Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1) Read online

  Big Man on Campus

  An Enemies to Lovers College Romance

  Stephanie Queen

  Big Man on Campus

  Copyright © 2021 by Stephanie Queen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  GET A BONUS SCENE from BIG MAN ON CAMPUS When you sign up for SQ’s Newsletter!

  I loved this scene from the original draft of the story, and though it didn’t make it into the final draft, ending up on the virtual cutting room floor, I’d love to share it with you!

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Stephanie Queen

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgment

  Thank you and congratulations to Victoria Clark for coming up with the name for Joni’s father, a “bad guy” in the story, Charles.

  And a special thanks to

  Jennifer Beyer who named the team’s tight end and Jack’s tight friend, Tristan

  Big Man on Campus Playlist

  Songs that inspire, set the mood, songs that I felt while I wrote this book.

  Please listen while you read.

  Believer, Imagine Dragons

  Demons, Imagine Dragons

  The Boxer, Simon & Garfunkel

  Whatever It Takes, Imagine Dragons

  Fix You, Fearless Soul

  Conversations in the Dark, John Legend

  I Am Yours, Andy Grammer

  Prologue

  Jack

  I’m about to head out the back door for school when Grandpa Giddy calls me from his bed. His voice is loud and commanding but I still hear the pain. With my backpack slung on one shoulder, I go back to his room, lit only by one window half covered by a torn shade.

  “What is it grandpa? You need some water?”

  He shakes his head and pulls on my sleeve.

  “Sit. We need to talk.” He clutches at my hand, his breathing staggers as the familiar grimace of pain disguising his face. “This is the end.”

  My heart lurches and then hammers like I’m on speed. It can’t be true. But I sit in the chair next to his bed and Mom comes into the room behind me. I don’t bother turning. I can smell the alcohol on her, know she’s drinking already at seven in the morning. I’m not sure what to do. I pull my phone from my pocket and start to tap in the doctor’s number.

  “Don’t bother calling anyone,” he says, pulling my phone from my hand, dropping it on the floor.

  “Grandpa, you need—”

  “I need you to listen, Jack.” His words are harsh. They usually are, but he’s all I have and I can’t comprehend life without him although I should have by now. He’s been dying for months. Long enough so that I’ve kidded myself into thinking he’d last forever, that the diagnosis of his cancer is a hoax.

  “I have something to give you.” He reaches to the wooden stool serving as his bedside table and takes the silver cufflinks in his shaky hands. His prized possession, given to him as a gift for hitting the game winning homer in the last game of the season, the one year he made it to the majors. They were given to him by the manager of the Red Sox after the game. The sterling cufflinks were supposed to be the start of his sterling career. But not long after that game he was in a car accident that ruined his right leg and he’s never walked right since. The passenger died in the accident, but he never talked about it. The old man is full of secrets. Claimed it was best to keep things to yourself, especially things that would make a man seem weak or vulnerable. Like being poor.

  He takes my hand and drops the cufflinks in my palm.

  “It’s all I have to leave you. You should sell them to pay the bills because you’re in charge of the household now. You’ll have to work and earn money instead of going to college after graduation. Give up your dream of playing college football.” He laughs a mean laugh and I want to vomit, my head spinning.

  He rasps, “But that’s the legacy of this family after all. Nothing comes from nothing.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” mom says, sounding half sober. “He’s rambling and half crazy.”

  She has a point, but his words are hard to ignore as they slice into me, carving a warped new reality.

  Fuck it. I’m not going to give up my dreams without a fucking fight, not when I’m so close to getting a full ride to play football at St. Paul University. This is the first time I remember agreeing with mom since I was five years old, since that day she left me. But I can’t think about that right now. Because Grandpa Giddy is dying and the last thing he’s telling me is to let all my dreams die with him. And that’s just fucking wrong.

  “Don’t worry Giddy, I’ll make it. I’ll get to college somehow.”

  “That would be something.” He shakes his head. “It’s all over. Sorry I couldn’t last, couldn’t tough it out… his voice fades and his face contorts with pain. It’s too soon. They told us he’d have another few months. We thought he would last until graduation. Forever. They told us he should have hospice, but there’s no way to afford it, even after what the government covers.

  “Leave us, Leyla,” Grandpa says to mom. With a resigned sigh, she teeters from the room, taking her bottle with her. “She’s a no good—”

  “Don’t say it.” I know what he’s going to say, that she’s a drunken whore. He’s accused her of it often enough. She doesn’t argue with the label because It’s true. But I can’t stand to hear him say it about his own daughter. The words cut me to shreds every single time.

