I laugh, then cover it with a cough. My mother is the definition of overprotective. I can't blame her, though. I'm sure my brother Drew and I have given her plenty of cause for having a heart attack over the years.
"You laugh," she says. "But if you are, so help me, Colton Anderson King, I will come down there myself and –"
"I'm not on drugs, mom," I interrupt before she completely spirals out of control. "You know they test us for that shit anyway. And I'm only younger than Drew by two minutes."
A fact that Drew has loved to remind me about ever since we were kids.
"I worry," she says. "You have to think about the future, Colton. It can't be parties and girls your whole life. If you get to the pros, all that stuff will still be there."
"And you'll still be giving me grief about parties and girls," I groan back. I've heard this lecture a million times. Be responsible. Think about your future.
"Because I'm your mom and that's what I do," she says, her tone softening. "But you're not going to have a future if you don't get your shit together, Colton King. And I mean that literally. I brought you into this world, remember that."
"Did you just cuss?" I can count on one hand the number of times in my life that I've heard my mother cuss.
"That's what you're driving me to, son!"
"Okay, okay, I get it," I assure her. "I've got to go, mom. They assigned me a tutor. I have to meet with her."
I have to go sweet-talk her into tutoring me.
"Her?" my mom asks. "Is she cute?"
"Mom," I groan. "I'm hanging up."
"You can't blame me for wanting a grandchild someday," she says. “But not now. Make sure you use condoms and –“
"Love you, ma," I say, pausing only for a second for her to say it back before disconnecting. My mother is insane. I'm twenty-one and she's talking about grandchildren.
I text my brother.
You're so fucking dead when I see you again, dude. Sic'ing mom on me? Low. So low.
Drew texts back a photo of himself grinning. My brother and I have been best friends our whole lives. He's playing baseball at a college in South Carolina. It's been a weird adjustment to be separated from my twin, for sure.
I scroll through my photos and find a picture of my dick – yeah, I have dick pics on my phone – and text it to Drew.
Then I get out of the car. This is supposed to be the tutor's address – Coach gave it to me, even though he wasn't supposed to. I promised on pain of death that I was going to be polite and gentlemanly and not do or say anything remotely inappropriate.
I inhale deeply. I can do appropriate.
Fuck. When's the last time I didn't say something inappropriate?
I'm screwed.
5
Cassie
"Roomie," Sable calls, her voice a sing-song.
I stomp out of my room, yanking one of my earbuds out of my ear. "Sable!" I yell. "Stop yelling at me from across the apartment, you lazy b—"
I stop short. The door to our apartment is wide open, and Colton King is standing just inside of it.
He's wearing clothes this time. Thank God.
I give Sable the most deathly death glare I can muster, but she grins anyway, ignoring my obvious ire. She's practically giddy, bouncing as she stands there. "Well," she says, clasping her hands together. "Please come in. I just have something I need to get in my room, so I'll leave you two alone."
"Sable…" I warn half under my breath, but she bounces away. After I kick Colton out of here, I'm going to have to go murder my roommate. The least she could have done was to come back in my room and give me some advance notice that he was here.
"So…" Colton says, his eyes traveling up the length of my body. "I mean, this is – obviously you weren't expecting anyone."
My hand immediately flies to my hair. My hair. Oh God. It's pulled up into a messy ponytail on the very top of my head, the kind where you hastily pull it back without even using a brush. Did I even brush my hair today? I didn't have classes, so I was working on my stupid thesis proposal.
And that means I look like ass.
I'm wearing tattered flannel pajama pants and a grey tank top that used to have a beer logo on it, but is now so faded it looks more like an imprint than a picture. And no bra. Of course.
I'll kill Sable. I will actually murder her with my bare hands.
"Clearly I wasn't expecting anyone," I hiss, crossing my arms over my chest. I can feel my nipples at attention underneath the cotton fabric of the tank top, something the football player probably thinks is hilarious. He's not smirking, though, so at least he hides it relatively well. "Why are you at my house? How did you get my address?"
Colton raises his eyebrows. "I assume the same way you got mine. From my coach."
Touché.
Warily, I eye the flowers he's holding.
"They're not going to explode or anything," he assures me, handing them over.
"You brought flowers," I note flatly. Flowers from a football player? What kind of warped parallel universe did I just enter?
He shrugs. "Chicks like flowers, don't they?"
"Your charm is overwhelming, only surpassed by your sexism."