Schooling the Jock #1
Summary:Only an unfair universe makes a guy who’s that gorgeous so damned obnoxious.
A-hoe!
Poindexter!
Snarky, superbrain Dobbs and snooty football star Jesse stare at each other from their rival frat houses on opposites sides of the street -- and opposite sides of everything else.
Alpha Lambda Alpha and Sigma Mu Tau have been sworn enemies for decades. Then one disastrous prank proves to be the last straw, and the college dean blows his cork!
Work together or lose both your houses.
Question - -How can Dobbs win his coveted Quiz Bowl championship with when he’s forced to put a dumb jock on his team?
Answer -- Lots of personal schooling.
But when personal becomes very personal, Jesse risks causing his overtaxed family one more huge worry and the running back starts running.
Will Dobbs give up on the shocked jock, or show him that the answer to the big question is, Yes?
SCHOOLING THE JOCK is an enemies-to-lovers, opposites attract, campus romance – with one hell of a lightning round.
Coaching the Nerd #2
Summary:Super-bod meets super-brain
What happens when marshmallow-bodied supernerd Sean volunteers to be on the jocks’ flag-football team? It screws Bubba’s fraternity’s chances at the coveted flag football title, that’s what.
Bubba is drafted to be Sean’s personal trainer. He has to whip Sean into shape and make sure he doesn’t F up their team.
Sean may be a supernerd, but to Bubba he’s funny, and wise, and kinda cute. He’s also the one person on campus who doesn’t see Bubba as a big, stupid jock.
One BIG problem. Sean’s motivation for getting into shape is to lose his virginity -- and Bubba isn’t happy when guys start sniffing around.
But Bubba’s straight. Isn’t he?
Can a big, dumb jock from Nowhere, Wisconsin change his whole life for a genius who just wants to get laid?
COACHING THE NERD is a total makeover, opposites attract, My Fair Lady trope, bi awakening, campus romance – that grabs your flag.
Schooling the Jock #1
CHAPTER 1
Dobbs
In hindsight, the prank that brought down the wrath of God—or at least, the wrath of Dean Robberts—was one of the weakest and most harmless pranks we Sigma Mu Taus had ever pulled against the Alpha Lambda Alphas. Over the years, we’d put itch powder in their laundry, delivered pizza made with extra hot peppers, and rigged some pretty elaborate ruses, all a part of our ongoing feud with the rival frat house across the street. But this? This one was peanuts. Most of us didn't even know about it beforehand, not until the sirens and the flashing lights flooded our street making it look like our entire block was holding a retro ’70s disco party.
The Sigma Mu Tau frat house is on a street of frat houses just off campus at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Over fifty frats and sororities occupy big old homes around the university. Ours is a turn-of-the-century Victorian with a round cupola on one side and a wide gray porch. Only about fifteen percent of the student body are in fraternities and sororities, but the influence of the Greeks, as we’re called, is outsized. A lot of the brightest guys with the highest GPAs are SMTs, while the biggest athletic stars—or dumbest jocks, depending on how you look at it—are ALAs.
I'd been cramming for a computer architecture test in my flannel PJ bottoms and a thermal shirt when the sirens began. It was as good an excuse as any to take a break, so I grabbed a coat, stuffed my feet into some dodgy old loafers, and jogged down the stairs and out the front door. A half dozen of my frat bros were already on the lawn, watching as an ambulance rolled to a stop across the street, joining a jumble that included several cop cars and a massive fire truck. Being January, the night air was cold, and a thin layer of snow crunched under my feet as I crossed the front lawn.
The center of attention appeared to be the huge brown craftsman-style house of the ALAs. We called them, the A-hoes. It was a house full of assholes, each one bigger and more obnoxious than the next. And now, apparently, they were on fire. I didn't see flames at the front of the house, but there was a haze visible in the night air, and the acrid sting of smoke hit my throat.
"Ha! Now what did those geniuses do?" I asked Jax as I sidled up beside him, grinning.
