Copyright © 2018 by L.J. Shen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
The End Zone
Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
The End Zone
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
The End Zone: Extended Epilogue
Extended Epilogue: Vicious
More by LJ Shen
Preview of Midnight Blue
Prologue
Chapter One
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Jolie Louis is a smart girl.
She knows that her best friend, Gabe Poirier, is a bad idea.
He’s a walking, talking cliché. The Adonis quarterback with the bulging biceps and harem of fangirls trailing behind him on campus like a stench you can’t get rid of.
Sadly, that’s also the reason she can’t stay away from him. Well, that and the fact that they’re roommates.
Jolie is already straddling the line between friendship and more when Sage comes to her with an offer she cannot refuse: be his fake girlfriend and live for free for the rest of the semester.
She tells herself that she can handle it.
He’s just the boy she saved ten years ago, right?
Wrong. So very wrong.
He is a man now, and she is his captive
Heart, body, and soul…
Ten years ago.
On the eighth night, she decided to talk to him.
Eight nights since the Poiriers had waltzed into her life, occupying the house next door.
Eight nights in which the screaming, yelling, and crying of Mrs. Poirier and the roars of her husband pierced Jolie’s ears, trickled into her soul, and left her trembling under the quilt her grandmama had made for her.
Eight nights in which their kid—about her age, ten or eleven—stumbled to their squeaky porch, his dirty blond hair sticking out in every direction and his chest heaving with uneven breaths.
Cheeks stained pink.
Mouth curled in a dark scowl.
Eyes blazing hot, red rage she could see even in the pitch-black of the night.
Eight nights that he’d been climbing the oak tree which divided the land between the Poiriers’ and her house. He sat there, hidden by branches and leaves. Sometimes he howled to the moon like a lonely wolf. Most times, he cried as silently as humanly possible.
Seven sleepless nights in which she tossed and turned and mourned for the nameless boy and his mama, before she broke down and decided to approach him. Even if he’d yell at her. Even if he’d laugh at her. Even if he’d show her no mercy like his daddy had taught him.
The girl pushed her window up with a groan, dragged an old case of books across the carpeted floor, hopped on it, and slipped through the open crack, pouring from the safety of her bedroom to the untamed, uncut meadow. The rain pounded hard on her face, the wind swooshing in her ears. It was humid, hot, muggy, and sticky. Her white cotton pajama dress clung to her skin, rain dripping from its hem to her feet. The grass was slippery, and mud coated her toes. The boy was trudging to the tree determinedly. She cautiously ambled in the same direction.
He slowed when he saw her, so she picked up the pace. Later in life, she’d learn that this was their special tango. One pulls, the other pushes. One wants, the other gives. One loves, the other hurts.
“What are you doing here?” he yelled through the rain. It was impossible to answer him. Her heart was in her throat, pounding boom, boom, boom like a caged animal craving freedom.
Step, another step, then another. She wondered if that’s how it felt to be alive. Really alive. Not just living. Wet, uncomfortable, and shivering in the midst of a hot summer storm. Up close, he looked even angrier, his eyes a terrifying hue of midnight blue and ire.
They stopped about six feet from each other, right next to the tree. He was slightly taller, slightly wider, face slightly tenser, and a lot warier than she expected.
“Well?” he repeated, brooding. He is far too young to brood, she remembered thinking. And it worried her, despite all reason (their brief history). “Why the hell are you here?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, swallowing the pain she carried for him. Like stars in her pocket—it was huge, and she couldn’t begin to understand how she’d harbored it for eight nights. He needed help, and she wanted to give it to him.
They’d start school in a couple of weeks—fifth grade—and he’d be the new kid. She decided right then and there that she was going to be his ally. She’d be his friend, whether he liked it or not.
“You’re sorry?” He snorted out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. Raindrops ran from the tip of his straight nose, his full lips flattening in an angry line. “Well, don’t be. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” she insisted.
“Well, I am.”
“I’m here for you.” She hugged her midsection, embarrassed. Her grandmama used to say that honesty made you vulnerable, but that there was nothing stronger than the truth.
“Whatever you need, I’m here for you. I’m Jolie, by the way.” She stretched her hand between them. He stared at it silently, contemplating, like she offered him much more than a handshake. And maybe she did. The whole thing felt bizarre. Grown-up. The oak tree beside them looked like a living thing, watching as they made this unlikely pact.
“Sage,” he said, his palm connecting with hers.
She squeezed hard; he inhaled harder. He jerked her to his body, buried his head in the crook of her shoulder, and shook with tears she couldn’t see.
They hugged in the rain, just like in the movies.
They hugged long, and tight, and desperately, his skin soaking into hers like a kiss.
The girl thought to herself, this is how beautiful love stories begin. She pressed her ear against his thrumming pulse. His body was warm, but his muscles were rigid like ice.
The girl closed her eyes and the storm disappeared. Not because it had stopped, but because beside him, she felt fearless.
