Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

14

Summer

“Take off your clothes,” I order, swinging a large cardboard box to the bulky man in front of me. In my best sugary-sweet sorority voice, I add, “Please.”

Spencer Armstrong scowls down at the box. Then at me. Then at his girlfriend.

Who only shrugs, her smile not one bit guilty as she looks him up and down. “It’s for a good cause.”

“Yeah, what Walsh said,” I shake the box.

So, with an irritated sigh, he yanks his shirt up, mumbling all the while about damn sorority girls and damn charity and fuck this. Next, after he deposits it in the box, I nod at the sweatpants, biting my lip as he tugs them down.

“I see why you keep him around, Walsh.”

“Uh huh,” and when I glance at the redhead, her gaze is also transfixed on the display of pure masculine physique. He bends over, and at the same time, our heads tilt to appreciate a well-sculpted backside in tight black boxer-briefs.

“You’re gonna get it when this is over, princess,” he tells his girlfriend, throwing the pants on top of the discarded shirt.

“Or maybe,” Kennedy lifts her camera to snap a shot. “I’ll be the owner of a brand new coffeemaker.” To me, she explains, “If he can’t beat his personal best, he has to buy it for me. Since someone broke ours.”

“Too many fucking settings.” Spencer shrugs one shoulder.

I ask Kennedy, “What does he get if he wins this bet?”

Her smile slips, whole face flushing pink.

“Sexual favors? I’m shocked, Walsh,” I mockingly gasp. “And I approve.”

“So do I,” Spencer interrupts, tugging her clothed body against his half-naked one. Kennedy holds her camera aloft, giggling as he steals a kiss.

I give them a moment of privacy, tidying Armstrong’s pants in my box of donations before looking around. Today’s 5k begins and ends outside the football stadium, and a sizable crowd’s gathered for it. Students of all years and majors, in or out of the Greek system, flock about in various states of undress. Some older folks have joined, too. Family members, community leaders, even a professor or two. Liz waits at the starting line, microphone in hand so she can act as emcee. The majority of ABB’s here, providing support, whether that be from meeting their volunteer hours or actually running the race. Even Iris mans one of the course’s hydration stations.

“You okay, Spence? She’s not objectifying you, is she?” Levi Hart’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

Armstrong doesn’t mention that yes, that’s exactly what we’d been shamelessly doing. Instead, he glares when Levi separates him from Kennedy, sweeping another one of those dark scowls over his roommate’s boxer-clad form.

“Spence, please, my eyes are up here. You’re worse than all these sorority girls. Rabid animals, I swear. Just about had to peel this one off me.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Woman, how many times have I told you? I’m a happily taken man.”

Rylie trails behind him in a bra and panties. “Stop acting like you don’t love this.”

“I do, don’t I?” His blue eyes twinkle as he takes Rylie by the shoulders.

Slipping an arm around his bare waist, Rylie shakes her head and turns to her roommate. “Kennedy, can you take a picture for Levi’s mom?”

Walsh does. All joking pretense drops from Levi’s face as she shows them the result. “That’s good, she’ll like it.”

“Your parents couldn’t make it?” Kennedy asks, tone gentle.

Levi shakes his head. “They wanted to, but Mom’s having a rough time.”

“My mom’s here, though. She’s going to record us reaching the finish line for them,” Rylie points out an older version of herself, frowning disapprovingly at the scantily clad crowd.

As Kennedy asks other questions, I recall a detail about Levi Hart. Not from the ones I already had memorized, but gleaned from Grayson, one night when Levi and Rylie weren’t out on Kellermann’s dancefloor. At the city hospital, with his mom.Cancer treatment.

I glance back over the stadium entrance, drowning out the conversation. Catching snippets of had some good news and not out of the woods yet. Ignoring Spencer Armstrong’s reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. Feeling like I’m peeking in on a secret I was never meant to know.

“He’s over there.”

I jump at Spencer’s sudden announcement, then follow his pointing finger. To where Grayson stands, fully dressed, chatting with a middle-aged woman. A volunteer, I recognize, from one of the shelters where ABB will drop off all these donated articles of clothing.

“I knew that,” I say, even though I knew no such thing, and I hadn’t realized how much my wandering gaze had been looking for him.

Spencer snorts. “Should’ve heard Rowe at the house earlier.”