Jax was our fraternity president and one of my best friends. He normally appreciated my sense of humor, but the glare he shot me was anything but amused. He stroked his red-brown beard and resumed his vigil of the A-hoe house, his arms crossed over a UW hoodie, his lips pressed tight.
"What is it? What's wrong?" I asked, my smile fading.
"Billings and Johnson set fire to the A-hoe kitchen."
"What?" I gasped. Billings and Johnson were our guys. "Do they know it was them? I mean, what happened? Why would they do that?"
He shook his head in disgust and didn't answer.
Shit. This could be bad. We were already on shaky ground with the dean. I looked around and saw Billings and Johnson across the lawn talking to Felix and Sai. They were back in the shadows of the yew hedge that flanked one side of the Sigma Mu Tau property, as if they didn't want to be seen.
Billings and Johnson were juniors. They looked like twins—both slender with longish brown hair and brown eyes. But they weren't related at all. They came from the same small town, though, had been best friends growing up, and now roomed together on the third floor. You rarely saw them apart.
In fact, I wasn't sure I'd ever heard the name Billings separate from Johnson in a conversation. They were practically the same entity, like some two-headed carnival attraction. It made sense if one of them had pulled a prank, the other had been right there with him.
I jogged over there. "Jax said you guys did something? What happened?"
Felix answered. "They burnt popcorn in the A-hoe's microwave and started a fire."
"They couldda burnt the whole house down!" Sai snorted.
"We just wanted to make some smelly smoke!" Billings insisted hotly. "The A-hoes had date night tonight."
Ah. Motive revealed. Billings had a crush on Jennifer Tyson, a football cheerleader who was dating one of the A-hoes. Of course, he'd be up for anything that would disrupt date night.
Felix grinned. “On the plus side, we get to see a bit more of the divine Jennifer and her sorority sisters than they might have planned due to the popcorn incident.” He ogled the ALA lawn where a few of their dates were clutching sweaters and coats over underwear. Felix appreciated anything female.
"Okay… but burning popcorn shouldn't start a fire," I said.
"It turns out that when you set the microwave timer for thirty minutes, and it's an old and crappy one, it actually does start a fire," said Sai. His tone held an obnoxious glee that was totally inappropriate given the potential repercussions of the situation.
Then again, Sai Patel was often inappropriate. He was slender, had a bit of a slouch, black floppy hair, and glasses. On top of his questionable social skills, he was also a pain to live in a house with because of his OCD. But we put up with him because he was a fucking god at Quiz Bowl. Hence his nickname Sai-ber Attack.
"It's not our fault that no one in their house bothered to check on the noxious fumes coming out of the kitchen," groused Billings. "Like, imma just ignore that the house reeks like fried ass. Who does that?"
Johnson nodded adamantly. "Right? And apparently their smoke alarm was busted. That's not our fault either."
Despite their bravado, I could tell they were worried.
My gaze went back to Jax, who was still looking across at all the emergency vehicles, hugging himself now. He was protective of Sigma Mu Tau and our reputation. Every line of his body looked tense. We were already on probation after the infamous Dog Poop Incident in September.
That one? That one had definitely been our fault.
Billings stepped closer to me and spoke low. "How bad do you think it'll be, Dobbs?"
"Uh…depends on how much damage was done to the house. And if anyone was hurt." I eyed the ambulance across the way. It was hard to tell because of the angle, but it looked like a guy was sitting on the ground behind it, blanket over his shoulders, maybe being given oxygen? Crap.
"Look at the bright side!" Sai chortled. "The A-hoes won't host a date night for a while! Ha ha!"
Yeah, no. Read the room, Sai.
"Everyone just chill. They'll probably think it was one of their guys who started the popcorn," Felix said.
"That would be fortunate," I agreed. "Though I'm sure the cops'll try to find the guy."