And on the eighth night, the girl gave the boy more than friendship and a hug, without even meaning to—and definitely without agreeing to.
On the eighth night, the girl gave the boy her heart.
He took it silently, never offering his back.
“Yo, JoJo. Your ass is on wingman duty tonight.” A steaming Starbucks mug slides across the shiny chrome desk he bought for me last Christmas. I lift my head, skeptically examining him through my hazel eyes.
Sage Poirier. My best friend. Louisiana’s finest college quarterback. The man who put the ‘ho’ in manwhore. My forever crush. The list goes on, but I’m sure you get the point. I rearrange the golden neckline of my sensible powder blue blouse, tossing my strawberry blonde tresses (heavy on the strawberry) acro
ss my shoulder.
“I have an English lit exam tomorrow.” I yawn, my hand already hovering over the keyboard of my MacBook. The bribe—pumpkin spice latte with marshmallows, not technically on the menu, but the barista would throw in her own kidney to get Sage to smile at her—is appreciated, albeit pointless. With the amount of homework I have, I’m not going to budge from my seat tonight. Sage grabs the chair opposite to me and plops backwards on a heavy sigh, his arms bracing its back. He is wearing his black New Orleans Saints cap backwards, his Wayfarers hanging under the brim of his hat from behind. It’s the indisputable, international I’m-a-douchebag badge, and it occurs to me, for the hundredth time since we moved in together freshman year of college, that if I hadn’t known him since age ten, I would probably find him as sexually attractive as a gassy rat.
“You’re no fun.” He leans forward and flicks his thumb and finger on the tip of my nose. His mischievous, dimpled smile widens when I swat his hand away.
“I have grades to keep,” I retort.
“So do I.”
I snort a laugh on an eye roll. “You’re one of the most sought-after quarterbacks in Louisiana. Going pro next year. At this point, you can flake your way to being a brain surgeon if you’d like. Every professor in this college would kiss the earth you walk upon if they didn’t fear you’d file a restraining order against them.”
Sadly, it isn’t even an exaggeration. Don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled for my best friend. He deserves everything he’s achieved, which is a lot. At twenty-one, he has his own shiny, burgundy truck, a brand new apartment he rents all by himself (I pay the bills in exchange for my room), and three NFL teams courting him like he is a damsel in a Disney movie. Despite all his success, he’s never once been uppity or conceited to me about it. Instead, he gives me access to his new place, new truck, and new life. He is still the good Southern mama’s boy who takes off his hat whenever he visits the small farm we lived on. The only downside to being Sage’s best friend is, well…
“Question is—do you want to kiss the ground I walk on, or better yet, me?” His elbows are on the desk now, his head cocked to the side attentively. “Because, Jolie, baby, you’re the only person I’m looking to impress. Ideally between the sheets.” He winks.
Insert an emoji of moi gagging uncontrollably at his tackiness.
This is not the first time Sage has made a move on me, and I bet it won’t be the last time I shut him down.
A month ago, Sage and I accidentally bumped into each other in the hallway while I was butt naked after a shower (forgot the towel in my room). He was on his way to pee, sporting impressive morning wood through his gray boxers. I was looking down, head hanging in shame as I hurried to my room. He was looking down, rearranging his junk. That’s how we ended up colliding, limbs tangling together, with me tumbling down and him reaching for my ass to make sure I didn’t fall. What a gentleman, right?
From that point forward, Sage has been adamant that we need to hook up. Emphasis on the word ‘need’ and not ‘should’.
And, Lord, forgive me. If he were any other guy, I’d be all over him like a rash after a torrid Vegas vacation. The man looks like the love child of Matthew Noszka and James Dean. The fact that he is six feet four inches of tight abs and only five percent body fat does not—I repeat, does not—make it easier for me to constantly reject him. But you know what makes it really easy for me to say no? The notion that Sage, whom I grew up with and know better than anyone else, is going to break my heart into a trillion pieces, smash it to dust, then skip over all the leftovers on his way to the next pink sheet-covered bed.
Because. My. Best. Friend. Is. A. Whore!
I love him, but he is a manwhore who can’t keep his dick in his pants for longer than twenty-four hours. I’m pretty sure this fact could be backed up scientifically, if someone put effort into researching the subject. Anyway, I’m too attached to Sage—and to my heart—to mess with either of them so recklessly.
“It’s a no from me,” I say in an exaggerated English accent, folding my arms and feigning boredom, doing my best Simon Cowell impression. We’ve been bingeing on the British version of X Factor lately and Sage makes me do an impression of the British judge every commercial break. If I refuse, he tackles me to the floor and tickles the shit out of me. I thrash and try to worm my way out from between his steel arms, only to be pinned tightly onto the floor, his hard body over mine. He is so aggressive and dedicated, ninety percent of the time I cave simply because I’m too scared I’ll accidentally come or fart (hey, just keeping it real).
