The bathroom is sitting between two bedrooms so I take a guess and pick the one on the right. I have to blink when I walk inside because it looks like no girl’s room I ever saw, and I’ve seen more than my fair share. There are no knick-knacks lining every available surface, or mementos from past events that mean something, no pictures on the wall, just … no personality at all. I wonder if Jordan even has one underneath that jock-ish exterior of hers.
There’s a corkboard pinned to the wall so I study her schedule, grudgingly impressed. The list details an unbearable course load and subjects that only someone bright and gifted could possibly handle. It makes me feel like more of a dumb shit, if that’s even possible. Resting up beside a bookshelf sits two rolled up posters. I make the mistake of unraveling one. Cristiano Ronaldo stares back at me with smoldering eyes. I shudder because it’s almost enough to leave me feeling violated. The poster unravels further, revealing him in the buff, and I’m relieved to see him holding a soccer ball in front of his junk. I drop the poster like it’s a rattlesnake and toss it back in the corner. Well. At least I know she’s not a lesbian.
With a sigh, I spread out on my back on Jordan’s bed, tucking my hands behind my head and closing my eyes. After taking a deep breath, the sweet smell of vanilla tickles my senses and my brows draw together. I know that distinct scent, don’t I?
“Are you quite comfortable there?”
My lips curve instinctively, not caring that Jordan’s found me in her room lying on her bed. “Not quite. Perhaps if you dimmed the lighting a little and sang me a lullaby?”
A wet towel slaps me in the face.
My eyes fly open and I drag the towel away with a chuckle. It dies quickly when I sit up on one elbow and let my gaze travel upwards. Only one word springs to mind. Delicious. Jordan’s wearing black Lycra gym shorts. They’re tiny, hugging her hips and ass in a way that makes me jealous. I want to be those gym shorts. My gaze climbs higher to the fitted tank top. It’s white and thin, satisfyingly thin, and she’s not wearing a bra. The outline of her nipples is clear and my pulse begins to thump hard. They aren’t erect. Instead, they look soft and warm beneath the snug cotton. I lick my lips. I want to run the flat of my tongue over each one in turn, and suck them inside my mouth until they harden like the sweetest candy.
“What are you doing in my room?” Her arms cross quickly over her chest when she realizes I’m staring unapologetically at her tits.
“Huh?” I mumble.
My eyes finally reach her face, and I suck in a ragged breath. I’m not sure I even let it out. It’s her. The blond jock from Business Law and Ethics who got chewed out for being late to class. Fuck me. How in the everloving hell didn’t I realize?
“What are you doing in my room?” she enunciates clearly.
I shake my head to clear it and will the hot throbbing in my cock to calm down so I can take a breath. “I was looking for evidence of a personality,” I retort and wave my hand casually, taking in the barren and boring room. “Clearly I failed.”
Laughter bubbles out and she quickly presses her lips together.
“Ha!” I shout, and the sound comes out a little hoarse. “I made you laugh.”
Though suddenly I wish I didn’t. The sound is warm and throaty and resonates deep inside me, doing nothing to cool me off. I sit up and let the damp towel fall to my lap, hiding the thickening erection in my shorts.
“Congratulations.” Jordan rolls her eyes and picks up a hoodie that’s hanging off the back of the chair by her desk. She shrugs it on quickly and pushes back the hood, mussing her long, damp hair.
“Thanks.” I scan the bare walls of her bedroom again. Textbooks are the only decoration on her shelves. Their spines add color to the stark white furniture. “So what’s with the room, Jordan? It’s like a prison cell in here.”
Jordan sinks into the chair and faces me, folding her arms. “Seen the inside of one of those, have you?”
“Nope. My record is as clean as a choirboy’s. So?” I prompt.
She shrugs. “I’m here on an international sports scholarship from Australia. There was only so much I could fit in my suitcase.”
Once again, I’m impressed. Those kinds of scholarships are hard to come by. You have to pretty much be an athletic phenomenon to get one. Now I’m feeling the compulsion to go watch Jordan play. I want to know if she lives and breathes the game as hard as I do. I want to see her in action. I want to see her out of breath and sweaty.
“Mmmm.”
“What?”
I flop back down on her bed, tucking my hands back behind my head. My eyes fix on the ceiling. I want to know about the life she left behind to come here, but I save it for another time. Instead, I ask the one that’s weighing on me the most. “Why are you tutoring me?”
“Professor Draper asked me to,” is her simple reply.
“And you agreed.”
“Well … yes.”
“Why?” I open my eyes and tilt my head on the pillow, staring hard into her eyes. “Why you?”
“My brother is dyslexic. I helped tutor him through high school.”
I grind my teeth, irritated. “So what? That somehow makes you an expert?”
Jordan’s sigh is long and deep. “Not at all. I told the professor I wasn’t professionally qualified to do something like this, but all he said was that I’m to provide you with some study mechanisms to help you through your final year.”
Fuck senior year, I want to say, but I keep that to myself. I could’ve gone pro in junior year. I shouldn’t even be here. The reason why I didn’t is nobody’s business, yet it weighs on me like a concrete block. The media was told I’d chosen to gain more experience and improve my game rather than declare for the draft. It made enough sense not to question it, but now I’m stuck, and there’s every chance I’m going to fail spectacularly.
“You think you can help me?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I don’t know.”
“At least you’re honest,” I mutter, and my eyes return to the ceiling. She isn’t filling me with empty platitudes of false hope like I’d anticipated. I respect her for that.
“Can I ask a question now?”
I turn on my side, resting my head on my elbow, and look at her. It’s hard not to. There’s something about her that makes it difficult to drag my eyes away. Not because she’s wildly beautiful, but more like she’s authentic, I guess. A deep-seated knowing that Jordan is someone I can trust. With anything. “Okay.”
“You wanted to know why me, well … I want to know, why now? Why wait to get tutored so late in the game?”
I shrug. “I’ve never been officially diagnosed. It’s not something we acknowledge in my house.” Instead, my parents have chosen to sweep the embarrassment under the carpet. “And I’ve never been tutored.” Her eyes widen, and I know she’s wondering how I got this far on my own. Sheer force of will, maybe? “What’s the point? My brain is wired all wrong. You can’t just rewire it to make it work like everyone else’s does.” I pause for a moment, my jaw tensing, and I tell her what I’ve been told for as long as I can remember. “You can’t fix stupid.”
Jordan’s brows draw together and her lips part, and I know she’s ready to protest my statement. She has to. She’s my tutor. But I don’t want to hear it. I just don’t. For a moment I hate myself. I hate the way I am. That I can’t meet someone like her and feel like an equal. My hands curl into fists. I’m the cliché dumb jock that everyone likes to joke about and it frustrates me beyond all belief.
Thankfully her phone starts blaring a song I’m unfamiliar with and diverts her attention. She lets it ring out.
“Kyle …” she starts and I wince, because I’d actually forgotten she thought I was someone else.
Her phone starts up again and she exhales with an annoyed huff.
I raise my brows. “You gonna get that?”
“Wait here,” she orders and leaves the room.