"Just because no one fesses up, that doesn't mean they didn't do it," reasoned Felix. "I mean, if we just keep our mouths shut—"
"Uh, guys? We might have been seen sneaking around the side of their house after we started the popcorn," Billings admitted sheepishly. "Two A-hoes came walking out their front door just as we went past. We ran. But they shouted at us. So."
I groaned. "Are you kidding me? Are you trying to get us all expelled?"
"A-plus on the ninja skills." Felix rolled his eyes.
Johnson looked miserable. "We can't get expelled. Our folks will kill us." He and Billings looked at me pleadingly.
They wanted reassurance. And as the Sigma Mu Tau Membership Coordinator, they wanted me to give it to them. I could do that. "Hey, as Grammy Dobson always said, There's no use anticipating trouble. I'm sure it'll be fine."
I didn't tell them that the rest of Grammy Dobson's saying was, ’Cause it'll hit you in the balls from outta the blue more times than not."
As it turned out, the punishment that rained down on us was not expulsion. No, it was much, much worse.
Jesse
Jesus. Hacking up a lung. “Ow!”
I stepped back into the same attack holly bush I’d run into twice already, but the lawn of the ALA house was so crowded with people, it was hard to avoid. My too-thin-for-January-in-Wisconsin sleep pants now sported a rip while I was suffering a serious shrinkage factor.
Who the fuck set our house on fire?
Firefighters in bright-yellow uniforms pushed into the front door of our house, and the lawn was covered with my Alpha Lambda Alpha frat brothers and their dates in various stages of undress. It’d been a date night. Well, not for me, but still.
Coughing, I sidled over to Tray. “Hey. What the hell happened? Was it Bubba?” God knows it wouldn’t be the first time Bubba’d decided to dry his jock in the oven.
Traynor Blackstone, my best friend on the campus, shook his head. “No clue.” He turned his handsome face and really looked at me. “What happened to you? One minute, I handed you a beer and then poof.”
“Had to study.”
“Come on, my man. I know you’ve got tough-ass classes, but football season’s over, and date night’s sacred.”
I shrugged and stared at the sneakers I’d managed to rummage from under my bed before I ran out the door. “Got an exam.”
He barked a laugh. “One of these days, Mr. Running Back, we’ll hook you up with a female so fine you’ll turn in your texts for sexts.”
“Could happen.” I smiled. But not in this life.
“We’ve got to get you out of your ivory tower somehow, my man.”
I just shrugged. Not much I could say. Tray was my friend. I loved the guy, but no one, even him, had ever gotten me to tell the truth.
He shook his head, but it was friendly. “Come on.” He pushed through the masses of coughing people and trip-hazard hoses to Rand, the president and all-around phenom of the human kind. Rand was so perfect he made me antsy. I liked and respected him. Hell, he was the only ALA who’d ever had the nerve to come out as gay, and he was still so admired, the chapter put him in charge. Maybe I just couldn’t stand the comparison. Tray, however, saw everyone as his equal. One of the best qualities in a friend.
“Rand, what the fuck up?”
“Not sure yet, but I’m getting a damned clue.” He spoke from the corner of his mouth and never took his eyes off the SMT house across the street. Like all the other frat houses on the block, their guys were out on the lawn staring at the chaos that was ALA. I’d never tell my brothers, but some of those dudes were seriously cute.
I crossed my sneakered feet.
But then I’d never tell my brothers I thought any dude was cute.
Tray thrust his chin toward Rand. “Share.”
Rand turned and lowered his voice. “JC and Rex say they saw a couple of the Poins sneaking out from behind our house like forty-five minutes ago.”
The Poins were what we called the frat bros at Sigma Mu Tau. Short for Poindexters, aka nerds.
The words shot out of my mouth. “The Poins set fire to our fucking house?” I bit my tongue because Rand really looked at me, and that made me want to go back to the holly bush. But damn, ratfucking with practical jokes was one thing. Burning down a frat house—my frat house—was way beyond. Just the thought made me breathe hard, and I had to suck air in through my nose. Hell, the cost of living in the frat house was doable for me—barely. If I had to move? I shied away from the thought.
