting my lips, I instantly regret saying anything at all because having to talk about this isn’t easy for me. “She was sick.”

It’s all I’m willing to offer. Watching Mom deteriorate from the neurological disorder was bad enough; I don’t need to relive how it made her an entirely different person once it took over her independence.

The woman who used to love life could barely live it months before the end. Gone were the sunny days hiking together at the state park or training for the marathon we were planning to do together. Holidays spent baking and cooking in the kitchen were gone because she could barely eat. Torturing her with old family recipes seemed inhumane.

I hated what Huntington’s did to the woman who was one of the most caring people I’ve ever known.

Matthew’s expression dims, his lips twitching downward in sympathy. Something flashes in his eyes that goes beyond the typical pity I usually see when people hear about my mother’s early death, but I don’t know what he’s thinking.

“Nobody should be without their mother,” is the only thing he says, his voice quieter than normal.

I’m inclined to agree, but talking about it is impossible when I feel my throat thicken. The burn of impending tears prickles the back of my eyes, so I battle them off and straighten in my seat. “You aren’t the only one with classes to pass, so if you don’t mind…”

“Ahh. I forgot, Ms. Grad Student. You know, I’ve always appreciated older women.”

“Like Dorothy?” I ask dryly.

He swipes at his mouth to hide the wavering smile. “Sure, Ruby Red. Like Dorothy.”

Ruby Red? Like The Wizard of Oz .

Instead of entertaining this conversation any further, I ask, “Is there anything I can do for you today?”

Leaning forward in the chair and resting his elbows on his bent knees, he watches me for a solid minute before eventually standing and shaking his head. “Nothing you can help me with right now, Ms. Holloway. Maybe next time.”

My eyes narrow at his suspicious tone.

“By the way,” he says, stopping at the door and glancing at me. “What did you think of my little end zone dance? I saw you watching.”

Maybe I should be embarrassed that he caught me, but it wasn’t like I was ogling him. I was impressed, something his ego clearly doesn’t need to hear.

I pick up my pen. “I think you should keep your day job.”

Snickering at my sarcasm, he hefts a heavy sigh. “Damn. If pro ball didn’t work out, I was planning on joining the Magic Mike dance crew out in Vegas.”

Rolling my eyes, I wave him off. “Have a good rest of your day,” I say dismissively.

“You better come to our game tomorrow,” he calls as he backs toward the doorway. “We’re going to kick Morrison’s ass.”

“I have no doubt,” I answer honestly. The Dragons are a strong team with a good chance of not only making it to the championships but winning it all.

His grin returns at the compliment.

“Matt,” I say before he can walk out.

He cocks his head.

“We can’t do that again,” I say quietly, looking at the empty hallway behind him. “I’m trying to build something for myself that I can be proud of. That…my mother could be proud of me for.”

The wide receiver is quiet for a long moment.

Then he nods. “I get it, Rach.”

I swallow, grateful. “Friends?”

His lips twitch. “I have a lot of friends,” he states, scratching the column of his throat. “But I guess one more wouldn’t hurt.”

I can tell he’s disappointed, but there’s no other way to do this. One night together is all there can be. It’s all I have to offer.

“Friends,” I repeat with a wavery smile.

He glances at the floor. “Come to the game,” he says again, smiling at me when he lifts his head even though it doesn’t entirely meet those gunmetal eyes. “To support the team. And your friend.”

I rub my lips together. He’s trying. So the least I can do is try too. “We’ll see.”

He watches me for a moment longer before turning on his heel and tapping the doorjamb before leaving me to my solitude.

That night, I stay home with a pint of ice cream I spent way too much money on at the gas station and watch trash TV with my little sister on the phone to talk about it.

The Dragons lose their game.

*

Matt and Daniel are horsing around in my office a month later as I gather paperwork for them to submit to their academic advisers when Aiden walks in and smacks them both upside the head. The tight end drops onto the small sofa off to the side that I found on sale at a thrift shop a week ago. I bribed a couple of the players with pizza to carry it inside and help me reorganize my office. Matt told me it’s “what friends do for each other” with a subtle wink that I’m grateful Caleb Anders didn’t catch when his back was turned.

