Page 3 of The Surprise Play (Nolan U Football #3)

ELIZABETH

Wily is so late, and I’m getting antsy. If he hadn’t texted me a few minutes ago, telling me he was nearly here, I would have bailed on the guy. It’s so disrespectful! Like my time’s not as important as his?

Typical.

Athletes are all the same—arrogant jocks who think the world should revolve around them.

Like sportsmanship is more commendable than brains or creativity.

I don’t know why we revere them so much.

As far as my experience goes, they’re nothing special.

If anything, they’re just a bunch of mean bullies or oblivious jerks.

The guys at my high school weren’t cruel in the same way the girls were, but they still knew how to make me feel like a waddling disaster.

I actually heard one of the boys call me that once in our mandatory PE class.

Much to my terror, the teacher said that every person playing basketball had to touch the ball at least once.

She wanted to see full participation from the entire class, which meant I couldn’t just loiter near the sidelines like I usually did.

Forced out of my comfort zone, I shuffled closer to the action so I could get my turn out of the way. Of course I turned over the ball. Of course I lost my team a point, and the groans of annoyance were impossible to miss.

“She’s a waddling disaster,” one guy muttered darkly, and I’d dipped my chin, begging the minutes to tick by faster.

I mean, walking disaster was bad enough, but waddling ? That was really driving the stake in a little too far.

As soon as that class ended, I ran ahead of everyone else and got changed as fast as I could. I waddled my ass away from the school gym and walked home in the freezing-cold rain without a jacket or sweater in the hopes of making myself sick, just so I didn’t have to face another PE session.

It worked. I came down with a decent cold and had three blissful days off school. It was a nice reprieve, but then I got better and had to go back for more punishment.

Thank God I don’t have to do PE in college. I enjoy my morning walks, and that’s all the exercise I need, thank you very much.

Picking up my phone, I check the time again and huff, about to text Wily back with a I’m sorry, but I really have to go.

But then I sense movement behind me and glance over my shoulder in time to see the blond giant appearing at the top of the stairs. He pauses, glancing around and raising his chin at someone. His smile is so broad and friendly.

Damn, I hate that it’s pretty too.

He’s a jock. Just a big, mean jock. Don’t go forgetting that.

Steeling myself, I iron out my expression when he notices me. His face lights up with an even brighter grin. Didn’t realize that was possible, but the guy obviously has way more options on his smile dial than most people do.

My lips curl at the corners, my closed-mouth smile stiff and tight.

He doesn’t seem to notice, sauntering around the table and giving the guy who glared at me a fist bump, laughing at something he said before stopping beside me and grinning down.

I gaze up from my perch on the chair, craning my neck just to see his face and feeling like a hobbit.

I doubt standing up will make much difference either, because this football player is one imposing figure.

He must be around six-three, maybe even six-four.

And he’s broad and muscular, his Nolan U Cougars hoodie straining to get around his big arms.

“Hi.” He holds out his hand. “Wily Wilson. Nice to meet ya.”

My gaze darts to his big palm and strong fingers before I give his hand a quick shake and murmur, “Hello.”

His smile grows, revealing two shallow dimples, as he drops his bag on the floor and takes a seat adjacent to me, leaning in to study my face. His eyes are so bright blue, it’s hard not to look at them. “What’s your name again?”

“Um… Elizabeth,” I mumble, my gaze dropping to the table. I tuck my hands beneath the wood and squeeze my index finger .

He tips his head. “Sorry, what was that?”

Clearing my throat, I force out, “Elizabeth.”

And his smile changes again. It goes from full-blown cheese to a soft appreciation, as if he likes the sound of my name.

But that can’t be right.

It’s Elizabeth—plain, simple, boring.

“Elizabeth,” he whispers, like it’s a song lyric that makes him feel nostalgic.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head and quickly clarify, “People always shorten it. My parents call me Bess or Bessie. My grandma calls me Libby. My Aunt Charmaine calls me Lizzy. Kids at school would call me—” I bite my lips together and force my eyes back open.

“The point is… my name is Elizabeth Satchwell. And I’d appreciate you calling me that. ”

“What? Elizabeth? Or Satchwell? Or both?” His eyes sparkle with humor.

“Like, do you always want me to say, ‘Hello, Elizabeth Satchwell.’ ‘Thanks so much for that, Elizabeth Satchwell.’ ‘Wow, Elizabeth Satchwell, you are one amazing tutor.’” I frown at him, and he lets out a short laugh. “What? Are you not an amazing tutor?”