Rand said, “I don’t know. But if they did it, Dean Robberts is going to eat their balls for breakfast.” He grinned evilly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Tray chuckled.
All three of us stared across the street. The SMT president, Jax, stared back. He was kind of a hipster with a beard and wool beanie permanently attached to his head. Rand hated his guts. Next to him was that skinny guy, Dobbs, who was so obnoxious there should be a restraining order on his mouth. Our rivalry with the SMTs was tradition and kept the ALAs on their toes. But when it came down to it, I had way bigger things in my life to worry about than those douchebags. If the rivalry fucked with my house and my scholarship, then, hell yeah, the SMTs and I had a significant problem.
Coaching the Nerd #2
Chapter 1
Sean
“Go back! Go back! Go back!”
Go back to what? my brain queried. Simpler times? Home? The starting line?
Or perhaps to the moment before I volunteered to be on the Alpha Lambda Alpha flag football team. Yes, let’s go back to that, please.
I watched guys scurry around the large, open field next to the University of Wisconsin, Madison, baseball diamond but could discern no rhyme or reason to their movements, and therefore, they were difficult to emulate. There was so much stopping and then there’d be what looked like a random melee. I’d read the flag football rules online, so I knew the focus was on the football, but surely there must be more rules to this game than the three-sentence description that was given to me at—
The group scattered like a flock of birds startled into flight, and then they were heading right at me.
Um.
I turned and attempted to run away.
“Ooof.” I staggered as a body collided with mine. I turned to see the flag football team captain, Tray Blackstone, scowling at me.
“How the fuck are you always in the way?” he demanded rudely, his lip curled up. He ran on past me, half-backward, looking in the distance.
Well, if he was running in that direction, perhaps I should as well?
Wait. Wait. I saw the ball now. A guy named Rex had it and was weaving as he ran.
Should I go after him? Was he on the opposing team? Well, that seemed like relevant information, didn’t it? I should have been apprised of who was on what team. Printed rosters, perhaps, could be distributed at the start of each game. Or colored shirts distinctive enough to visually distinguish Team X from Team O? They likely had that for league games, but since this was a practice session, everyone wore ordinary clothes, mostly layers of sweats and thermals on this rainy, muddy January day. Still, surely it wouldn’t require too much organization if players wore either a plain white or plain black T-shirt even for practice games. Surely it wasn’t only newbies like me who would benefit from such?
Oh dear. I was the only person left standing in this entire part of the field. Everyone else was down near the goal at the south end. I jogged in that direction, trying my best to locate the—
“Sean! It’s Sean, right? Are you just gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna play?”
I looked at the huge guy jogging toward me. I knew his name was Bubba. Everybody on campus knew that. He was distinctive among the student body for his bulk—had to be at least 6’5” and closer to 300 pounds than 200. His head, with its closely-shorn dark hair and beard, loomed above everyone else on campus. I’d heard his booming laugh coming from the ALA’s front lawn on nights when they had parties over there and I had my window open while studying. He’d never looked at me before, though, and he might have been scary jogging toward me except that his brown eyes were friendly.
He stopped a few feet from me and put his hands on his hips. “Sean, dude, you gonna play?”
“Yes. Well. I was just trying to figure out exactly what I should be doing. To play the game, I mean. It’s rather fast-paced, isn’t it? And no one explained the, er, teams.”
He got a befuddled look and rubbed his palm over his hair. “Um. Okay.” He glanced down the field. He was sweaty and glowing in that robust, athletic way. He looked as if he belonged here—a cell swimming happily around in its host environment. Feeling as out of place as I did, I was envious.
“So, look, Sean, all you gotta do is prevent the other team from getting to the goal with the ball. Only instead of tackling them to stop ’em, you grab the flag out of their belt. If someone grabs your flag, you have to stop and you lose the ball. And that’s it.” His thick fingers flipped one of the blue plastic flags on the belt he wore around his waist. Everyone wore the belts with blue flags, even me, since I’d been handed one at the start.
