Sacked (Gridiron #1) by Jen Frederick

we’re not just dancing. We’re pressed as close as two people can get. His leg is so far between mine that I don’t think my feet touch the floor anymore.
    “Masters, we can’t…We shouldn’t…” I can’t even finish my sentences because what are we doing? I don’t even know anymore.
    “I know,” he groans. The guttural moan travels through his body, reverberating against me. At least I’m not the only one caught in this strange thrall. He releases me abruptly, swinging me around toward the edge of the dance floor. All around us people do their own versions of upright sex on the dance floor, and no one notices as we sidle down that dark hall. I don’t know where we’re headed, but I’m going with him.
    The deep bass of the common room fades, but as we reach the end of the hall, a new noise greets us. Masters nudges a door open and my eyes blink at the brightness of the room. Inside, a bunch of athletes hunch over controllers attempting to beat the hell out of each other in a video game. Despite practicing all day, they’re competing to be the best video game football player. The bright light, the congregating jocks, the removal from the heat and sensation on the dance floor is exactly what I need to snap me back to my senses. This is the last place I want to be, and Masters is the last person I should be fooling around with. So much for my declaration of not doing any football player ever again.
    I spin and give Masters a bright smile. “I’m grabbing another Coke.”
    “There’s beverages inside. Plus, your brother is over there.” Masters pushes me into the room, and sure enough Jack sits on the wide sectional, tapping furiously on his buttons. “I’ll go take a piss and then I’ll grab you a Coke. Jack, don’t let your sister leave. We’re arguing over the best athlete of all time and I’m not done making my case for Bo Jackson.”
    “Oh, man, she’s a Jim Thorpe fan.” Jack pats the sofa without taking his eyes off the television screen. “Come sit down, El. Watch me waste this motherfucker.”
    Gee, can I? I plop down on the sofa. I figure that Masters will leave, Jack will forget I’m here, and I’ll be able to make my escape.
    “Don’t go anywhere.” Masters points at me and then jogs away.
    I wait for about thirty seconds and then stand, but before I can walk out, other members of the team stop me.
    “What’d you need?” one asks me.
    “Yeah, Masters said not to go anywhere.”
    Jack looks up. “You going somewhere, El? You can’t leave by yourself. Give me a minute. We’ve got a quarter left, and I’ll walk you home.”
    “Wait for Masters,” someone advises.
    I drop back by Jack, because clearly I’m not leaving until the oh-so-great Masters returns. The good thing is that any lingering desire or interest gets entirely eroded by his absence. In fact, the longer he’s gone and the more I’m forced to watch Jack have his onscreen Andrew Luck throw downfield, the less I care about ever seeing Masters again. I certainly don’t want to dance with him, pressed against his broad frame, or have his rough hands work me over.
    Absolutely not.
    So I focus on Jack and the fact he’s getting his ass handed to him.
    “Try an angle route,” I tell him. “Don’t go long every time.”
    He glowers, but in the next play runs an angle route for a completion. How long does it take to piss and get me a drink? Not as long as Masters has been gone.
    Jack’s opponent, a floppy-haired dirty blond who introduces himself as Eric—call me God—Goodwin, scowls. “Man, you can’t have a coach in here with you. Not fair.”
    Jack shoots his middle finger at Goodwin and mutters under his breath to me, “Pass or run?”
    It’s third and two, and he’s got Frank Gore. Duh. “Run.”
    Jack chooses a trap play, and when the defensive predictably runs toward the opening, Gore shoots through and runs all the way down to the end zone. The room erupts. Jack throws down the controller and