9. Penn

Chapter 9

Penn

T he clock ticks away as I sit alone on the bench in St. Charles University’s locker room, my mind a fucking mess. It’s Saturday afternoon, and the last game of the season against St. James University is about to begin. Last night’s memories are branded into my brain, and I can’t help but think about how I didn’t fuck Reagan.

I was so close; it was right there in my grasp, and I was ready for it. Would have been so fucking easy, but I need to not be sex-whipped. I see what it does to my brothers, and they count on me to clean up our messes. To tie up any and all loose ends and Reagan is a loose end. Sticking my dick in any of her holes is a bad fucking idea, but fuck did I want to. I need to think with my head and not the one swinging between my legs.

My brothers and teammates have already left, their impatient shouts and laughter now only a faint memory. I need to get myself into the zone, focus on the game, but all I see when I close my eyes is Reagan—that cocky smirk, her golden eyes daring me to snap .

I force my thoughts back to the game. I strap on my helmet, feeling the cold metal press against my fingertips as I make sure it’s on good. The scent of my pads and damp grass fills my nostrils, grounding me.

My cleats clatter against the floor as I head to the tunnel.

“About time, man,” Jeremiah grumbles as I step out. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, impatience written all over his face.

“Had to get my head right,” I reply, flashing him a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Better be worth it,” he bites back, but there’s an edge to his voice. We both know what’s really going on. What’s really eating at me. But he won’t say it. Not here. Not now.

I shake my head before pushing past my brother. My mind’s already drifting back to Reagan. I push it down, bury it deep. Not now. Later. After we win. After I’ve shown everyone what I can do.

“Game time,” I declare to the guys surrounding me, stepping forward, leading the way out. The roar of the crowd hits us like a wave, and I let it drown out everything else. For now, it’s just me, the field, and the game. Everything else can wait. Everything else will have to wait.

As I run out, the noise crescendos. The world narrows to a point. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a plan starts to form. A plan for Reagan. But that’s for later. Right now, it’s all about the win.

The band blares our fight song through the stadium, a wave of sound crashing over me. My cleats dig into the turf as we sprint out into the middle of the field, adrenaline pumping hot and fast. The sounds of the crowd are deafening. As usual, I scan the area just out of habit more than anything else .

My gaze lands on the players on the bench before drifting upward and that’s when I see my goddamn Achilles’ heel. Why the fuck is Reagan St. Pierre at a football game? Literally feels like the last place she would be.

She looks like fucking sin, even in her baggy ass hoodie. Her long dark hair cascades down her shoulders, and the black beanie on her fucking head is making me want to paint it with my cum. She sees me, and for a heartbeat, there’s something almost vulnerable in her gaze before it disappears behind that smirk she gives me too damn much.

I look to the right and the left to see who the fuck she’s here with. Guy or girl, I don’t care. No one is getting cozy to my little hellfire.

It’s when I finally zero in on the left of her that I see the empty chair beside her, a gleaming plaque catching the sunlight: ‘Thomas Harris’. Shit, of course. The legendary coach who turned St. James into a football powerhouse. Eight straight championships in the nineties. The pieces click together in my head, faster than I can process them.

I feel the knot in my stomach tighten. Sophia Harris was John St. Pierre’s wife. Which makes Reagan…football royalty. Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what I needed.

“Hey, wildcard!” Coach’s voice pulls me back to reality. “You ready to play fucking football or what?”

“Always,” I snap, though my mind’s still half with Reagan. “Let’s make ‘em regret ever stepping on this field.”

“That’s the spirit,” he laughs, clapping me on the back.

“Let’s go, boys!” I shout, leading the charge.

Our huddle breaks, and the roar of the crowd crashes over us like a tidal wave. The scoreboard glares down—44 - 44, with only four seconds left on the clock. The fucking irony is not lost on me. All these goddamn fours in my face and the score matching my fucking jersey number. The Spartans need this touchdown like they need air.

I glance up at the stands again and look right at her. Without missing a beat, she mouths the words, slow and deliberate: “So are you gonna win or are you gonna choke?”

We line up at the scrimmage. The smell of damp grass and sweat mingles with the metallic tang of adrenaline in the air. The defenders eye me like wolves scenting blood, but they’re not who I’m thinking about.

“Four-four-four! Your move!” My quarterback, my brother yells before time slows to one singular moment.

The snap echoes in my ears, and it sounds like a gunshot. The ball’s in play, and I’m off like a goddamn rocket. My legs pump, muscles scream, breath tearing through my lungs. Everything fades—the roar of the crowd, the pounding heartbeats. It’s just me, the field, and that bitch ass pigskin.

“Penn! Fucking fly you bastard!” Linc’s voice rips through the chaos.

I grunt, eyes locked on the target. I bolt downfield, dodging defenders like they’re standing still.

A blur of brown spirals toward me. Time slows. I leap, fingers stretching, catching the ball with a satisfying thud. Touchdown. The stadium erupts, but all I hear is my own ragged breathing and the pounding in my chest.

“Fuck yeah!” I scream, spiking the ball into the end zone. Victory tastes sweet.

But then I look up, and she’s gone.

Reagan’s seat in the stands is empty, a gaping hole in the sea of cheering faces. My mood drops faster than my cleats hitting the turf. The tension coils tighter inside me, a snake ready to strike.

She wants to play games. Okay bitch, well, I’m about to become fucking Jigsaw.