I pushed up my glasses. “Yes, thank you. That sounds like essentially what I read online. But I’m unclear which of these players is on my team. What if I accidentally take a flag from the wrong person? I imagine they’d be quite put out.”
He blinked at me for half a beat, then laughed. It was a head-back full belly laugh that sounded almost musical “They’ll be quite put out! Ha ha! You’re funny, Sean!” He knocked my shoulder with one large fist. It would have sent me sideways if I hadn’t seen it coming and braced for it. “So funny!”
“Uh… thanks?”
“Which team are you on?”
I looked at him blankly. “That would be another point that should have been made clear to me before the game started. But I think—”
Bubba held up his hands in a wait gesture. “Never mind. You’ll be on my team, okay?”
I frowned. “Is Tray on your team? Because he told me—”
“Look, just forget who else is where. You’re on my team, got it? And that’s our goal.” He pointed down the field to the north end, which was the opposite of where everyone else was currently clustered. “If you get the ball, you head that way with it. If someone else has the ball and is running toward the opposite end, you run after them and grab the guy’s flag. And that’s all there is to it.”
“Yes, but how do I know if the person who has the ball is on my team?” I repeated, feeling like I was missing something obvious.
His brow furrowed. “Dude. If they’re running that way with the ball, they’re not on your team,” Bubba said, pointing again to the enemy end zone.
“Ah, yes, I see! That’s completely understandable.”
I felt like someone had just explained the theory of relativity to me for the first time. It made sense people running in that direction with the ball must be on the enemy team.
Unless, of course, that person was confused. But it was likely they were all experienced. Surely I was the only confused player on the field. Therefore, as Bubba said, I should be able to safely assume that people heading toward the south goal line were on the opposing team.
But what if they were standing still? If they weren’t going one way or the other, I wouldn’t be able to tell which team they were on.
Never mind. There was a workaround for that. I resolved to ignore such a person and only take the flag from a player when I could clearly tell the direction of their motion. That was sound logic.
Wait.
“So let’s—” Bubba began.
“Hang on. One last question,” I interrupted. “What if a player is heading toward the opposing goal line, but it’s just a feint? That happens, doesn’t it? Perhaps they’re running that way to dodge around another player and then they’ll run back toward our team’s goal line. Or what if they’re trying to psyche out the other team? In such a scenario, I could incorrectly assume they’re not on my team and take their flag erroneously.”
To my consternation, Bubba threw back his head and laughed again, loud and hard, like I’d just made the funniest joke. “You’re a card, Sean. Seriously, man!” Bubba hit me in the shoulder again. “So you’ve got it, right? We’re all clear?” His tone was a little patronizing.
I frowned. “Well, I’m not stupid.”
Bubba grinned. “I sure as hell hope not.” He looked me up and down. “Because if you were stupid on top of that, you sure would have been dealt a raw deal in life.”
“Hey!” I glared at him, knowing an insult when I heard one.
He just chuckled. “Come on! Let’s go get ’em!” He ran off toward the cluster of players near the south goal line.
I was a little miffed, honestly, but perhaps he was teasing me. His manner hadn’t seemed cruel. I shook it off and jogged behind him. The other players were momentarily stopped, most of them with hands on knees, waiting for something. Ah, yes, it looked like they were preparing to hike the ball. I’d seen that on TV.
Not sure what else to do, I ran toward the southern goal line. Perhaps it would be best to position myself near there and try to stop anyone who attempted to cross the line with the ball. Rather like a goalie? I wasn’t the only one with this idea, however, as there were a half-dozen ALA players already in the area. I found a hole toward the left and took up a position facing the play.
There was a whistle and a scramble. Tray ran backward, holding up the ball and scanning ahead.
There. He was running backward, toward the north end, yet he appeared to be intent on the southern goal. That was exactly the sort of scenario—
“Sean! Catch!” he yelled. He sent the ball sailing right toward me.
