Home > Fake Fiancée(3)

Fake Fiancée(3)
Author: Ilsa Madden-Mills

“Sierra, silly. I come to all the home games, and sometimes I watch you practice.”

“How’d you get in?” I asked.

Coming more awake, she propped herself up until her tits popped out from the covers. “Felix picked the lock last night . . . said you were a grouch and needed to get laid.”

Felix—all around asshole and second-string quarterback. We’d had a small party last night and he must have showed after I crashed. I cracked my knuckles. He was messing with me. Again.

Freshman year, he’d put a black rat snake in my car and I’d nearly hit a tree when that damn thing wrapped itself around my leg. Just last year, we’d had a brawl over my ex in the locker room, and I’d broken his nose. That shit was supposed to stay between the team, but somehow the media got a whiff and my temper had been called into question—when he was the bastard who’d started it. I suspected he’d been the one to leak the story to the news.

Did I mention he was dating my ex? Yeah. It was screwed up.

This year, I had to keep my fists down and my head in the game because this was going to be my year.

“Did we have sex?” I scrubbed my face, then looked around for condom wrappers.

“You passed out,” she huffed, a peevish expression on her face. “Which is sad. You are my favorite player. I even had your number put on a jersey. I sleep in it every night.”

In other words . . . I have our relationship all planned down to me getting pregnant.

“You were amazing at the scrimmage,” she continued, her gaze lingering on my crotch. “Three touchdown passes . . . a hundred yards rushing. You’re going to win the Heisman this year.” She bit her lip, pumped her hips like she was having an orgasm, and moaned. “I can feel it, Max.”

I couldn’t deny I wanted the Heisman like a man in the desert wants a tall glass of water—but I had other things to take care of first.

I grabbed her phone off the nightstand. “What’s your code?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not stupid.” My gaze was hard as nails.

She poked her lip out. “Why are you being so mean? It’s my phone, not yours.”

“If there’s nothing to hide it shouldn’t matter if I check out your photos, huh?” My lips tightened as I dangled the phone.

She confessed the code. Sure enough she’d taken several selfies of me stone-cold passed out. She’d arranged my hand on her bare boob and snapped pics of her kissing me. She’d pulled down the covers and snapped a pic of me in my black athletic boxers and a pic of her hand wrapped around my cock. I swiped to the last pic, one of her licking the tiger tattoo on my bicep. Fuck.

Nausea simmered under the anger. Shit like this sent me over the edge. If I hadn’t found these, they’d be posted all over social media or possibly sold to some magazine—and my chances at a Heisman would be pulverized.

And wouldn’t Felix just love that?

After deleting the pics and tossing her phone back, I strode to my bedroom door and flung it open. “Time for you to get out.”

“I’ll text you later,” she said as she sat up on the bed to pull on her underwear and pants.

“I won’t respond.”

“I don’t care. I just like knowing you know I’m thinking about you. I picture you seeing my text and smiling. It’ll make your day better. Like a little ray of sunshine.”

Psycho. I gritted my teeth. “Trust me, I don’t think about you. I don’t even know your name.”

“Sierra.”

“Fine, Sierra,” I growled. “Just because you slept in my bed and did a cock selfie with me doesn’t mean jack. I don’t do groupies.”

Her lips curled in a half-smile. “I don’t give up that easily.” With a little wave she stumbled out the door.

Yes! Finally. I slammed it shut behind her, the noise reverberating through the house.

Eminem blared in the background as I flew around the room, getting my ass in gear for my Anatomy and Physiology class with Professor Whitt. I wanted to get an early start today, especially since he was one of the hardest teachers on campus. After taking the fastest shower ever, I threw on loose jeans, a V-neck navy blue Leland shirt, and leather flip-flops. I swept my long hair up in a quick man-bun. I hadn’t cut it since my mom died three years ago.

With a swift gait, I strode in the den and saw my roommate, Tate, standing in plain view of the street from the bay window, his hair a rat’s nest as he scratched his junk in his Union Jack boxers. An overly hairy blond giant originally from London, he was the first string wide receiver and my best friend since freshman year.

I clicked the light on. “Morning,” I called out, biting back a grin as he covered his eyes.

“Bugger off,” he muttered and dropped down to the couch. “Never let me drink tequila again—at least until next weekend.” He leaned his head back, mouth flapping open.

I slapped him on the shoulder. “Last night was our last hurrah, dude. Football has officially begun.” As a senior and the head quarterback, I was the captain on our team, and it was my job to make sure we all stayed tight. Living and breathing football would be all I’d do for the next few months.

I wandered into the open kitchen area to scrounge for food. It was a small room, but sufficient for two athletes who did the majority of their eating in the athletic cafeteria on campus. We’d just moved out of the dorms and into the rental house this summer, and I dug it. The house itself, like many on the west side of campus, was built in the seventies and needed a shit ton of updates. We’d actually gotten one of the nicer ones thanks to my dad, who knew people.

   
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