  Grandpa and mom never got along and I’ve stopped trying to keep peace, given up my place in the tug of war between them long ago. They still pull at me from opposite sides, but I go my own way. I’m a grown man. At seventeen. I have no choice now. Holding back the wild emotions, the anger inside me, I sit there holding the cufflinks in my hand.

  “The cufflinks are all I have, Jack. I sold everything else I ever had that was worth anything. But there was always you. I had hopes you would be worth something, that you’d lift this damn family from the gutter…” His head lolls and he grimaces. My stomach turns, the weight of his words crush my chest like oversized barbells, only I have no one to ask for help.

  “Leyla is your responsibility now.”

  I snort. “As if you care.”

  He cuffs me across the face.

  “What the fuck—”

  “She’s yours, damn it. You take care of her. Don’t let her live in the street, don’t let her go back to the drugs—”

  “What do you care? You hate her—” He would have cuffed me again, but I catch his hand and easily push it aside. His strength slips now as he heaves a heavy b
reath. I’ve never seen anyone die before, but I know that’s what I’m looking at now. There’s not one damn peaceful thing about it. Of course not. Nothing is easy. Haven’t I learned that by now?

  “I don’t hate her. She wouldn’t be living here, I wouldn’t have sent her to rehab, if I hated her.” He shakes his head, sad and desolate blood shot eyes bore into me. I want to hold him, to shake him, to beg him not to leave.

  “I’m not ready, Grandpa.” I’m not ready to lose him, the one stable force in my life.

  “Get ready then, boy.” His voice is harsh and raspy and pained, his teeth grind and he holds my arm, clawing at it, eyes angry, breathing shallow. His face looks so fierce that I don’t realize at first when it all stops. When he dies with that pained look leveled at me like a curse.

  Joni

  The second I walk out of the girls’ locker room, he smirks. His blue-green eyes, lock on mine, looking colder than the ocean, and I shudder. Something is terribly wrong.

  He’s a year ahead of me—a senior—and he shouldn’t be in this class, but the gym teacher is his football coach and lets him alter his schedule, of course. I don’t know the reason, but I do know he’s in a nastier mood than usual.

  He’s taller and bigger and better than everyone at whatever game we play, so the prospect of having him here excites everyone into high-pitched murmurs, surreptitious looks, and open ogling, especially by the girls.

  Even beyond the fact that he isn’t supposed to be in our class, I can tell something isn’t right with him. There’s a rawness to his animosity today, tension gripping the outsized muscles of his body. I notice everything about Jack Hunter. Call it self-preservation.

  Blending into the crowd standing near the folded bleachers, I hide behind the taller guys as the gym teacher blows the whistle.

  “Coed volleyball today. Who wants to pick teams?”

  “I will,” Jack says. Of course. Oh my God. My stomach churns and I hope I don’t vomit.

  “Okay, you and Haley will pick teams.” Coach blows the whistle again, forgetting we’re inside the gym, and the sound screams through me. I hunker down behind my friend Stacy, not easy to do at five ten, wondering if I can sneak back into the locker room or go to the nurse’s office.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she says as Jack and Haley separate and stand in the middle of the floor.

  “I’ll pick first,” Jack says, his voice sharp and uncaring that he’s breaking with the tradition of ladies first. I hold my breath, staring at Stacy to keep my eyes from facing his.

  “I’ll take Joni Dowd for my team. Let’s see if the Dowd Disappointment can redeem herself today.”

  Some kids snicker, some—his friends—complain with loud groans and Stacy elbows me in the ribs.

  “Did you hear that?”

  I heard it and it makes me dizzy. I make no move to join him on the floor even as Haley names her first team member. Coach waves me onto the floor. All eyes are on me as I straighten. It’s Jack’s turn to pick another teammate, but he doesn’t. Instead he stands, all statuesque muscle like he’s posing as Hercules for a comic book cover, waiting for me to join him.

  Emerging from behind the snickering guys, I know I have to do this, that I can’t run away and hide. Evil desperation is in Jack’s glare, aimed at me as though he needs to make me miserable in order to survive.

  Walking to him like he’s my executioner, I reassure myself that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—do anything terrible to me in front of the teacher and the whole class. Sticks and stones can’t hurt me, right? Not unless I let them. So, I won’t let them. I’ll turn myself to stone and refuse to hear whatever comes from his mouth. Except what if he’s right? My knees quake and halfway to him I almost fall. More snickering turns my face hot. I bow my head, allowing the curtain of my hair to hide me.

  When I arrive at his side, he slips an arm around my shoulder and holds onto me as if I’m his captive. Burning up with embarrassment and shame and horror I stand still, afraid to breathe wrong. He calls out the names of random students in the class who join us eagerly. When he finishes, he whispers to me. “What are you afraid of, Dowd? Afraid I’m right about you being the loser of your family?”

