Downed (Gridiron #3) Read online

  Downed

  Jen Frederick

  Contents

  DOWNED

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Newsletter

  Acknowledgments

  #GetSacked

  #GetJockblocked

  About the Author

  Also by Jen Frederick

  DOWNED

  He’s the guy no one likes…

  Despite winning two national championships, JR “Ace” Anderson was sent packing from his old school after losing the trust of his coach. At Southern U, he has a second chance to prove that his college legacy isn’t endless debauchery and selfishness. But his reputation precedes him, and his teammates offer a chilly welcome in the locker room. The one person who is willing to accept him is the very woman he should stay away from—his new coach’s daughter.

  She’s the girl everyone loves…

  Bryant Johnson’s only goal in life is to make others happy, even at her own expense. One look at her father’s new star quarterback, and she knows that Ace is her next project. With a reputation for being a “jerk whisperer”, Bryant has spent her last three years at college reforming sorry behavior and turning bad boys into the best boyfriends ever. In Ace, though, she’s met with surly resistance and a sizzling attraction she doesn’t expect. Fixing this wounded warrior will be her biggest challenge yet. Not falling for him will be even harder.

  Between her big heart and his damaged one, a battle is ensuing. In this game of love, every defense will crumble.

  To Lea Robinson,

  the most beautiful southern belle I have the privilege of knowing.

  1

  Bryant

  I was eighteen when I lost my virginity. It was to Coltrane Xavier McEnneny. He and I hadn't been dating long, not really long enough for him to warrant a petal off my rose, as Momma would say.

  Sex with him was awkward, but rewarding in its own way. For about ten minutes, I'd forgotten the most painful day of my life, so even though I didn't have an orgasm, it was all good.

  It shouldn’t surprise me that the boy I’m in bed with is trying ever so hard to wring one from me now. After all, he’s an athlete, superbly built with a mind geared toward one goal: winning. In bed, that means making the girl come.

  But I picked this boy because he’s a jerk, predisposed to not caring about what I want. Or, at least, that was my initial thought. I’m mentally revising my image of him. I’ve had to do that a lot with JR “call me Ace” Anderson since I first saw him on the practice field four weeks ago.

  When the Southern U Renegades’ new quarterback first arrived on campus, he was angry, terse, and short-tempered. He barked orders at the offense and look bored when the coaches gave instruction. He rarely socialized with his teammates and when he did, he sat moodily in the corner, refusing the advances of girls and boys alike.

  “God, you feel good,” Ace breathes against my neck.

  But then there was the time he stood up for my sorority sister, Carlene, when her ex showed up at the bar drunk and belligerent. Before anyone else could react, Ace had the guy collared and out the door before Carlene could summon up a “go to hell.”

  That action against her rowdy ex-boyfriend cemented things. I knew he would be the last participant through my program—my senior thesis, so to speak—on how to turn an asshole into the perfect boyfriend.

  Going home with a boy is not standard practice for me, though. After Coltrane, I’d given up on sex. It’s too messy, too involved, too…intimate. I don’t like letting people in that deep, pun not intended. But I think that’s why Ace’s guarded eyes spoke so strongly to me.

  He’s working up a sweat. I thought for sure he’d spend himself by now, but he’s still going strong, much to the distress of my increasingly sore thighs. He has more stamina than a camel in the desert. I squeeze my inner muscles, ordering myself to concentrate.

  He groans, “That’s right,” and his hand slips underneath my ass to lift me tighter against him. The friction halts my train of thought for a moment. The heavy weight of him feels exquisite. And the way his bicep flexes as he braces himself, one-armed, so he can use his free hand to knead and grip my ass is crazy sexy.

  I close my eyes and try to focus on the sensations rather than how our energetic activity has pulled the fitted sheet away from the mattress so that the elastic rubs uncomfortably against my shoulders. I shift slightly.

  My movement interrupts his rhythm. His head jerks up. “What is it?” he asks. “Am I hurting you?”

  Amazing. He’s sensed my discomfort. I give myself an internal high-five. I knew I’d been right about him. He pulls out, his long shaft dragging against my sensitive tissues, taking all that delicious fullness away. I urge him back inside.

  “No, not at all.” It’s not as if I think sex is a bad thing. It’s that…this is out of character for me.

  I’d gone over to him tonight, intending only to introduce myself, and, somehow, his big hand found its way under my skirt, and his hot mouth whispered in my ear about how it was time for us to get a car home or everyone was going to know the color of my panties.

  “Your pussy is so tight.” He was that graphic in the bar, too, except there he’d said, “How wet can I get you?”

  I’ve never had a man speak to me like that before, never had someone want me so intensely. I caved. I walked out of the bar with him, into an Uber, and climbed two flights of stairs, draping myself over his wide, muscled frame like I was some kind of human cloak.