“Quit it,” Aiden tells the boys with a single look. “Rach doesn’t need your bullshit today.”

“Thanks, Aiden,” I say, passing the boys two separate pieces of paper. “But I’m used to it by now.”

Daniel looks around Matt at Aiden. “Yeah, lighten up. Not even Cap is this uptight about having a little fun.”

Aiden deadpans, “That’s because Brady is more focused on getting into med school than dealing with your dumb asses all the time.”

He’s not wrong. Every time I meet with the injured quarterback, he’s always telling me about the schools he’s applied to for when he graduates from here. Out of everyone on the team, he’s got the most ambition outside of the grumpy tight end sprawled across my couch. “Matthew, you’re all set. Pick up that Spanish grade if you want to keep playing. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a smirk, standing up and shoving Daniel one last time before looking back at me. “And you should reconsider that one-on-one tutoring. I’d love all the help I can get.”

Despite myself, I can feel my face growing warm from the obnoxious flirting that he’s obviously doing for a reaction from his friends. Daniel gives him a high five with a stretched grin on his face that Aiden rolls his eyes over.

Clearing my throat, I smile plainly. “I can certainly make you an appointment at the Student Center’s tutoring department if that’s what you feel you need.”

Matt chuckles at my smooth reply. “I’ll see you around, Ms. Holloway .”

He smacks a laughing Daniel on the shoulder before leaving the room without a second look in either Aiden’s or my direction.

Aiden moves over to the seat Matt was in and fist bumps Daniel, who turns to the tight end and asks, “I haven’t seen any bags of dog shit lit on fire on our front step, so should I assume you made up with Ivy?”

I perk up with interest. “Aiden, did you get a girlfriend?”

I’ve heard the name get brought up a handful of times at practice, and once from the boy who sauntered out of here with unabashed confidence, but I don’t plan on admitting that.

Daniel laughs. “That’s classic, Rach. This guy? He barely even lets the jersey chasers near him, even when they’re throwing themselves his way. More for us though.”

I think that’s sweet. “Some people want more than that, Daniel.”

The wide receiver makes a face at me like I told him some people like throwing puppies off overpasses. “Aw, c’mon. You know I hate when you call me that.”

I cross my arms on the edge of the desk and give Daniel an amused look. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

He grumbles under his breath.

Aiden leans back, propping an arm up on the back of Daniel’s chair. “Could be worse, Danny Boy. And who are you to talk anyway? You’ve been drooling over a chick who barely gives you the time of day.”

Daniel glowers, and Aiden cracks the smallest grin at the information I didn’t know and don’t want to pry on. “Don’t start.”

I shake my head at them. “Well, I think it’s nice if you found a girl who isn’t going to throw herself at you, Aiden.”

That pulls Daniel out of his stupor. “If anything, he’ll wind up on a case of 20/20 because of this chick. She’s awesome, but intense as hell.”

She sounds guarded, which I can relate to.

“Coach said you wanted to see me,” Aiden redirects, looking at me instead of entertaining the conversation his friend wants to have.

Daniel rolls his eyes and looks at me too. “I can go now, right? Pass classes or else blah blah blah. I feel you. I’m hungry.”

“When are you not?” Aiden asks.

He shrugs. “I’m a growing boy, Griff. I need the proper nutrients to dominate on the field.” When his sly eyes refocus on me, I already know his next line is going to make me groan by the suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. “And off the field.”

Daniel reminds me of the golden retriever I had growing up—goofy and energetic. “You’re free to go. You know what we talked about.”

One more fist bump later, it’s just me and Aiden left in my office. The first thing he says gives me pause. “Matt is persistent, you know. He doesn’t give up easily when he puts his mind to it.”

My eyes go from the file in front of me to him, my heart picking up in my chest at the implication. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Aiden.”

He watches me for a long moment before shaking his head and dropping it. I can tell there’s something he wants to say, but he must decide it’s not his place. “My grades have been good this semester, so I’m not sure why I’m here. Pearce mentioned a check-in.”

I take a deep breath to collect myself and smile at him. It’s forced at best, and all I can hope is that I don’t look like the Joker. “It’s mandatory to meet up a few times a semester to make sure everything is okay. Pearce asked me to talk to you about next year since you were invited to the combine.” I open the file folder and scan the page. “Your stats this year have been stellar, and your grades are perfect. You want to be drafted, right?”