Oh. Oh shit.
I held up my arms. Perhaps I should have informed everyone beforehand that I’d never played ball before. I’d never caught a football in my life. Oh fuck.
The ball sailed over my outstretched arms and struck me, the pointy end slamming into my sternum. There was a bolt of pain and I couldn’t breathe. But somehow, I managed to fold my arms in and hang on to the ball. I was quite proud of myself for that, even as I gasped for air.
“Run!” someone was shouting. “Run, Sean!”
Oh. Yes.
I paused only a fraction of a second, half turning toward the goal line shortly behind me. But then, of course, I remembered. I started running, hugging the ball, toward the north end.
Dear God, it was far away. Did I really have to run all that way?
For a moment, everyone just looked at me. And I wondered if, perhaps, because I was the new guy, they were giving me a head start? That was sporting of them.
Where were the boundaries? My instinct was to curve left, to escape what would surely be an assault at any moment since I was holding the ball. But going out of bounds was an offense that earned a penalty, according to the rules I’d read online. But the lines, on this practice field, were not marked. How far left was too far?
“Sean, what the fuck are you doing?” shouted Tray.
And then everyone ran at me all at once. The disgust in Tray’s shout told me I was doing something wrong, but I was committed now and also really wanted to avoid the dozen people heading my way. This must be what a rabbit felt like when it’s released from a cage in front of a pack of hounds. My lungs were working again, thankfully, and I sucked in lungs full of air and ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast on the slippery wet grass.
A multitude of hands reached for me. I tried to dodge and stepped into a skid mark slick with mud. I flailed, losing the ball as my arms waved for balance, but it was no use.
As if in slow motion, I felt flags being yanked off my belt even as I sailed through the air. I tried to grab onto someone’s arm to stop my fall, but they pulled away and my effort was in vain. I landed, spectacularly, in a thick ooze of mud.
Have you ever seen that video of milk droplets forming a veritable crown as a drop falls into a pool of milk in slow motion? That was probably what it looked like as I face-planted right into the thick of it, and the mud splashed up all around my head.
It was disgusting—cold and slimy and gritty. I managed not to breathe it in, but I could taste the dirt and feel it in my mouth as I sat up, spluttering. My knee hurt badly—probably skinned—as did my wrist and palm where I’d tried to catch myself.
People were laughing and someone—Tray, I think—berated me using the word fuck liberally. But my glasses were covered with mud, so I couldn’t see. Shame and humiliation burned through me as I sat, the mud now soaking through my sweatpants to coat my butt. I removed my glasses to attempt to clean them, but the mud still stung in my eyes and my shirt was soaked. I wouldn’t cry. I would not cry.
Someone squatted down in front of me as I attempted to wipe slime out of my eyes with my sleeve. He took the glasses from my hand. Even though he was a little blurry, I could see it was Bubba. I blinked to clear my vision and watched as he cleaned my muddy lenses on his gray sweatshirt. His tongue poked out in concentration, and when they were clean, he looked at my face and carefully put the glasses back on, tucking each end behind my ears with utter focus. Then he met my gaze and smiled at me sheepishly. “Um… turns out you were on Tray’s team. Sorry. My bad.”
A silly bubble of warmth bloomed in my chest at his kindness. “Oh,” I said. “Yes, I thought that’s what Tray said at the start. I should have been more insistent.”
Bubba’s smile widened. “Yeah, it’s pretty much always a good idea not to listen to me.” He shrugged, but there was something in the self-deprecating remark that made me wonder. He held out his hand. “Lemme help you up.”
He pulled me to my feet. I winced when I put weight on the leg with the skinned knee and my hand hurt. With my lenses clean, I could see Tray standing there with his arms crossed, looking at me with what could only be termed disgust.
“It’s my fault.” Bubba told him. “I told Hedgehog—er, Sean—he was on my team and he should run that way.”
