In mine, I tried to stop the photos from leaking. But…that ship had already sailed. The fucker who took the photos wasn't interested in playing nice. Not that I'm really surprised. Scandal sells, and me getting sucked off in the hallway of a fucking party is all kinds of scandalous. Who cares if it's true or not? It's the perception that counts.
Right now, the entire world is trying to figure out who Serena is. Frankly, I'd just like to know where she is. I'm dying to see her again. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since the party, and that's a problem for me.
I'm not the guy who loses his mind over a woman, and yet…she's turning me into that guy.
I don't hate it.
The way I see it, we've got two options. We can ignore the whole thing, which will only make it worse. Been there, done that, have the articles to prove it. Or we can date.That probably won't stop the gossip, but at least they won't keep viewing her as some random chick I fucked at a party. She's not some random hookup. I don't do that. It's pissing me off that people are acting like she is.
In this world, sex sells. The truth doesn't. They don't want to hear that she tripped, spilled wine on me, and touched my dick by accident. Hell no. They want to hear that we're fucking. The best way to shut them up is to give them what they want…on my terms. It'll salvage her reputation.
I'm honest enough to admit that this isn't entirely about that, though. It's about the fact that I haven't been able to get her out of my head. Those gray eyes and that smart mouth are haunting me. I've jerked off to the memory of her hand on my cock so often over the last few days that the bastard may be permanently chafed.
I want her. I want her calling me names. I want her fiery attitude. I want her on her knees. I want her hands on my body. I want those gray eyes locked with mine. And I'm willing to play dirty to make it happen.
Let's face it, the only way it'll happen is if I play dirty. She isn't going to give me a shot if I don't, not Serena. So…we date.
As soon as I find her.
"Hawkes!" Killian shouts, a warning in his voice.
I glance up just in time to see Jasper Werth tackle Dakota Bowling, sending him flying across the green, directly into my path.
I jump a second too late.
Dakota plows into me, knocking me flat on my back.
"Jesus Christ," he growls, landing beside me like a fucking meteor striking earth. It's an apt description for the man. I'm big. He's a goddamn giant. "You good, Hawkes?"
"Yep," I wheeze, still flat on my back. "You good?"
"Yep." He glances over at me, his gaze as somber as ever. "Where are you right now?"
"Wish I knew," I mutter, hauling myself upright in time to see Coach storming across the field toward us, his face red.
"Shit," Dakota groans, hopping to his feet. "My bad, Coach."
"Save it, Bowling." Coach points at me. "Off the field, Hawkes. Before you end up with a goddamn broken neck."
"I'm good, Coach."
He snorts, his dark eyes narrowed at me. "The hell you are. Get off my field before we have to carry you off. And get your goddamn head screwed back on. I need it on the game if we're beating the Knights."
"Fuck." I tug my helmet off, scrubbing a hand through my hair. "Sorry, Coach."
"Don't apologize. Just get your shit together."
"Yes, sir," I mutter, jogging toward the sidelines.
"You good?" Killian asks as I pass him.
"Fucking peachy."
"Right," he snorts.
I flip him off, but it's not like he's wrong. I'm losing my damn mind. Oddly, I don't hate it nearly as much as I probably should.
"I'm disappointed," Killian says three hours later, shooting me a shit-eating grin. "I kinda wanted to see Coach put his boot up your ass."