“I’ll turn it into a ‘yes’ before the end of the semester.” He stands up, curling his fists as he stretches and yawns. His black shirt rides up and the prominent V leading to his crotch is on full display. In a last-ditch effort to save my panties, I avert my gaze, my eyes hard on the MacBook screen, and furrow my brows as the words in my lit essay slip from my vision. I decided to major in English lit because I’m good with words, but whenever he’s around, I’m nothing but a blubbery mess. He continues, “No girl has ever said no to me yet, and I’ll be damned if the one who does is the chick I care about the most.”
“But that’s exactly why I’m saying no,” I snap, my head shooting up from the essay, annoyed he’d joke about our friendship.
“Why?”
Why? “Why?” I look up, huffing. Yep, I’m actually huffing. And huffers are my pet peeve, but boy, does Sage make me want to huff lately. “Do you really want to throw away ten years of friendship for a quick lay?”
He smirks. “First of all, it’s not going to be quick. I know what I’m doing in the sack. We’re talking a minimum of twenty-five minutes, lady, and I’m being humble here, because I might be a little on the excited side when I finally get you in my bed.” He cups his groin and winks, and I would roll my eyes if it weren’t for the fact that his room is down the hall, and the thin walls confirm his statement. All the girls he brings home (roughly twenty percent of the US female population) do moan and scream for an average of forty minutes. “And second of all, I will not be ruining anything. You have one-night stands. I have one-night stands. We can have them together and still keep our friendship intact. We’re not fucking twelve, dude.”
I guess I can kill this conversation by pointing out that (A) twelve-year-olds don’t usually have sexual intercourse, and (B) I’m not a dude. But there’s something else I need to make clear.
“I don’t engage in one-night stands.” I pick up a pen and choke it to death to keep myself from punching Sage’s gorgeous, cocky face. I know my fist is going to be hurt more than his nose. The guy is seemingly built of steel, bronze, and copper.
“Of course you do. What about that Brandon dude?”
“That Brandon dude was my boyfriend for seven months,” I deadpan. Funny he should mention it, since Brandon and I broke up last year because he was adamant that there was something going on between Sage and me. Which was insane, inaccurate, and incredibly annoying. But what was even more disheartening was the fact that Sage did everything he could to nurture this false assumption by constantly touching and calling me whenever I hung out with Brandon like he was trying to sabotage our relationship. Sage was only a few weeks short of pissing on my leg to claim his ownership, which was kind of rich, considering how Sage’s dick has been passed around like community property. I’m surprised he’s not partly funded by the government.
“That douche was never your boyfriend, JoJo.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but he really was.”
“Well, he didn’t know that. I still want to kick that guy’s ass.”
“What? Why?”
“Because—sorry to disappoint,” he mimics my tone, and pretty accurately, too (the bastard), “but he was banging a Kappa Alpha Slutta whatever chick named Nadia. I saw them hanging out at parties at least twice, but I kind of thought you’d never actually seriously dated the dickbag, yeah?” He runs his huge palm over his sandy blond hair and messes it to tousled perfec
tion. I swallow, feeling my nostrils flare. Goddamn Brandon. “So I never thought I should mention it to you. You know I always got your back.”
I smile tightly, stand up, and walk to the kitchen with Sage following behind me. I want him gone, so I can cry myself to sleep, or call my bestie, Chelsea, to talk so much shit about Brandon his ears catch on fire and burn down his whole apartment block. I feel played, and stupid, and about as desirable as a bowl of stale broccoli even though it’s been months.
“Come with me,” Sage coaxes again, his husky voice seeping into my body and melting my lady parts into warm goo. What’s wrong with me? This is my best friend we’re talking about. Countless times I watched him go home with other girls, puking in national parks, and experiencing meltdowns. Crying happily when his parents got divorced, weeping sadly when his father died of liver failure after years of alcohol abuse, and roaring triumphantly when he got a full scholarship for college.
“I have an exam, remember?” I open the fridge and take out a carton of OJ. I slam the door and when I turn around, he is caging me in, bracing the counter from each side of my waist, his mouth so close to mine I can see the dimple in the center of his full lower lip. He stares me down predatorily.
My heart is in my throat.
My soul is most probably in my eyes.
And I am scared. Completely, utterly, and desperately frightened of what he can do to me if I let my guard down. If I let him.
“Wasn’t talking about the party, Jo. Let’s go to my room. Forget about Brandon. About people. About all the bullshit. I want to make you feel good.”
“Sage,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “Please don’t make this an issue. I’d hate to move to another apartment, but I will, if that’s what it takes to save our friendship.”
And my heart.
He throws his head back and shakes it, staring at the ceiling, exasperated. Then he pushes off the counter and I’m left to stand here, watching his tight ass walking toward the hallway. What’s with this dude? Did he actually not know I had lady bits before he saw me naked? I refuse to sacrifice our friendship because he suddenly sees me as a convenient fuck. He’s been acting so strange lately.