I shove past teammates who slap my back and shout congratulations.

“Yo, Penn! Party at the football house tonight, you in?” someone yells.

“Maybe later,” I snap, already moving toward the locker room.

Inside, the air’s thick with sweat and adrenaline. Guys are laughing, spraying each other with water bottles. Not me. Not today. I take a scalding fucking shower, washing away the grime, but not the frustration.

I dress in record time, jeans rough against my still-damp skin, t-shirt sticking to wet patches. Hair wild, hat backward. Perfect. Just how she likes it—or would like it if she ever admitted it.

“Hey asshole, you good?” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the haze as I yank my locker open, grabbing my phone.

“Peachy,” I grunt, shoving past him. I got fucking plans and I need to get the damn ball rolling on them. They all slotted together in my head while out on the gridiron.

“Catch you later, ball sac besties,” I call out, not waiting up for them. Outside, the winter air bites at my skin. I pull up the rideshare app, thumb hovering over the ‘confirm’ button.

The car pulls up, and I slide into the backseat, tapping my fingers against my thigh. The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror, probably wondering why a college football player is in such a fucking hurry .

“Drive fast,” I snap, eyes locked on the passing scenery. Trees blur together, a mess of orange and brown.

“Everything okay back there?” the driver asks, voice tinged with concern.

“Just drive,” I growl. The hour-long drive feels like only minutes after I disassociated for most of it.

We screech to a halt outside of campus, and I get out of the car, tapping the top before the driver books it the fuck away from me.

“Hey Penn! Great game, man!” one guy shouts, slapping me on the back. I flash him a grin, tipping my cap.

“Thanks, bro. Just doing what I do best.” My voice drips with confidence, a playful smirk curling my lips.

“Penn, you were fantastic!” A girl squeals, her eyes wide with awe. I wink at her, enjoying the flush that spreads across her cheeks.

“Glad you enjoyed the show.” I keep walking, each step bringing me closer to the Dean’s office, my mind already several steps ahead in this game of chess I’m playing.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen. Ramsey. I open the text.

Lil Penn

Got the info you wanted. She’s all set.

“Dean Jenkins!” I burst into the office, not bothering to knock. The door slams against the wall, making an audible thud that reverberates through the room .

“Mr. Blackwood,” the Dean looks up from his paperwork, eyebrows knitting together. “To what do I owe the?—”

“Cut the crap, Jenkins,” I snap, as I stride toward his desk. “I need someone enrolled. Just forwarded you her info.”

“Forwarded me—” He fumbles with his computer, his eyes darting back to me, confusion and irritation battling for dominance on his face. “A student from St. James? You can’t just?—”

“Yeah, I can. And I just did.” I lean in, placing both hands on his desk, invading his personal space. My eyes lock on his, daring him to challenge me. “As of right the fuck now, she’ll be a student of St. Charles.”

“Mr. Blackwood,” he starts, trying to regain some semblance of authority. “This isn’t how we handle transfers. There are procedures?—”

“Procedures?” I laugh, a dark, menacing sound. “Let’s talk about procedures, Jenkins. Like the procedure for keeping your job. Or the procedure for what happens when a certain video leaks. You know, the one where you’re not exactly…behaving in a very Dean-like manner?”

His face pales, a flicker of fear in his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare?—”

“Wouldn’t I?” I growl, leaning closer. “Do it, or you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of.”

His hand shakes as he reaches for his mouse, his eyes never leaving mine. He knows he’s cornered. He knows I hold all the cards.

“Fine,” he mutters, defeated. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Good. Make sure it’s done by the end of the day and she’s in all of my classes for now.” I straighten up, cracking my neck with a satisfied grin.

I watch as he types slow as fuck on his keyboard and all I can do is roll my eyes. Fucking crypt keeping ass millennial.

“Jenkins, there’s one more thing we need to cover,” I say, my voice barely hiding the excitement bubbling beneath. This is going to be good.

“Yes, Mr. Blackwood?” Jenkins asks.

“She needs to be enrolled as Mrs. Reagan Blackwood,” I declare, savoring every word. The look on his face is priceless—full of surprise, fear, and disbelief.

“Mrs...?” He looks up, wide-eyed. “But she’s just a student.”

“Not just any student,” I correct, leaning forward, my hazel eyes boring into his. “She’s going to be my wife.”

“Your wife?!” His voice cracks, and for a moment, I think he’s going to choke on his own words. “Is that even legal?”

“Don’t worry about the legality, Jenkins,” I purr, my lips curling into a smirk. “Just make it happen.”

“Mrs. Reagan Blackwood,” I say, rolling the words around my mouth like a fine wine. “Has a nice fucking ring to it, don’t you think?”

The Dean’s face goes pale, like someone just yanked the rug out from under him. His eyes dart back and forth from the screen to me, desperate, maybe even pleading.

“Penn, this is—” He starts, but his voice cracks, making him sound more pathetic than authoritative.

“Shut up and finish it,” I snap, every syllable as sharp as broken glass. “You don’t get a vote here.”

“Done,” he mutters, barely louder than a breath. The papers slide toward me like they’re radioactive or something.

“Good boy,” I say. A triumphant smile splits my face. “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it? ”

“Are we done here, Mr. Blackwood? There are other students I need to see.” I hum at him and make him squirm for another ten minutes under my gaze.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I say, turning on my heel, “I have a Mrs. Blackwood to inform about her new status.”