The Hook Up (Game On, #1)

by Kristen Callihan

Life, she insisted, is how you live it and who you live it with, not what you do to make a living.

I’m not going to say it was love at first sight. No, it was more like oh, hell-yes-please, I’ll have that. With a helping of right-the-fuck-now on the side.

Don't get me wrong, this is the South, I know how important football is to people. Down here, dog mascots are interred in their own mausoleum, tailgating is an art form, and women dress for games as if they’re going to church. And in a way, they are. The Church of College Football.

“Never force something, Drew. A bolt, a pass, a game, whatever.” His dark brown eyes hold mine. “Force it and you’ll lose. Patience and persistence is how you win in life. Take your time, look for the solution, and if it doesn’t come to you, fall back, reassess, and try again.”

“Some people never understand the gift they have.” A light pressure on the back of my neck eases me closer to his warmth. “And some people wait a lifetime to have someone to love.”

“Your voice isn’t noise. It’s a song I want to hear over and over.” Oh. My.

Oh my indeed

“At least you know. I have no idea what I want to do. I don’t want it to be drudge-work. I don’t want it to be boring. I want a life outside the ordinary. But how do you get that when you’ve no clue?” When all you are is ordinary.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he says softly. “Beauty fades,” I choke out. “Not when it comes from inside.”

“I want to kiss you so badly, I’d forgo the sex for a chance at your mouth. I love your mouth, Anna. The way your upper lip is like a bottom one, a plump, smooth curve that puffs out like a pout. I love your soft, pink, upside down mouth.”

“But you won’t let me kiss you,” he says to me in the dark. “Why won’t you let me kiss you, Anna?” I can’t breathe. “Why, Anna?” “It’s too much,” I rasp. “Not when I want everything.” He says it so deep and strong, a staking of a claim. “And I want everything with you, Anna.”

“I like you just the way you are, Drew Baylor.” Poleaxed. Again. My throat closes too tight to find my voice. I swallow convulsively. “I like you just the way you are too, Anna Jones.” I’m crazy for you. I fucking adore you. “Go put your damn hair up,” I tell her instead. “And we’ll get you some coffee.”

Funny thing about life, it’s so easy to view it from the outside in. We can see the exact point where our friends fuck up, do the wrong thing, are blind to what’s right in front of them. As in, why the fuck won’t they just listen to us and take our advice instead of bumbling all over the place? We watch horror movies and know when to shout at the dumb girl who goes in the basement to investigate that noise; we revel in her stupidity, feel superior to it. If it were us, we assure ourselves, we wouldn’t be so stupid. Sure we would; we just wouldn’t realize the danger. Because the truth is, we’re walking deaf, dumb, and blind half of the time. And even though I can tell myself this afterward, after I fuck up, it doesn’t make me feel any better. Because I’m about to do a fuck up royale. With cheese. I feel it in my bones, like an inevitable death I can’t escape, but I do it anyway. And part of me knows this even as I hurdle down the path towards destruction. The bigger part of me, in fact. Does that make me dig in my heels and try to stop? Of course not. I’m the girl walking down those dark stairs into the basement. The truth is, I’ve been her since it all began.

My head hits the trunk of the tree. His. I can’t even fathom a world in which I belong to someone. It’s never happened to me. No one has ever wanted me that completely. He must be mistaken. He’ll see that. Eventually he’ll see.

But my home isn’t a place anymore. I’ve realized too late that it’s a person. And I’ve torn him from my life.

What do you get the guy who doesn’t seem to want anything? I figured a bit of the past might be good. Happy Birthday, Drew. — Anna

Having just experienced true jealousy, I can safely say that the emotion is insidious, and I never want to feel it again. But it lingers like a plague, eating through my insides with dull, thick teeth.

“If you’re ever sick, I promise to change the sheets for you.”

“And you need to know what this is for me, because I wasn’t clear before.” Deep gold eyes hold mine. He’s leaving himself wide open, revealing his soul. “You have my heart, Anna. And every time I had to walk away from you, every time you walked away from me, it felt like it was being ripped out of my chest. It fucking hurt, Anna.”

“I love you, Anna Jones. That’s not going to change. I loved you when I thought we’d never be together, and I love you still.”

“But you’re so young. Don’t you want to see what the world has to offer?” As if life is somewhere just around the corner, and I’ll find it if only I keep searching. It’s what we’ve all been promised, an elusive brass ring that’s always just out of reach, and one day, one day it will pop up in front of us. Well, I don’t want a treadmill life. I’ve tried it and it sucks.

“I used to think that if I figured out what I wanted to do with my life, everything would fall into place. Now,” I shrug, “now I’m thinking that happiness is never going to be having the perfect job, house, life. It isn’t a destination, you know? It’s a series of moments. I mean, isn’t that what life is? Moments? The here and now?”

But I’m okay. As long as I don’t think about football, I’ll be okay. Hard not thinking about something you love.