Stallion: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (4 page)

“Walker!” I manage to shout. “Walker Johnson!”

A blonde girl, hanging dangerously off a guy I think I recognize as a running back from the Colts, turns her head to me and frowns. “You lost?” She asks me with a drunken cackle.

What the Hell am I doing here?
I think, letting out a huge sigh. I’m getting angry. I can feel the flush growing in my face and I’m starting to sweat. It doesn’t help that this place is so hot you could charge people for a sauna visit. But that’s not my problem. I don’t belong in a place like this. I can’t believe I agreed to take this story.

Feeling the anger swelling up inside me, I turn around and grab the nearest body I can find and spin them around. I don’t know who he is, but he’s definitely not on the football team. One of the college’s many superfans most likely. He’s holding a red cup of beer and when he sees me, a cartoonish smile crosses his lips.

“Hey, baby,” he says slyly. “What are you doing—“

“Walker Johnson,” I snap, cutting him off. “Where do I find Walker Johnson!?”

His eyes open wide and he laughs, then bellows, “In the dictionary under baddest-motherfucker-alive!”

Apparently this is the funniest joke ever uttered by a human being, as the guy tosses his head back and laughs, stumbles, and spills his drink all over my shirt and bag.
Wonderful
.

“Oh!” I shout, repulsed by the lukewarm beer now soaking into my bra.

“Boooo!” A group of partygoers jeer as the guy topples to the ground, which draws even more laughter than his well-thought-out joke.

Quickly, I drop my bag and start pulling everything out before it’s soaked too. But it’s already too late; my pens are coated in beer and my notebook…is completely drenched and ruined.

That’s it,
I think, giving up.
No story is worth this
.
Peter is just going to have to deal
.

Grabbing the now useless stack of wet paper that used to be my notebook, I stuff everything back into the bag, which I’ll probably have to replace. I wonder if any of the reporters for the Post ever had to go through something like this. I mean, I could understand if I was covering a professional, or some ultra-famous rock star, but a collegiate athlete? No way.

Just as I’m about to stand up, I hear a voice behind me.

“You here for the cannonball contest?”

When I turn around and look up – I see Walker Johnson standing over me.

My breath escapes my lungs.
He’s gorgeous!
It’s like looking up and seeing the David standing over you. I’d seen him on TV, and the countless photos of him all over campus and in magazines, but one of them did anything to prepare me for the reality of him. In fact, if anything, it’s made the reality of him even
more
intense. His image on screen pales in comparison to the real thing.

Our eyes meet and it’s like I’m hypnotized. His beautiful brown eyes look down at me, and it’s like…he owns me and he already knows it. It’s like he can read my mind. He’s barely even smiling – a knowing smile, like he already understands the effect he’s having on me.

My heart is racing, and I can’t remember what the Hell I was doing two seconds ago.
Why am I even here? What’s my name?
But I do know he said something and that I should probably respond.

“What? Sorry.”

“The cannonball contest. I bet you could win with a body like that.” I don’t even understand English right now. “But even if you don’t, at least we get to see the goods.”

Even his voice is making me melt.
This is bad
.
But what is he saying?

As he looks at me, I can practically feel his hands on my body and his lips on mine, giving myself over to his every desire.

Am I fantasizing right now?

Calm down
, I want to scream at myself. “I mean, you’re obviously not shy.”

My head is spinning. He just said something again.
Respond. Respond!

“What!? Shy?” I manage to spit out, realizing I’m on my knees in front of the biggest stud on campus. And as though they have a mind of their own, my eyes move down from his face to his very prominent bulge less than two feet from my face. His jeans look like they’re ready to explode open at the slightest touch. I feel my jaw loosen and my mouth open a crack.

This is bad.

Quickly, I avert my gaze and bring my eyes back to his – back to that picture perfect smile. . This doesn’t do much for my heartrate, but maybe I can salvage some of my dignity.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m loving the wet t-shirt and all,” he says. “Pretty ballsy.”

And it’s then that I remember.