“Why?” I glance up from where I’d been scratching the cardboard box with a nail.

Levi groans, throwing back his head. “All morning long, he was at it. ‘Wake up, guys. Get dressed, guys. Summer’s race is today, guys’.”

“‘Hurry up, we can’t be late for Summer’s race’.” From Rylie.

“‘She’s worked real hard on this, assholes’.” Spencer, again.

And when I look at Kennedy, she confirms the truth with a nod.

Warmth fills my chest. But with four sets of eyes all on me, I hide it with a clap of my hands. “Well, you heard the man. It’s my race. Get to the gate, we’re starting soon.”

Then I pick up my box, skirt twirling around my thighs as I turn on my heel and walk away. Before they can see me fail to tamp down a widening, giddy smile.

The volunteer’s left. She’s replaced by Morris, clucking over Grayson like a mother hen. Gray nods at whatever warm-up advice he’s being given, hand gripping the bottom of his shirt to pull it off.

My throat dries, and the cardboard box, once so firmly in my grasp, slips right to the ground.

“A little help?” comes Gray’s muffled voice through the shirt snagged over his head. Morris yanks it, knocking off his glasses. Grayson fixes them, smiling when he sees me in front of them. “Hey, Summer. Big day.”

I nod, not ready for speech. This is where I’d usually kiss him, but with Morris’s stony stare watching, my gaze falls to the box, realizing I’d dropped it. I brace my hands on my hips like I intended to do that.

Morris raises one eyebrow, but says to his roommate, “Remember to pace yourself.”

“I know.”

“And drink—”

“Got it, coach,” Gray clips. “Go away. You’ve got an audience.”

The quarterback frowns, then turns away without another word. Not even acknowledging the group of women hanging back, following him to the next nearest donation box, waiting for him to remove his clothes.

Grayson grins, rolling his eyes. He nods at Morris’s retreating back. “Sure you don’t want to watch the show?”

“Just caught the Armstrong exhibition. You see one ripped football guy, you’ve pretty much seen them all,” I shrug, keeping my gaze firmly on Gray’s face. “All right, Grayson James. Let’s see it. What ridiculous shirt are you donating today?”

Grinning, he holds it up to his chest for me to read.

“Three-point-one-four percent of seafarers are pi-rates. So dumb.” But I smile from ear-to-ear as I say it.

Until the cotton drops, and my eyes dart back to a fixed point on his forehead.

“It was the first shirt Levi ever got me.” Carefully, he folds the shirt. “But I haven’t worn it since sophomore year. It, uh, it doesn’t fit anymore.”

Because how could it?

Tentatively, I let my gaze drop. Wander over the planes of his body. Drink it all in. Get the full view of what I’d only rarely glimpsed in passing. What I had adamantly shoved aside as tricks of light—Which were no tricks at all.

Because dual-degree, double-major, Dean’s-list, know-it-all nerd in a pair of dorky glasses, Grayson James Rowe… is absolutely strapping.

Fit as a fiddle. Built like an ox. Solid as fucking rock. With a powerful set of shoulders and a lean torso. Dark nipples, raised to points on a defined chest. Tapered waist, toned with taut, wiry muscles. And those arms. Thick biceps. Firm forearms. Warm hands and strong fingers.

Though he may not be as jacked as Spencer Armstrong, or have washboard abs like Levi Hart, I find that I don’t give a damn. Because I know how all that sturdy muscle feels. I’ve felt it for weeks. Unyielding against my body every time he leans in to kiss me. Every time he pulls me in for a compellingly strong embrace. I’ve run eyes and hands and fingers over those arms, for what seems like ages. Felt their solidness with soft squeezes. Mesmerized every time I watched him roll up his sleeves or hold up a textbook or bend over a pool table or explain academic concepts.

Gray’s body entrances me. I tried not to notice. But now I can’t bring myself to stop. To look anywhere but directly at him. From his chest to those arms, until my eyes dip, again, to his flat stomach. Swift and penetrating, it hits me. How much I want to kneel before him. Trace the lines of those muscles at his hip with my tongue. Caress a hand over the front of those jeans. Tug them loose. See their secrets.

