Chapter 3: Ivy

Someone must have chiseled this guy from marble.  It takes everything within me not to reach out and stroke my fingers over him.  Because that's exactly what I want to do.

And maybe lick him as well.

Yes...I definitely want to run my tongue over his lustworthy pectorals. 

And those abs...

Six pack?

Ha!

Try an eight pack on for size.

This guy's definition is literally amazing.

As someone who uses their body for artistic expression, I can appreciate the utter beauty of a well sculpted form.

God, can I...

"See something you like, gorgeous?"

Even when that cocksure tone hits my ears, I can't stop my eyes from eating him up.  He uses the now wadded T-shirt to wipe away some of the wetness that has trickled down his stomach.

Yes, I'm definitely feeling woozy.

And it's not the jet lag that has my brain taking a mental pause either.

As much as I'm having my very own private moment with this guy's amazing body, I can't help but become aware of the catcalls and whistles coming from all directions.  Glancing around me, I realize there are pockets of girls who have also stopped to admire the bare-chested Adonis.

The tips of my ears reignite with heat.  Wanting to distance myself from the calamity, I take a hasty step backward.

Then another.

"I really am sorry," I mumble again, all the while continuing to back away from him.  He's on the verge of opening his mouth when I turn and bolt down the wide sidewalk.  As I do, I can't resist throwing one last look over my shoulder.  Our gazes lock for just a moment before he's swallowed up by a surging crowd of onlookers.

His blue-green colored gaze stays fastened to me as I hightail it to my ten o'clock class which I'm now late for.  Not that there's anything good about what just occurred, but I'm sure as hell wide awake now.  I suppose that's an unexpected bonus regarding the disaster I'm currently sprinting away from.  Raising a hand to my cheeks, I realize they're still burning with humiliation.

The only thing I can do is shake it off and move on with the rest of my day.

Barnett has about twenty thousand students, so the chances of running into that guy again are slim to none.  At least that's what I keep telling myself because it makes me feel decidedly better.

It takes all of five minutes for me to bust through the heavy doors of Adler Hall which is one of the business buildings here on campus.  I glance at my schedule.  Room 305.  I jog up two flights of stairs before heading down a long echoing corridor until I finally find the room.  It's a small class.  Probably around twenty-four students since this is a higher-level business course.

Luckily, the professor is still talking with a student and hasn't officially started class.  Breathing out a heavy sigh of relief, I slide into a desk at the far side of the room and drop my bag to the floor before repositioning my sunglasses on top of my head.  I'm winded and frazzled by what happened with that guy.

But that's over with now.  Other than to fantasize about that amazing chest of his (probably late at night when I'm feeling sexually frustrated), I never want to think about him or the whole mortifying incident ever again.

As far as I'm concerned, it never happened.

As Professor Paulson begins class, I take out my laptop and start typing away.  Fifteen minutes into it, my pulse has settled and I'm no longer thinking about spilling an entire drink on some unsuspecting stranger when the door to the classroom creaks open and in strolls Mr. abs of steel himself. Eyes bulging out of my head, I do a double take because I can't believe it's really him. The entire class turns to stare.  Even the professor halts her lecture mid-sentence.

Unconsciously, I slump in my chair before subtly shielding my face in a lame attempt to hide even though I know there's absolutely no way in hell he'll recognize me. I mean, I had on huge sunglasses that swallowed up my entire face. And he's not even looking in my direction.

I wait for the professor to lay into him for disrupting her class.  Carefully peeking through my fingers, I notice he's now wearing a bright blue T-shirt and his denim has been changed as well.  Which probably means that him being late to class is entirely my fault.

Thankfully, he's still staring at the professor. I'm clear across the room, parked near the windows several rows over from where he's standing.

"Sorry, Dr. P, I was delayed on the way over."

I'm going to wager that this is the part where Dr. Paulson rather embarrassingly rips him a new one in front of the entire class.  I almost cringe waiting for it to happen because obviously I'm the one to blame for his tardiness.  Not that I'll be apologizing any time soon.  I don't plan on conversing with this guy ever again.

My body tenses as I wait for her to make some humiliating example out of him to scare everyone else into being prompt for the rest of the semester.

Wait for it...

Here it comes...

Much to my surprise, Dr. Paulson going off the deep end in a scary tirade revolving around promptness and respect never happens.

Slowly my brows draw together in confusion.

The woman almost looks like...

Um...is she...is she actually blushing?

That can't be.

For goodness sake, our professor has to be at least forty.  If not older.  I squint as if I can't quite believe what I'm seeing.  Yup, she's definitely blushing like some kind of tween coming face to face with one of the dudes from One Direction.  Now she's tucking a stray piece of mousy brown hair behind her ear as she shifts from one orthopedic shod foot to the other.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. King.  See me after class and I'll get you caught up to speed on what you missed."

In response, he dazzles her with a full-blown smile.  Even though the look isn't directed at me, I'm embarrassed to admit that my panties flood with heat.  I think a good number of the females surrounding me sigh in response as well. 

"Thanks, Dr. P." He gives her a little wink. "You're the best."

This guy is totally shameless.