His eyes are glittering sapphires, like he’s having the best time in the world teasing me, and I can’t decide if I want to slap him across his cheesy face or punch him in the balls.

Neither! You will never do either of those things!

I’m horrified that I even thought that for a second. What is coming over me?

My first line of defense is always to run and hide, and now I’m imagining myself slapping a stranger? This is insane !

I give my head a little shake and scratch my stomach, then curl my arms around my waist to hide the move.

“I’m sorry.” Wily lightly chuckles, his eyes still glinting with friendly humor. “What would you like me to call you?”

I shrug and mutter, “I don’t know.” None of those things. I’ve always felt like my name never suited me. I have no idea why my parents chose it. Mom always laughs that she did it in honor of Queen Elizabeth, but we’re not even British! Ugh!

“Okay, well, Tutor Girl, it’s nice to meet you.” Wily gives me a wink and leans back in his chair, looking completely unaffected by our totally bizarre introduction while I’m sitting here squirming.

This isn’t going to work. He’s too… irritating. Or unsettling. Or just something unpleasant.

My skin’s really starting to itch now.

Dammit! I subtly scratch my stomach again.

“So, want to get started?” He reaches for his bag, unzipping it and pulling out a haphazard pile of papers.

Where’s his laptop? Why isn’t he more organized?

Rummaging around in the front pouch of his bag, he pulls out a pen and uncaps it with his teeth.

His teeth? Ew!

Not even a pencil case?

Who is this animal?

I would never treat my stationery with such disregard.

That’s because you’re a stationery nerd. Now say something back!

“Um.” I clear my throat and shuffle in my seat again, tugging on my skirt and fidgeting with the top button of my cardigan .

Wily’s eyes dart to my fingers, then trail down my body.

I flush, hating his perusal.

What the hell is he doing?

Is he… is he checking me out?

I bristle, then hold my breath as I wait for that standard look of repulsion or disinterest that I usually get from guys like him, but his lips just quirk at the corners, and he looks more curious than anything.

Or maybe he’s having to work to hide his laughter.

So, he’s one of those jocks. Thinks it’s funny that not everyone on the planet is ripped and fit like they are.

I squirm, angling my body away from him as annoyance flares inside me. Tapping my space bar, I light up my screen and wish to God my name wasn’t on this stupid tutoring list. I wish I didn’t need the money!

But you do, so just woman up already and get started.

“So…” I scratch my collarbone. “Maybe we could run through the tutoring you’ve already had. That’ll give me a gauge of where you’re at and what kind of support you’ll need.” I try to keep my tone professional, my emotions in check. I’m good at that, right? I’ve had years of practice.

“Okay.” Wily sniffs, swiping a finger under his nose.

“So, you probably know that Coach Jones is a real hard-ass. He’s always had the rule that if you slack off in class, you’re not worthy to be on the field.

He’ll bench us in a heartbeat. I mean, the season is basically over—and we’re in playoffs now, so he’s not about to bench me—but he’s still riding me about graduating.

And as much as I don’t give a shit, my sister made the point that I have spent four years here, so maybe I should at least try to come out with a degree. ”

“I like your sister already,” I quip.

He snickers. “Anyway, last year, I hired a guy, and he did my assignments for me, and that got me through the season. But his workload is getting on top of him this year, so he can’t fit me in anymore, and I just need the same?—”

“Wait, he what?” I shake my head, only just registering the words. “He did the assignments for you?”

“Yeah, I mean…” Wily shrugs. “I’ve got a really busy schedule with football and everything. It was a good setup for us, you know? We’d meet, I’d show him what needed to be done, then he’d fill in the gaps.”

My eyes narrow. “How big were the gaps?”

“Oh, you know.” His eyes dart from me to his scrappy pile of papers. He taps his pen on top of them. “It varied.”

I’m sure it did. I’m starting to get a pretty clear picture already.

“So, he basically just did your work. You guys cheated.”

“No.” Wily’s eyes bulge, the beat with his pen picking up tempo.

“I saw everything before I handed it in. We made sure it sounded like my voice and shit. And he’d go over every assignment with me before I had to present it or whatever, so I was still learning everything I needed to, right?

And still had to sit those heinous exams and tests on my own, so I wasn’t cheating. ”

I shake my head, but Wily grins like I’m agreeing with him.