The idiot with the beer. Seeing Walker drove all other thoughts out of my mind, and I look down to see my shirt has gone completely see-through. I should be completely embarrassed, but another part of me, a part I never knew existed, is…excited.

Walker Johnson is checking me out
.

What if I hadn’t worn a bra? He’d be seeing everything! And
that
I would not be okay with…right?

The thought actually excites me, and I feel another rush of blood, but this time it’s not to my face, but somewhere else…I have to get it together. I clamp my legs together and quickly jump to my feet. My legs feel like al dente spaghetti, threatening to give out with the wrong move.

“It’s not ballsy,” I snap back, unsure of how to respond. A war is waging within me, between animal instinct and professionalism, and right now I’m not sure who’s winning. I have to pick sides. “It was a mistake! Some jerk spilled beer on me!”

“Uh, huh.
Suuuure
,” he grins. Even when he’s being an asshole he’s charming. In fact, maybe even more so -- however much sense that makes.

Nothing
about this situation makes sense.
What am I even doing here?

I should have told Peter to shove this story right up his rear, but that wouldn’t have been professional. As a reporter, you’re always going to end up having to cover stories that aren’t ideal. You take your lumps and move on, but this particular story is shaping up to be a complete and utter disaster.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Walker, but I don’t just walk around like this on a daily basis.”

“Too bad,” he says, pressing his lower lip out and making no attempt to hide the fact that he’s blatantly staring at my chest. “You got a great rack.”

His words hit me like an electric shock, causing my entire body to stiffen. No one, I mean
no one
has ever said anything like that to me in my entire life.

Rack. Did he really just say rack?

Breast! I have breasts! Or boobs. I don’t have a…rack. Do I? Racks are something girls in magazines have. Racks are fake boobs in push up bras, or something strippers have. That’s not me. I should be offended – I know I should. The strong, independent woman side of me is telling me to be, but I’m not. What I want to do, is get on the phone and call Abbey and scream into the phone, “Walker Johnson said I have a
great rack!
”

She would absolutely freak.

But instead, all I can do is stand there in front of him with my jaw hanging open and my arms dangling uselessly at my sides. I must look dumbfounded, but Walker just keeps on talking.

“You got a name to go with those babies?” He asks me, shaking me out of my stupor. This can’t be happening!

“Emmy!” I almost shout, crossing my arms over my chest.

God, I’m blushing
, I think.
And he can tell. I know it
.

“Emmy,” he says, mulling it over. “I like that. I’d introduce myself, but you already know who I am.”

“Who doesn’t?” I say, trying my best to be sarcastic.

“Exactly!” He says, missing my insult and taking it as a compliment – or just taking it as a compliment to piss me off.
Which one is it?
“So you ready for the contest?”

“Contest? What are you talking about?”

“The cannonball contest,” he says as though I should know what he’s talking about. From this angle, I can see the reality of Walker’s sculpted body. All those hours in the gym have paid off. I’ve never seen such a man in person in all my life. It’s like he just ripped his way out of a magazine. He has striations in his chest I didn’t even know existed, and the sleeves of his t-shirt look like they’re ready to burst every time he moves his arms.

“Uh, no,” I stammer. “I’m actually from the Tribune, and I was wondering if I could talk to you about—“

“Sorry, I don’t do interviews with the Tribune,” he smirks. “I’ll do you though.”

My heart almost stops.
Did he really just say that? Who says that?
I mean,
who says that?
I knew Walker was cocky, but I never expected something like that to come out of his mouth. Do lines like that really work on girls? I guess so. This guy really must think he’s the King.

And why shouldn’t he? Has any girl on campus ever turned him down?

But there’s another good point. How many girls has Walker slept with? Is him telling me that he’d “do me” even really a compliment? I mean, isn’t that like the cookie monster telling you how delicious a cookie you are when he eats any cookie put in front of him?

I don’t even know what to say, and for a writer whose job it is to have a whole arsenal of words at her disposal, that’s a first for me.

“What do you say? Wanna go to my room? They’ll hold the contest for me.”