When I meet his eyes, he offers me another head dip of confirmation. “Coach says the combine will open that door for me. He suggested ending after this semester.”

“Is that what you want? You’re on top of your courses and in the top three of your class. It’d be a shame to see you stop right before getting your degree.”

“It’s just a piece of paper,” is his reply. “I’ve never cared about college that much. It was only about football for me. Why stay if I get a shot at doing what I actually love?”

I nod in understanding, even if I’m tempted to encourage him to finish his degree first. He’s so close to being done, with only one semester left. I suppose he could take a leave of absence and come back later, but it’s rare that actually happens.

“I saw what ESPN was saying about you after your last game,” I note, tapping my pen against my notepad. Despite the invitations I get from Matt and a few other Dragons, I don’t always attend the games. I congratulate them on their wins and apologize for their losses whenever I see them next. But when curiosity gets the better of me, I find myself logging online to watch the live games in my apartment to keep a healthy distance while still cheering them on. It’s the best I can do while keeping boundaries untouched. Or as untouched as they can be. “They seem optimistic that you’ll be a first pick.”

Aiden lifts a shoulder like that isn’t new news.

It’s clear he’s not going to say anything, so I change my approach. “What about this girl you’re supposedly into? Coach Pearce seems to think you’re one of the few he can invest the most time in because you’re never distracted by the wiles of college. Is she going to change that?”

His lips twitch. “Clearly, experiencing college like a normal guy didn’t work out so well for me when I tried it the first time. I was booted and brought here, which is why Coach is so willing to invest his effort. He knows I won’t fuck it up again. Not even for—” He doesn’t say Ivy’s name, making my brows go up slowly.

“This is about Wilson Reed,” I conclude, realizing the tension in his shoulders doesn’t have anything to do with a girl.

I know the story. His transfer from his first college is listed in the file I got on him. But it didn’t seem like that situation was really his fault, even if he seems to shoulder a majority of the blame. “I fucked up and refuse to repeat the same mistakes. The girl…She won’t be a problem.”

I lift my hands. “I never said she would be. And we both know that Bill, Coach Pearce, wants what’s best for you.”

“He wants what’s best for the team,” he corrects dryly. “And so do I.”

I’ve noticed his dedication to the sport the most out of everybody I’ve met. His love for football pours from him. He’s meant to play the game. But I hope he doesn’t lose sight of everything else life has to offer because of it.

“Aiden, you do understand that it’s okay to have more than football in your life, right? There’s more than playing the game. Dating, especially at your age, is perfectly natural. It won’t mess you up as long as it’s a healthy relationship.”

I’m met with silence. And maybe I’m pushing things too far. After all, I’m not here to be his therapist. I’m here to make sure he’s passing. Clearly, I don’t have stellar decision-making skills, considering the people I’ve allowed myself to get close to.

So, I let it go. “It looks like Wilson Reed will be one of your competitors at the end of the season with how you’re both playing.”

“So?”

“You didn’t come here on the greatest terms. It may be hard to see some of your old teammates. I know a few of them graduated—”

He grips the armrests. “Can we just tell Coach we had this talk? I don’t need a therapy session. No offense, but I have better stuff to do with my time than gossip about my old college or personal life.”

Closing the folder when I hear his tone, I put it on the pile with a few others. “I only want to help, but if that’s all you want to say today, then head out. I know you’re busy.”

Rubbing his lips together, he grabs his bag from the floor and hauls it over his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to be a dick,” he murmurs. It’s not entirely apologetic, but I accept it like it is.

“You weren’t. I get it.”

“And about Matt…” He pauses, shifting on his feet. “He doesn’t always think about others when he goes after things. Keep that in mind. You both have a lot to lose.”

There’s a long pause between us before I nod once and force a tight smile. I already know that, but the reminder is another reason why I made the choice I did. “Thank you, Aiden. Have a good day.”

He looks at me for a moment longer before dipping his head one last time and making his exit.

Only when he leaves do I close my eyes and exhale a heavy breath.