“If you can’t handle being my tutor, then by all means, give him a call.”

Jordan huffs, her fingers pausing over the screen of her phone, and I know I’ve got her. No one would ever tell my uncle they can’t handle whatever he’s dishing out and she knows it.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

I grin, for real this time, and walk toward the living area. “You think it’s easy being this much of an asshole?” Sinking down on the sofa, I reach for the remote and kick my legs up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankle. “Getting soccer balls thrown at my head and being called a conceited donkey is not as fun as it looks.”

“I can’t imagine,” she mutters and slaps her phone back down on the counter.

Pointing the remote at the television, I find ESPN and settle in for whatever sport is playing. “Go have your shower, Jordan,” I command, my eyes fixed on the screen, “and when you come out, you can make me something to eat because I’m hungry, and then you can pretend to teach me something.”

“Making you something to eat is not part of my job, unless you want to end up wearing it,” she gripes as she stalks past me.

“Feisty,” I murmur, but she’s too far away to hear, already walking into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

The second I hear the shower start running, I toss the remote back on the tiny dark timber coffee table and stand. I want to know just who Jordan Elliot is, so I make my way toward her room.

The bathroom is sitting between two bedrooms so I take a guess and pick the one on the right. I have to blink when I walk inside because it looks like no girl’s room I ever saw, and I’ve seen more than my fair share. There are no knick-knacks lining every available surface, or mementos from past events that mean something, no pictures on the wall, just … no personality at all. I wonder if Jordan even has one underneath that jock-ish exterior of hers.

There’s a corkboard pinned to the wall so I study her schedule, grudgingly impressed. The list details an unbearable course load and subjects that only someone bright and gifted could possibly handle. It makes me feel like more of a dumb shit, if that’s even possible. Resting up beside a bookshelf sits two rolled up posters. I make the mistake of unraveling one. Cristiano Ronaldo stares back at me with smoldering eyes. I shudder because it’s almost enough to leave me feeling violated. The poster unravels further, revealing him in the buff, and I’m relieved to see him holding a soccer ball in front of his junk. I drop the poster like it’s a rattlesnake and toss it back in the corner. Well. At least I know she’s not a lesbian.

With a sigh, I spread out on my back on Jordan’s bed, tucking my hands behind my head and closing my eyes. After taking a deep breath, the sweet smell of vanilla tickles my senses and my brows draw together. I know that distinct scent, don’t I?

“Are you quite comfortable there?”

My lips curve instinctively, not caring that Jordan’s found me in her room lying on her bed. “Not quite. Perhaps if you dimmed the lighting a little and sang me a lullaby?”

A wet towel slaps me in the face.

My eyes fly open and I drag the towel away with a chuckle. It dies quickly when I sit up on one elbow and let my gaze travel upwards. Only one word springs to mind. Delicious. Jordan’s wearing black Lycra gym shorts. They’re tiny, hugging her hips and ass in a way that makes me jealous. I want to be those gym shorts. My gaze climbs higher to the fitted tank top. It’s white and thin, satisfyingly thin, and she’s not wearing a bra. The outline of her nipples is clear and my pulse begins to thump hard. They aren’t erect. Instead, they look soft and warm beneath the snug cotton. I lick my lips. I want to run the flat of my tongue over each one in turn, and suck them inside my mouth until they harden like the sweetest candy.

“What are you doing in my room?” Her arms cross quickly over her chest when she realizes I’m staring unapologetically at her tits.

“Huh?” I mumble.

My eyes finally reach her face, and I suck in a ragged breath. I’m not sure I even let it out. It’s her. The blond jock from Business Law and Ethics who got chewed out for being late to class. Fuck me. How in the everloving hell didn’t I realize?

“What are you doing in my room?” she enunciates clearly.

I shake my head to clear it and will the hot throbbing in my cock to calm down so I can take a breath. “I was looking for evidence of a personality,” I retort and wave my hand casually, taking in the barren and boring room. “Clearly I failed.”

Laughter bubbles out and she quickly presses her lips together.

“Ha!” I shout, and the sound comes out a little hoarse. “I made you laugh.”

Though suddenly I wish I didn’t. The sound is warm and throaty and resonates deep inside me, doing nothing to cool me off. I sit up and let the damp towel fall to my lap, hiding the thickening erection in my shorts.

“Congratulations.” Jordan rolls her eyes and picks up a hoodie that’s hanging off the back of the chair by her desk. She shrugs it on quickly and pushes back the hood, mussing her long, damp hair.

“Thanks.” I scan the bare walls of her bedroom again. Textbooks are the only decoration on her shelves. Their spines add color to the stark white furniture. “So what’s with the room, Jordan? It’s like a prison cell in here.”

Jordan sinks into the chair and faces me, folding her arms. “Seen the inside of one of those, have you?”

“Nope. My record is as clean as a choirboy’s. So?” I prompt.

She shrugs. “I’m here on an international sports scholarship from Australia. There was only so much I could fit in my suitcase.”

Once again, I’m impressed. Those kinds of scholarships are hard to come by. You have to pretty much be an athletic phenomenon to get one. Now I’m feeling the compulsion to go watch Jordan play. I want to know if she lives and breathes the game as hard as I do. I want to see her in action. I want to see her out of breath and sweaty.

“Mmmm.”

“What?”

I flop back down on her bed, tucking my hands back behind my head. My eyes fix on the ceiling. I want to know about the life she left behind to come here, but I save it for another time. Instead, I ask the one that’s weighing on me the most. “Why are you tutoring me?”

“Professor Draper asked me to,” is her simple reply.

“And you agreed.”

“Well … yes.”

“Why?” I open my eyes and tilt my head on the pillow, staring hard into her eyes. “Why you?”

“My brother is dyslexic. I helped tutor him through high school.”

I grind my teeth, irritated. “So what? That somehow makes you an expert?”

Jordan’s sigh is long and deep. “Not at all. I told the professor I wasn’t professionally qualified to do something like this, but all he said was that I’m to provide you with some study mechanisms to help you through your final year.”

Fuck senior year, I want to say, but I keep that to myself. I could’ve gone pro in junior year. I shouldn’t even be here. The reason why I didn’t is nobody’s business, yet it weighs on me like a concrete block. The media was told I’d chosen to gain more experience and improve my game rather than declare for the draft. It made enough sense not to question it, but now I’m stuck, and there’s every chance I’m going to fail spectacularly.

“You think you can help me?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know.”

“At least you’re honest,” I mutter, and my eyes return to the ceiling. She isn’t filling me with empty platitudes of false hope like I’d anticipated. I respect her for that.

“Can I ask a question now?”

I turn on my side, resting my head on my elbow, and look at her. It’s hard not to. There’s something about her that makes it difficult to drag my eyes away. Not because she’s wildly beautiful, but more like she’s authentic, I guess. A deep-seated knowing that Jordan is someone I can trust. With anything. “Okay.”