As if by silent command, he does it for me. Draws the zipper. Slides the denim over his hips. Down sinewy legs covered in dark hair. Kicking them off to put on his running shoes again. Bending over to pick them up. My head tilts for the second time today, inspecting yet another tightly firm ass. This one, inciting a twitch in my fingers to get my hands on it. To grip it, sure and steady, as those hips furiously pound—

I shiver, at the same time Grayson’s body does the same. He notices. “Chilly out today.”

And he says it so innocently, folding his jeans as he’d done his shirt, like he has no idea the temperature of my thoughts keeps me staunchly heated.

Hard shoulders. Hard thighs. Hard pecs. Hard, hard, hard, wherever my eyes land. I tear them away, only to come immediately back. Unsure where to rest my gaze, until the memory of that night in Kellermann’s makes the decision for me. That hard, hard, hard length under me. And I seek it out now. Those delicious vee-shaped lines of his hips guide me down, leading the way right to the imprint of it, at the front of his red—

I blink, snapping out of it long enough to take in his choice of shorts. Pointing at the yellow lightning bolts, I tell him, “Harry Potter would like his underwear back.”

He scoffs, loud and offended, plucking at the hem of his red boxer-briefs. “Barry Allen? Speed force? Fastest man alive?” When I don’t comprehend, he throws both hands up. “The Flash, Summer! Have I taught you nothing?”

“Other than that you’re a huge nerd?” I grin. “No.”

“He’s a Justice League cornerstone! With total mastery of not just extreme speed, but time itself—”

I take his folded clothes and gently place them on top of all the others in the donations box. When I straighten, I brush a lock of brown hair off his forehead. “Is that why you’re wearing them, Grayson James? To give you an extra boost?”

He pauses mid-rant to give me the most endearing crook of a smile. “Did you know contestants who wear red are more likely to win running competitions?”

“Going for the gold, are you?” I skim the back of my fingers down the side of his face.

Taking my hand, he brings it to his mouth. Brushes his smiling lips over my knuckles. “Nah. It’s meant to be ironic.”

Releasing my hand all too soon, he nods towards a golden head and the crowd objectifying Lakewood’s it. “We all know Morris will come in first. I’ll be out a shit ton of cash when this is over.”

“Why make that bet then?” I ask.

“Because, Summer,” Gray’s eyes stare into mine. “Sometimes it’s worth a gamble on the underdog.”

You? I almost laugh in disbelief. An underdog? Impossible.

He’s a heavy hitter. One that makes that drum in my chest strike harder and harder.

But I get no chance to say any of that. Since his hands rest lightly on my waist, drawing me to him.

And right as our mouths touch—

He’s ripped away.

“Hands to yourself, wily temptress. Seriously, animals,” Levi pulls Grayson away, arm around his neck. “Come, we must rescue El Capitán.”

Rylie follows, Spencer and Kennedy bringing up the rear. Shaking my head with an incredulous smile, I turn to Armstrong and ask, “So what about you? Gonna try to beat Morris?”

“Try, yes. Succeed?” Spencer shakes his head. “Never.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You had a pretty good game last week.” He’d single-handedly brought the Leopards back from an almost crushing defeat. It had been an away game, so I’d watched from a couch in ABB’s living room with my sisters, keeping tabs on the score, not through the TV, but Grayson’s running text commentary on my phone. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re a first round draft pick.”

Spencer’s grin is as sure and smug as any one of Grayson’s. He flips Kennedy’s ponytail, aiming that grin at her. “That’s the plan.”

Then he follows after his friends, leaving Kennedy and I alone.

“The plan, huh?” I raise an eyebrow at her. “What kind of plans are we talking about, Walsh? Keeping secrets again, I see. Out with it.”

Kennedy adjusts her camera strap. “Nothing crazy, trust me. Spencer got some nasty remarks from a scout. So this season, he’s on his best behavior. He’s nailing every play. And he’s going to make that asshole eat his words.”

My eyes widen. Because despite being a journalism major and newspaper staff, I was pretty convinced the only shocking language Walsh knew was ‘oh, golly’. Spencer Armstrong must be rubbing off on her, and not just in a bumping uglies way.

“Summer,” she says before I can comment on her new potty mouth. “I never got to thank you, by the way. For your help last semester. With my allergy attack.” Glancing around us, she lowers her voice, “And, you know, the video.”