An uncontrollable shiver hits my body as Walker steps close and slides his arm around my waist. His grip is strong and I can feel the heat from his body as he pulls us together. I can feel his strong abs as he presses against me. Every muscle on his frame is sculpted and strong. I guess that’s what hours on the football field every day will do to you, not to mention the time spent in the gym.

Pressed against him, I feel helpless and small, looking up at him. He must be well over six feet tall. If I wanted to push him away, I’d have no chance. I feel his grip tighten against my hip.

And then something else against presses my thigh...

“Okay! Okay!” I shout, launching back from him, two seconds from completely losing my mind.

What the Hell is going on?

I’ve never felt so overwhelmed in my life. He’s looking at me like he owns me, and from the way I’m feeling right now he’s almost got me convinced that he does.

Be professional. You are a professional!
I say to myself over and over.
And you have a boyfriend!

“Can we slow down a minute? What makes you think I’m just going to go to your room with you?” I say. Walker opens his mouth to speak, but I realize just how stupid a question that was and cut him off. “Don’t answer that!”

I raise a finger and hold it up in front of his face, which actually seems to amuse him, as he smiles at me as though to say,
you know exactly why.
I guess it really does work on most girls.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I don’t care how I look right now. I have to get it together. The power dynamic is completely off here. I’m the reporter. I’m here to do a story, and he needs to know and respect that. It doesn’t matter what I’m feeling deep down in my womanly parts, or how flawless his smile is.

“I am here from the Tribune. My editor thinks you’re a story we need to cover, so I’m here to cover you.”

“Yeah, like I said. I don’t do interviews,” Walker shrugs.

“You’ve done interviews before!” I say indignantly.

“Yeah, for major magazines,” he scoffs. “Not the campus rag. I get paid for those. So unless you wanna pay me…or maybe there’s something else you could give me.”

I can practically feel his gaze as it sweeps down my body, taking in every inch of me. Is he really suggesting what I think he’s suggesting? Talk about breaking every single personal rule of mine as well as destroying any bit of journalistic integrity I have.

Fuck Walker Johnson for a story? That’s insane!

So then why am I thinking about it?

How would that even go? We go upstairs, he takes my clothes off…we get it on and then I pull out my notebook? “So, Walker. How do you feel about going pro?”

I brush my hair back, shaking this ridiculous fantasy out of my head. Now I’m running through the details and what-ifs? This has to stop.

“That’s not going to happen, Walker,” I tell him firmly, feeling like I’m trying to convince myself more than him. I can’t help but feel angry. This is completely out of character for me, and I’m doing
exactly
what I said I wouldn’t do. I can just see Abbey’s smiling face in my mind when I tell her about this.

“Told you so!” Her words ringing in my ears.

Don’t feel bad
, I tell myself.
Every girl feels this way around Walker
.
I’m only human
.

I mean, that’s what makes Walker Walker, isn’t it? He goes as hard off the field as he goes on it. My eyes wander back to the bulge in his pants that seems to have grown since I last looked. Does this guy even have an off switch, or is he just always on?

“You want the story?” he asks expectedly.

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Walker,” I say firmly. “Especially not for a story.”

“Oh, it would be a story either way,” he says, stopping short. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Emmy,” I say. “My name is Emmy.”

“Emmy,” he muses. “I like it.”

If he forgets names that quickly how long does he actually remember the person? This man’s sex life must just be a continuous blur of interchangeable blondes and sorority girls. I wonder if he remembers any of them. If there’s one thing I’m not going to be, it’s another nameless notch on Walker’s belt.

“Come on, Emmy. Let’s have some fun.”

“I am not—“

“Sleeping with me,” he interrupts me. “Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time. We’ll see if you still feel the same way in a few minutes. Come on.”

And with that, he turns away from me and walks through the crowd.

I can see his back muscles through the t-shirt stretched tight over his torso as he shoulders his way through a crowd that instinctively moves out of his way. It’s like watching the emperor pass through a sea of his servants, or a Greek God passing a crowd of humans created in his image, but not quite up to the same impossible standards of his existence.