“Bubba, what the fuck!” Tray said loudly, but then he rolled his eyes and the tension eased, like maybe it wasn’t that big a deal.
“Yeah, well, Bubba strikes again,” Bubba said with another shrug. “Anyhow, Sean needs to go home and clean up. So fuck off, dudes.”
Bubba put his arm around my shoulder and helped me limp off the field. At the far end, I could swear he gave me a little pat on the rump as he shooed me off toward home like a child. “See ya, Sean,” he said, a little downheartedly.
“It’s not your fault,” I said. It absolutely was his fault, but he’d been trying to be helpful, which was more than I could say for anyone else on the team. But Bubba was already jogging away, back toward the game.
I managed to get upstairs at the Sigma Mu Tau house without encountering anyone or having to explain why I was covered in mud. I took a shower using soap to clean a scraped area on my knee and palm, applied antibiotic from my first aid kit, and put on some comfy PJs.
Then I sat on my bed. My roommate, Dobbs, was out. I should study, but I didn’t.
It had started to rain again and I stared out the window, unable to get certain words out of my head.
“Well, I sure as hell hope not. Because if you were stupid on top of that, you sure would have been dealt a raw deal in life.”
That being my body, which was woefully pale, weak, and pathetic, like the guy who gets sand kicked in his face in those old Jack LaLanne ads. That was the objective truth, so why should Bubba’s words hurt me? He hadn’t even been mean. He’d been nice to me, in fact.
Did that make it worse? Possibly.
Well, of course I was out of shape! Why did he think I volunteered to play ridiculous flag football in the first place? Yes, I wanted to help my fraternity meet Dean Robbert’s ultimatum. The dean told my frat, the Sigma Mu Taus, that we had to have two of our guys on the Alpha Lambda Alpha flag football team, and two of their guys on our Quiz Bowl team, to prove we could all work together. It was either that or face the disbarment of both our houses. Of course, I didn’t want that to happen. But mostly, I volunteered because it gave me a chance to get in shape. I mean, those ALAs were buff. They were cool and good-looking, and I figured some of that could rub off on me.
I was a senior. It was January. I only had a few months left of my undergrad years. And I was still a virgin. I’d spent my high school years taking advanced classes and having no social life. My social life now consisted of role-playing games, video games, and watching Jeopardy with my SMT housemates.
I knew where I was going in life. My parents were both geneticists. They worked for the same company—that was how they met. Genome sequencing. They were dedicated and worked long hours at their research and didn’t do much else. That would be my life too. But before that, until then, I wanted to… to….
To live a little. I wanted to step outside the box, do something un-Sean McKinney-like. I wanted to party, to ride in fast cars, to have wild-and-crazy casual sex.
Or any sex!
I wanted to get into better shape, so maybe, before I graduated, someone might want to have sex with me.
My palm stung. I pulled back the dressing to peek at it. I felt my stubborn streak kick in.
Screw you, Alpha Lambda Alpha, you A-hoes. If you think a little scrape is going to discourage me, you’ve got another thing coming. I will play flag football. And I’ll get in shape too!
Saturday Series Spotlight
Part 1
Eli EastonHaving been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Tara Lain believes in happy ever afters – and magic. Same thing. In fact, she says, she doesn’t believe, she knows. Tara shares this passion in her stories that star her unique, charismatic heroes and a few adventurous heroines. Quarterbacks and cops, werewolves and witches, blue collar or billionaires, Tara’s characters, readers say, love deeply, resolve seemingly insurmountable differences, and ultimately live their lives authentically. After many years living in southern California, Tara, her soulmate honey and her soulmate dog decided they wanted less cars and more trees, prompting a move to Ashland, Oregon where Tara’s creating new stories and loving living in a small town with big culture. Likely a Gryffindor but possessed of Parseltongue, Tara loves animals of all kinds, diversity, open minds, coconut crunch ice cream from Zoeys, and her readers.
Eli Easton
Coaching the Nerd #2
Series
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