I do know. Not only about the spring fundraiser, where Walsh’s latex allergy sent her to the hospital when she’d been buried in a barrage of balloons. But also about the video. The one of Spencer Armstrong’s nasty ex-girlfriend. Meegan Gunn. Finance major. Party girl. Thrives on attention and hysterics. A real piece of work.

Who, I once overheard her whisper to a friend, has a standing appointment every Wednesday afternoon with her ethics professor, but not for office hours.

Taking that video, filming the two through the professor’s office door window, was the first time I’d abandoned my strict code on telling secrets. Because even though I’d been mad that Walsh figured out it was me behind the Prescott Hall vandalism, I hadn’t liked seeing Meegan push the redheaded reporter around. I mean, I’m all for a little drama every now and then, but never to demean another person.

“Meegan hasn’t bothered either Spencer or me since,” Kennedy continues. “So, thanks. Again.”

I watch runners crowd the gate, rather than meet her gaze. Liz’s voice rings through the microphone as she announces the 5k’s about to start. While I’m at a loss, wondering how revealing one secret could bring about such good for her, when all it ever did was the opposite for me.

I’m saved from having to respond by Grayson, who has somehow untangled himself from Levi’s hold to sprint back to us.

“What did you forget—” But his hands cup my face. Crashing lips come down on mine.

After a bruising kiss, he pulls away with a cocky smile. “For luck.”

With me still in a daze, he nods at Kennedy. “Spencer wants me to tell you that you better not plan on sitting for a week after today. And I want to convey how much I absolutely did not want to repeat that sentence.” Then, walking backwards, he grins at me. “Meet me at the finish line?”

He catches himself at the last second before tripping over his own two feet, then sprints to the rest of his friends. Leaving me to stare after him in awe, my eyes alighting on the contour of his spine and the dimples on his lower back. And that inviting, grabbable backside…

There’s movement in my peripheral vision. A flash of ginger as Kennedy glances from me to Grayson and back again. Then, a gasp.

“What?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she’s quick to say. Ducks her head and fiddles with her camera.

I wave a hand under her avoiding gaze. “Tell me.”

She drops all pretense, meeting my eyes clearly when she says, “You haven’t had sex. With Gray.”

“Excuse me?” I fold my arms. “Not that it’s any of your business, Walsh, but any boyfriend of mine is more than fucking satisfied. That’s the Summer Prescott guarantee.”

“Yeah, but…” Her lips flatten, and she glances in the direction of Grayson’s departure, before nodding in confirmation. “It’s not from sex. Not full-blown sex, anyway.” Before I can protest more, Kennedy points a finger in my face. “I know that look, Summer. I lived that look. Every time Spencer was near me, even when I didn’t want him to be. You want Gray. But you are not having sex with him.”

I almost sputter out a denial. What are you talking about? Me, wanting a nerd like Grayson Rowe? Jeez, Walsh, Spencer Armstrong’s dick scrambled your brains to mush.

However—Theoretically, a girlfriend would want her boyfriend. And Walsh knows my reputation. Hell, I’ve always been very upfront about it. I like sex. Everyone knows that. If this gets out—

I need to think of something. Fast. Before she starts wondering. Before she can piece together why Summer Prescott isn’t sleeping with the guy she’s dating.

Not meeting her eyes, I fidget with my donations box, and blurt out, “We’re taking things slow.”

Kennedy’s brow furrows. “Slow.”

One flap of the cardboard box rips under my fingers.

“You.”

“Yep.”

“Slow. You.”

“Jeez, Walsh, yes. Slow. Me. And Grayson.” I splay my fingers at this marvelous revelation.

And she contemplates that, checking her camera lens. “Huh.”

“What does that mean?” I stick my hands to my hips.

Kennedy shrugs, looking up at me. “Nothing. Just… I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Yeah,” she smiles. “You must like Gray a lot, if you’re willing to get to know him first.”

A horn blares. The 5k starts. A wave of semi-nude runners, all off with a chorus of whoops and excited shouts.

I tell myself the unexpected noise is why my heart’s hammering so much.

“Fuck,” Kennedy hisses, startling me yet again. “And now I have to give you an apology.”

I’m confused, until a guy with slicked hair and a sports jacket steps in front of us. Oh, fucking, you’ve gotta be kid—

“Summer Prescott. Ashton Keeland,” he greets.

