All Chapters of The Football players Feisty Girl: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

**RIVER** Knox, Jax, and I walk the halls of Westheart like we own the place. In a lot of ways, we do. Between the three of us, our families could probably buy this campus outright and still have enough left over to name a wing after whichever one of us felt like being petty that week. Knox's dad owns half the commercial real estate downtown, plus a portfolio of hotels stretching from Dubai to Singapore that nobody in his family bothers mentioning because it's just background noise to them. Jax's family bankrolled the new athletic complex — hence the plaque with his last name on it that he pretends to be embarrassed about and absolutely isn't — on top of vineyards in France and a shipping empire that moves half of Europe's freight. And my father sits on the board that decides who gets to run this university, which is a small footnote compared to the mining operations in South America and the private bank in Switzerland that mostly exists so nobody ever has to ask what our net

**RIVER** The second my fingers close around her thigh, I feel the change tear through her — every muscle locking under the denim, that cocky composure snapping tight like a wire pulled too hard. Fuck. That tiny, involuntary reaction sends a dark, vicious rush straight through me. I lean in. The scent of her strawberry shampoo hits me harder up close — sweet, sharp, completely out of place in a college lecture hall. It should be annoying. Instead it goes straight to my cock, thick and immediate, and all I can think about is burying my face in her hair until that stupid sweet smell is the only thing I can breathe. Get a fucking grip, River. You’re sitting in the middle of a lecture with your hand on some new girl’s thigh, getting hard over strawberry shampoo like a goddamn degenerate. Pathetic. She’s nothing. A problem to be handled. Not something you to want to inhale. “What the hell are you doing?” she hisses, trying to jerk her leg away. I tighten my fingers ju

EMERSONI make it exactly four hallways before I have to stop and lean against a wall, because apparently my body has decided now is the time to fully process what just happened, and it's doing so by making my hands shake like I've had six cups of coffee.I press my palms flat against the cool brick, willing them still. It doesn't work particularly well."Okay," I mutter to myself. "Okay. Recalibrate. You've survived worse than a guy who thinks tripping people is a personality trait."The problem is I can't actually think of anything worse, off the top of my head, at this exact moment, which is not a great sign for how today is going.Fucking Rivers could do anything he wanted around here and get away with it.I check the time on my phone — twelve minutes before my next class, which is apparently in a building on the complete opposite side of campus from where I currently am, because the universe has decided consistency is for other people. I push off the wall and start walking, fast

**RIVER**I walk into the locker room ten minutes late, jaw tight, still pissed off.Not at the clock. Not at practice. At her.The fucking Wildcat.I’d barely made it out of that bathroom before my cock was throbbing so hard it hurt. The way she’d looked at me when she slapped me in the hallway — eyes bright with fury, cheeks flushed, that stubborn set to her mouth like she still wasn’t done fighting. The scent of her strawberry shampoo still clinging to the air between us even after she shoved me. The heat of her skin under my hand. The way her pulse had jumped when I pinned her against the door. All of it had sunk under my skin and stayed there, hot and relentless. I had no fucking clue why her defiance made me so hard. I’d had to lock myself in a stall like some desperate freshman and take care of it before I could even think about showing up to practice.Pathetic.I hate that she’s getting to me this fast. Hate that one day of attitude has me this wound up. Most girls fold bef

**RIVER**The locker room hits me like a wall of noise the second I shove the door open — zippers, half-shouted trash talk, the wet slap of cleats against tiles.I head straight for my locker without looking at anyone.Coach Hart is already on my shit list, and it's not even six o'clock. Five minutes late — five — and suddenly the man's giving a full speech about discipline and last names, like he invented the concept, like nobody's ever tried to put me in my place before and succeeded. He's going to learn the fucking hard way that I don't fold for men with clipboards and a whistles.Jax is already on the bench, jersey half-off, watching me with the particular look he gets when he knows something's about to be funny at my expense. Two lockers down, Knox is unwrapping tape from his wrists with the kind of methodical patience that makes the rest of us look unhinged by comparison. He glances up once when I slam my locker open, clocks my face, and goes back to his tape without a word.