  Mentally, I was with him until the clothes came off and the condom came on. It wasn’t the first real glimpse of his massive dick that scared me off; it was the whole plundering thing. Sex isn’t merely an invasion of your body, but of the mind, too. I’d forgotten that, forgotten why Colt and I broke up only a couple weeks after my first time. I don’t like people in my head.

  “Bryant.” Ace says my name with some urgency.

  My eyes pop open to meet his. He gives me a penetrating stare—one that I meet with intentionally guileless eyes. I respond non-verbally, squeezing his dick in what I hope is an invitation to continue. Just because I can’t come doesn’t mean he should miss out.

  “Is there a different position you wanna try?” he asks as he slides forward. His hips shift, searching for that elusive G-spot.

  I suppose I could fake it.

  I moan.

  He stops immediately and the piercing stare becomes suspicious scrutiny. “Did you just fake a moan?”

  My mouth falls open in surprise. I didn’t imagine he’d be this perceptive. My daddy said Ace was more ornery than a wild dog caught in a trap. Ty Masters, the team captain, wondered if bringing in this rejected QB was going to tear the team apart instead of carrying them to the promised land of national championships and first-round draft slots. My Alpha Omega sisters at Western State warned us that Ace Anderson was a pussy hound and not a very nice one.

  “Bryant,” he prompts. My name sounds strange and almost exotic coming from his mouth. It’s nearly one clipped syllable
instead of the two long ones most of the southern boys around me use.

  “What?” I ask, not sure if I’d missed a question and wondering if I could pass off my inattention on a lust-induced fugue. I lower my lids to make it look like I’m a little drunk on passion.

  “You not a fan of the missionary?” His tone is real dry. I can’t exactly read his expression through my shielded gaze. Is that exasperation on his face?

  “No. I like the missionary just fine.”

  “You sure? Because it seems like it might not be your favorite, what with the porn star moan and all.”

  “That was not a porn star moan,” I huff indignantly. A little panicked at how this night is devolving, I try deflecting, “Are you not enjoying this?”

  “I’m enjoying it. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  What kind of pussy hound asks these sorts of questions? I shift again, except the discomfort is from Ace’s inspection and not the elastic under my shoulder. “The sheet was bothering me.”

  Immediately, he swings into action, somehow pulling me down the bed and smoothing out the sheet at the same time. He’s got the expert touch, I think with a slight smile.

  That curve of my lips is enough encouragement for Ace, because he resumes the slow pump of his hips against mine. I close my eyes again and let my hips lift to meet his.

  He’s really good at this. Really good. The fact that he’s trying so hard, that he’s so attuned to my needs, confirms my earlier gut feeling. It doesn’t matter that my daddy warned me that circumstances at Ace’s old school made him extra prickly or that some of his new teammates watched him warily at training camp, as if he was hiding something more than a monster cock in his khakis.

  The owner of said cock pauses once more and says, “Where are you?” as if he knows that I’m not fully in the moment.

  I shake my head and prod him with my heels. “Right here.” I bite my lower lip for good measure and add in another small, not so fake moan. I mean, it does feel good.

  “No, no, you’re not. I may be an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole.” He rocks his hips against me once more before pulling out.

  “What kind of asshole is that exactly?” I frown, watching as he flops down next to me. Did he really just stop in the middle of sex?

  “The kind that takes a girl to bed, busts his nut and skates before giving her an orgasm.”

  This isn’t going how I anticipated—at all. “Honey, I was enjoying myself. You bring that bad boy right back where it was.”

  He dips his head so his mouth is but an inch away from my ear.

  “I’m happy to fuck you any way you like, Bryant. You tell me if you want it harder, softer. If you want to be on your knees or bent over the side of the mattress. If you want to be outside, just in case someone wants to catch us, or you want to watch a little porn while we do it. I’m all for any of those things. There’s no judgment. All I ask is that you tell me what you need.”

  My cheeks heat. “I’m not much of a talker.”

  To my huge surprise, he laughs. “Bryant, I’ve known you all of about six hours, and I’d say you were anything but quiet. You’re not into it and there’s not anything more deflating than a girl who isn’t interested.”

  His still-hard dick sort of makes a lie of his statement and I point it out. “You don’t look deflated.”

  “Well, my little brain hasn’t caught up with the big one yet, but it’ll happen.” He looks around. “Pass me the remote?”

  A trifle baffled, I pluck the gadget off the nightstand and hand it to him.

  “You seen Stranger Things yet?” he asks, turning on the television.

  “I’ve been meaning to.”

  “Me, too. Why don’t we take a breather?” It’s not really a question. “We can revisit this after an episode.”

  He flicks expertly through the controls until he pulls up the show. While the synthesized instrumental starts playing, I wait for his next move, because surely he’s not just stopping. But his eyes stay glued to the screen, while mine…well, mine are sorta glued to his cock, which doesn’t deflate at all like he promised.