I stare at his outstretched hand. He lets it hang there for a beat, awkwardly realizing too late that I won’t take it. Shoving it in his pants pocket, he clears his throat. “I’m a huge fan of your dad’s. I was actually just reading about his latest merger. Maybe you’d like to grab a drink and we can discuss—”

“Seriously, Ashton?” Kennedy drawls. “Summer’s not interested.”

“Kennedy,” he says tightly. “Shouldn’t you be taking photos for Monday’s article? We’re on deadline.”

She holds up her camera, and I watch with mild amusement as Keeland scrambles for another way to get rid of his ex-girlfriend so he can hit on me.

See, this. This is the kind of nerd I expected on that first day in the library before meeting Grayson Rowe. A stick in the mud with inflated self-importance. More interested in reaching Nolan by going through me than getting to know me.

And fuck if it doesn’t fill me with massive relief and warm tenderness that what I got instead, while completely unexpected, is infinitely better.

“Keeland,” I interrupt. “From Epsilon Sigma Pi, right?”

He sends Kennedy a pompous sneer. “Right. Now, about that drink—”

“Funny,” I glance around the stadium entrance. “I don’t see any of your fraternity here, Keeland. Are you here to represent their support?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he watches the last of the runners take to the course. “I’m here on official newspaper duty.”

“So, not to run then?” With a dubious look at his khakis, I sniff, “I understand. After all, doesn’t really look like you have what it takes to fill out a pair of shorts like Walsh’s new boyfriend, does it? Or mine, for that matter.”

Kennedy hides her snort behind a hand while Keeland sputters.

“Walsh is right. I’m not interested. I have a boyfriend.” Leaning forward, hands on my hips, I tell him, “Even if I didn’t, I still wouldn’t be impressed enough to sleep with you.” Then, clapping my hands, I say in my sorority voice, “Please leave a monetary donation with my sister Katherine, right at that table over there, before you go. ABB appreciates it!”

I wave at his retreating back as Kennedy’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Thank you for that,” she says. “God knows he’s needed someone to take him down a peg since becoming editor-in-chief. He’s been a total prick…”

She tells me all about it, while I provide appropriate confirmation that yes, her ex is an absolute douche and she’s much better off with Armstrong. Quickly after, we’re on to other topics. At some point, I realize I need to collect our donations. Kennedy follows me around, aiming her camera to snap shots for the paper. After some arguing, I allow her one. Of me, with my back turned, as I help load boxes into the truck that will deliver them to the city shelter.

We pause at a shout, then rush back to the end of the course to watch the first runners make it across the finish line.

Theo Morris, in a golden blaze of glory, comes in first, to the roar of the crowd.

Not soon after, Spencer Armstrong flies past. Slowing to a jog and meeting Kennedy’s eyes with a fierce stare that makes even me blush.

“Shit,” she breathes out. “He won our bet.”

And she sounds rather thrilled at the prospect of having lost.

More and more participants finish. Some at breakneck speeds. Others at a crawl, kicking up the pace only when the end is in sight. Levi shows off by jogging backwards, shouting out encouragements to Rylie, who lags behind. At the last moment, he lifts her into a piggyback, and they complete the course together.

And finally.

Gray.

Crossing that final step. In front of his friends, who all raise their voice in a chorus of cheers and praise and pats on the back. Morris, with the widest grin, pulls him by the neck, pressing their foreheads together to say something that makes Gray’s whole face beam with pride, even though his glasses fall right off his nose.

I rush forward, gathering the frames before Spencer’s foot can break them. I wipe a smear of dirt from one lens with the hem of my skirt, then rise from my crouch to find Gray, right there. All flushing red cheeks and hair stuck to his face and heavy breathing. Before I can hand the glasses back, he kisses me. Hugs me to him, and greedily, I suck his bottom lip between mine, drawing out a soft moan that makes me acutely aware of the heat between my legs at his disheveled state.

He pulls back first. Always, always first. Right when it’s getting good. When I’m left hollow and aching for—

“We need to sleep together.”

His whole face changes at my sudden announcement.

To alarm.

“Theoretically,” I’m quick to say, checking that none of his friends overheard. But they’re all walking away, happily discussing the run. “Um. Pretend to sleep together.”

Tension drains as understanding comes over him. “Oh. Yeah. Uh, okay. When—”

“Tonight,” I immediately demand. “Come over tonight.”