Snatched

I sort of feel bad for guys like Finn, if I’m being totally honest— they’re here because they can play football, not to get an education. This fact irritates the crap out of me, since I’m here working my butt off, but like my mother has always said— no one can take your education away. Finn’s football career? The odds of that lasting after college is math even he could probably do. Only 1.6% of college players go on the NFL. Once they’re in the NFL? Five years of playing, tops.

And then what does he have?

“What are you majoring in?” I ask, curious to see if it’s something that might mean he’s got a shot at a football-free career, someday.

“Trick passes,” he says, leaning back and draping his massive arms over the back of the booth. “Team leading. Kicking ass.” When I don’t crack, he rolls his eyes like he can’t believe how uptight I am, before finally answering for real. “Classics.”

“Wait, seriously? Classics?” I ask, alarmed. Usually, athletes at Finn’s level are majoring in something ridiculous, something that doesn’t require much class time, like information sciences. “I…what does that even entail?”

“Ah, something the math whiz doesn’t know,” Finn says, looking pleased. “It’s myths. Basically. Greek and Roman mythology.”

“Oh,” I say, unable to prevent the relief from flooding my voice. Majoring in something you could essentially Wikipedia sounds even easier than information sciences.

“Oh?” Finn asks. “You look unimpressed. Classics isn’t as impressive as mathematics?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

“You have no idea what I thought,” I answer, just before realizing we’ve grown loud enough that a few nearby patrons are staring.

I take a deep breath and open the notebook in front of me, then open my mouth to begin the lesson, finally.

“Motherfucker,” Finn mutters under his breath. My eyes dart up, and I see him looking at the diner door.

His gaze hardens and his jaw stiffens, shoulders tensing now.

Seeing his enormous body become something of a coiled wire, ready to explode, is strangely fascinating. Sexy, even. The power of Finn is always on display, even when he’s hardly moving.

I follow his gaze to see what’s got him so riled up.

Three guys, all Finn’s size, are walking into the diner.

I recognize the lead one from posters and banners that are plastered all over the campus. It’s Stewart Adams, the current Harton hero, quarterback extraordinaire. He’s flanked by two other guys.

Adams sees Finn and immediately gets a big grin on his face, and he mutters something two his buddies. They start laughing and snickering.

“Finny Finn,” Adams calls out, as the three of them approach our table.

“Hey Adams,” Finn says, voice collected, almost like he’s giving an interview.

“What’s all that shit on your table?” one of Adams’s lapdogs says, staring at the tutoring supplies spread out in front of me.

“Looks like he’s studying, boys,” Adams says. “Funny, I heard through the rumor mill that you don’t have the brains for the QB position. And now we have proof.”

I expect Finn to be outraged by this accusation, but instead he just grunts. “I’ll leave the gossiping to the armchair quarterbacks,” he says. “I do my talking on the field. Probably why I made starting quarterback my sophomore year, right?” He grins, and for once, the arrogance in it delights me— mainly because of how it clearly prods at Adams.

Adams only became starting quarterback this season, when the great Jacob Everett finally graduated and went pro. And now that Finn is here, there’s certain to be competition between the two and Adams evidently doesn’t like it at all.

“Is math all you tutor?” one of the freshmen asks, letting his eyes wander up and down my body. It’s such an intentional expression— one that’s purpose isn’t to actually check me out, but to make me aware that he’s able to check me out whether I like it or not.

I smile as pleasantly as I can muster. “Did you need some help? A lot of you guys struggle with measuring past four inches.”

It takes him a minute, and takes the other freshman player an additional minute, to recognize the insult I’d just lobbed at his dick. Finn, however, spots it immediately, and grins at me broadly.

Stewart Adams isn’t amused. He rolls his eyes at me while the freshmen scowl. “Baby, I’ve got ten inches I’d introduce you to if I thought you were worth the fuck.”

The comment doesn’t offend me nearly as much as the freshman player’s stare did— I’m prepared to give him a withering look, then turn back to my food and wait out their presence. What I’m not prepared for is a crack loud as a gunshot ringing through the air— the sound of a fist hitting a jaw.

There’s a clattering, and a flash of bodies, and it takes me far to long to figure out what’s happening. It’s Finn— he swung at Adams, who ducked just in time, and the crack I heard was the sound of Finn’s fist finding one of the freshmen’s jaws instead. The player bunches backward, clutching his face, and Adams steps forward in the same instant. He lunges at Finn, who steps into the fight; I can’t tell whose fists are whose as they crash out of the booth, scattering plates and papers and drinks across the tile floor. People are shouting, phones swing out to capture the entire thing on video, everyone at the bar evacuates their seats to stay away from the action.