  Eventually, I give up, because even though his cock is still hard, he makes no moves in my direction. I get up, go to the bathroom, and take care of business. The smart thing to do would be to call another Uber and head home, but it’s late and I’m tired. Plus, I’m not prepared to answer a dozen and one questions from my sorority sisters when I get home.

  The best course of action is to spend the night here and pretend I slept at my parents’ house. Ace doesn’t seem in a hurry for me to leave. When I return to the bedroom, he’s lying in the exact same position—one hand tucked under his head, the other holding the remote. If not for the missing condom, I would’ve sworn he hadn’t moved an inch.

  I climb back into bed, cover myself up, and fall asleep to the sounds of four boys in a basement cursing like sailors.s

  Ace

  The alarm on my phone wakes me. I sit up with a jolt, then roll over to look at the screen. Shit. I have to be at practice in twenty minutes. I must’ve hit snooze one too many times in the morning.

  I quickly look around for my clothes and spot them folded in an uncharacteristically neat pile on the seat of my desk chair. Usually I fling my shit around. I pull my Dry-FIT shirt over my head, tug on a pair of compression shorts, and shove my legs into a pair of sweats. My flips are nowhere to be seen.

  Then I remember I kicked them off at the door. Horror floods me as I remember the rest of the night. The girl I brought home, the fact that I didn’t get her off, and the worst part? I fell asleep after promising to make it up to her.

  A clank of a pan against a stove jerks me from my trip down nightmare lane. A different kind of fear creeps up my spine. The only kitchen appliance my roommates know how to use is the microwave. From the sounds and smell of it, my failed one-night stand is cooking breakfast and expecting some major post-coital bonding.

  At least I remember her name. It’s Bryant, as in Bear Bryant, she informed me at the bar. She was a jock chaser—the type of girl that likes to sleep with D1 athletes solely because they’re D1 athletes. Before last night, I’d seen her around the practice facility and at the bar where the athletes hang out after a long day of drills.

  I have no problem with groupies. I make regular use of them. Athletes and jersey chasers have a symbiotic relationship. If I wasn’t wearing the Southern U Renegades on my chest, these ladies wouldn’t give me the time of day. And with groupies, I don’t have to call them the next day. They know how the game is played.

  Last night, Bryant turned her doe eyes in my direction and I figured, why not. I’d been a good boy for all of camp. No girls, head down, trying to fit in with my new team as best as possible. It’s not working. The timing with my star wide receiver and roommate, Carter, is still off.

  In the huddle, their eyes are full of wariness and suspicion. Doesn’t matter how many plays I make during practice, I haven’t proven myself on the field and until I do, judgment is still pending. In one week, we play our first game, and if we don’t win the opener—I shove that out of my head. No fear. That’s the only mindset to have.

  People accuse quarterbacks of being arrogant, but you have to be. If you don’t believe you’re a winner, neither will anyone on your team, and that sort of mentality can poison a whole season. I rotate my shoulder, reminding myself that my golden arm has already gotten me a full-ride scholarship, a national championship, and a boatload of prime pussy.

  But the glory days are coming to an end. I run an option offense where my gut plays almost as big of a role as my arm. I know when to run and when to flip a hand-off. These skills serve me well in college, but pro teams want a pocket passer, so when college is over, I’ll be like my old man—hocking medical supplies to nurses and office managers while bragging about my good old days.

  I might as well take advantage of all the women who throw themselves my way now. When Bryant came and sat next to me, all curves
and welcoming smiles, I sat back and soaked up the attention.

  The guys knew her. She was immediately accepted at our table, which confirmed my guess that she was a jock chaser, albeit a well-liked one. The kind who keeps her mouth shut but her legs open.

  As the night wore on, all I could think of was one thing—how to get my dick inside her tight pussy. She was with me the whole way. Her hand was squeezing my dick the entire Uber ride from the bar to my apartment, and my fingers were wet from dipping inside of her panties.

  Her mouth was eating mine as we stumbled into the apartment. I kissed her creamy thighs and then licked the seam between those thighs until her nails were digging into my scalp. She urged me into the bedroom and had a condom around my dick faster than I could say her strange name.

  But ten minutes into it and then fifteen minutes into it, I knew that she was on the verge of faking it. I pulled out. She put up a cursory protest. One thing about these southerners, they smile even as they’re cursing you out. But I wasn’t about to force myself on anyone. Kicking her out after I failed to make her come didn’t feel right, either.

  The guys probably like her more than they like me, so booting her out after I’d failed in bed wouldn’t generate anything but trouble. Instead, I turned on the television and figured I’d try again.

  But I must’ve fallen asleep first.

  Fuck.

  And now she’s still here.

  Double fuck.

  I force my feet to move in the direction of the kitchen. This is part of my purgatory. I was banished from my previous school for fucking around with the coach’s daughter, and now I’m going to be branded as the guy who couldn’t even get a groupie off.

  I walk slowly down the hall.

  “You’re awake.” Bryant’s smile is bright enough to match the sun. I focus on a spot over her shoulder.