  I look at him. His hold eases up. His arm around my shoulder feels warm and less like a manacle, more like an embrace. This does nothing to relieve the burning in me, maybe makes it worse.

  “No,” I say, lying my ass off. Because in spite of my awkward height, I can’t play volleyball for shit. And he knows it.

  The teams take their place.

  “You serve first, Dowd.” He tosses me the ball. My gut clenches and I want to run to the bathroom and throw up, but I take a breath and walk to the corner. Hey, at least I caught the ball. The gym teacher blows the whistle and I freeze, squeezing the ball between my two hands.

  Jack says, “Serve the damn ball, Dowd. Let’s go.” He’s positioned in front of me, staring with those eyes fringed in thick curling lashes, his wavy hair falling in perfect locks across his forehead, standing tall and showing off his obscene muscles in his tank top, smirk in place on his full lips. Horrified, I focus on his lips. They’re the least scary part of him.

  He claps his hands, making me jump. I drop the ball. Kids snicker yet again. I pick the ball up and toss it into the air and whack it as hard as I can. It goes straight into the floor, not even making it to the net.

  “One more try,” Coach shouts. Jack stares me down, hands on his hips, daring me to make good on a serve. He set me up for failure. Or so he thinks. But I can do this. Surely I can hit a stupid volleyball over the net. I scoop it back up and toss it, glaring at it, pretending it’s Jack’s face as I slam my fist into it. The ball sails over the net. Game on.

  “And the skinny girl makes a serve,” Jack shouts as he jumps to volley back over the net, slamming the ball into the gut of one of the guys on the other team.

  “One nothing.” Jack shouts the score. “And you get to serve again.” He relays the ball back to me. Shit. What are the chances I can get the ball over the net again? But so what if I can’t? Who cares, right? Way to go Joni. That’s the attitude that makes Mom and Dad real proud. Not. Seems not even my need to survive can defeat my pride, my need to perform, to do something, to be someone. Someone other than the Dowd Disappointment.

  I play on as he taunts me routinely about being too skinny, too awkward, too quiet, too stupid, too lazy and too undeserving of my family’s legacy.

  “What a fucking disappointment you must be, Dowd.” He shakes his head.

  Coach scolds him halfheartedly for swearing, tells him to leave me alone.

  He says, “You’re right. What am I wasting my time on her for? Thought I’d give her a chance on my team is all. You know—save her the embarrassment of getting picked last for once.”

  The coach waves him off, gives me a look of apology, and he leaves me be.

  I keep as stone faced as I can manage, never saying a word because I’m too afraid of saying the wrong thing. Finally, the coach blows the whistle ending the game.

  “Head for the showers,” he orders.

  I move toward the locker room, relieved to escape. Everyone funnels through the same doors except Jack. I look around and see him talking with his coach. The man has his hand on Jack’s shoulder and a somber look on his face. Maybe he’s reprimanding Jack. I squint my eyes and allow the reality to disillusion me. The coach isn’t angry in the least. It looks more like he’s consoling Jack. For what? The kid has everything. He’s popular and smart and athletic. And yes, gorgeous even to me, someone who hates him.

  Someone jostles me and I stumble.

  “Hey Dowd, thanks a lot. We lost the game because of you.” He hits my shoulder in a mock pat of consolation. “Watch out. Don’t want to fall and skin those bony knees, get scarred up. Might not ever be able to model again.” The guy laughs. His friend shoves me forward and I fall against the bleachers hard, my ribs hitting them. If hearing the crack doesn’t sicken me, the excruciating p
ain of it does. Literally. I hurl my lunch right then and there.

  The coach comes rushing over. And to complete my humiliation, Jack is on his heels.

  “What’s wrong?” Coach asks. “What happened?”

  I’m bent over. Tears stream down my face as much from pain as humiliation. My hand covers my mouth, an acid taste flooding me. The pain in my rib cage prevents me from moving and my breathing is shallow. I can’t talk, can’t tell the coach these douches shoved me around. Can’t tell coach they’ve never picked on me before, but today they were given license to bully me by the master bully Jack Hunter.

  Jack must realize that because he yanks one of the guys by the shirt and yells at him. I’m only half paying attention because Coach is pressing me, making me walk, something about getting me to the nurse. My ungodly screech when I move the wrong way and my knees buckle makes him switch tactics. He calls an ambulance. God no. My parents will find out. Another embarrassing disappointment.

  Only later at night, wrapped in bandages and propped up on a pillow and strapped in place, I remember all the words I wanted to say to Jack, the pithy comebacks, the cutting wit, the accusations and rage. All the things that I should have said to him during the game, but didn’t. And not because I got a broken rib. I didn’t say those things I should have because I’m a pathetic, broken person. Because maybe he’s right about me.