I quickly cover my face as he glances around the room before sauntering up the first row closest to the door and parking himself near the front.  All the girls in his general vicinity gravitate toward him as if he has some kind of magnetic pull.  All the guys give him fist bumps and back slaps.

It's all a little ridiculous.

Who the hell is this guy anyway?

"You don't know who Roan King is?"

Surprised, I turn toward the girl sitting in the row directly across from me.  Unless this chick is a mind reader, I must have muttered the question out loud.  I shake my head.

She gives me an odd look, like I must have crawled out from under a rock just to attend this class.  Which prompts me to say with a touch of defensiveness, "I did a study abroad program last year.  I just got back to town yesterday."

Apparently, this makes perfect sense and I am no longer a huge loser who hides under rocks.

"That's Roan King, a senior.  He's a football playing god who redshirted his freshman year.  He was such a stud on the field, that he's been a first-string wide receiver since he was a sophomore."  She leans toward me as if she's about to reveal top secret information no one else on campus is privy to.  Getting caught up in the moment, I angle my body toward her as if I'm all ears. Which apparently, I am.

"Word is he'll be entering the draft in January even though he could play at Barnett for another year."  Her eyes dance with unmitigated excitement as if she has a personal stake in that occurring.  Then she sighs rather dreamily, "And just look at him, he's totally gorgeous."

My gaze slides to the eye candy currently being discussed.  She's right, he's definitely gorgeous.  But I'd also lay odds he's a cocky douchebag as well.  I mean, come on, he's a football player. Who looks like some kind of freaking Adonis. 

"If you're interested," she gives me a look that says-and who wouldn't be, "there's a website solely devoted to all things Roan King.  And there are some seriously hot pics of him to drool over."

Now that my Roan-King-haze has started to dissipate and my hormone levels are once again evening out, my brows snap together in disbelief.  "Are you telling me this guy created a website so he can promote himself?"  Oh, that's going too far even for a gorgeous football playing god like him.  I almost wince at my unchecked thoughts.

Football playing god?

Did I seriously just think that?

Guilty.

So, so guilty.

She shakes her head.  "Of course not. Roan King has a major following here at Barnett.  Whoever created the sight allows people to track and post Roan King sightings and gossip.  If you ever want to know what he's up to, check out the website.  I always look to see where he is throughout the night so maybe I can run into him."

Umm...right.

I think this girl wants to do more than just run into him.  What she's describing is borderline stalking.  I can't believe she's actually admitting it to a virtual stranger.  How embarrassing.  Of course, that thought leads me to wonder if she's fucking with me because he's not a freaking celebrity.

He's just some college athlete.

Albeit a really hot college athlete.

With my eyes narrowed in skepticism, I ask, "And this is all because he plays football?"  I'm having a really hard time wrapping my mind around this.  And I certainly haven't ruled out the whole- I'm-being-fucked-with scenario either.

Giving me that- do-you-live-under-a-rock look again, she shakes her head.  "No, he doesn't just play football, he is football here at Barnett.  Like I said before, he's entering the draft in January.  And well...just look at him."  She flicks her hand in his direction.  "He's the hottest guy on campus.  Roan King is going places, and everyone is interested in where those places are."

With that, she swivels in her seat, so she's turned fully toward the professor. And Roan King.

For the next thirty-five minutes I do my best to focus on what Dr. Paulson is discussing, but I would be lying if I didn't admit that my gaze keeps straying across the room to rest on Barnett's legendary football star.  Every time I catch myself staring at those wide shoulders, bulging T-shirt clad biceps, and inky black hair, I have to mentally chastise myself before refocusing my distracted attention. After the seventh time, I'm more than a little irritated with myself for acting like the rest of these silly little twits who are practically drooling all over their desks.

Even though I was here for my freshman year, I don't recall hearing anything about Roan King.  Instead of paying attention to Dr. Paulson as she outlines what we'll be learning this semester, I'm too busy racking my brain trying to remember any little tidbit of information about this guy.

But I keep drawing blanks.

Which shouldn't surprise me because I've never really cared for football.  I know absolutely zero about it.  And furthermore, I have no interest in learning anything about it either.  When forced to attend high school homecoming games with Lexie, I distinctly remember being bored off my ass.

My eyes narrow as I continue contemplating him.

I'd hazard a guess to say there's not much going on beneath all that gorgeousness.  And if our professor is any indication, he's probably been coasting through the last three years of college on his hotness and football playing skills.

That is if playing football can actually be considered a skill.

Every time I've been forced to watch a game, the guys on the field don't seem to do anything more than run around throwing some oblong shaped ball to each other.  And the game is constantly being stopped which only makes it even more mind-numbing.  Like they're deliberately trying to torture all the fans that have filled the stands.

Seriously, how much skill can something like that possibly take?  It's not like executing a perfect pirouette or adage or ballonne.  That takes years of relentless practice and dedication.

So even though I don't know Roan King personally, he's obviously someone to steer clear of.  And not that Mr. football has any interest in me whatsoever, but after what happened with Finn last year, I have zero interest in getting tangled up with another jerk.

I mean jock.

Especially some football playing Neanderthal who obviously thinks he's god's gift to the female population of Barnett University.

Ugh.

Thanks, but no thanks. I'll pass.