Dancing with the Varsity Bad Boy

Chapter 8

Jordan's POV

****

The drive to Ethics has been a quiet one, with Violet staring out the window, or humming along to the radio.

"What's your last class for the day?" I ask, parking up outside the school building. Violet sighs, and rolls her shoulders before facing me.

"My last class finishes at 1:00pm, at the dance studios, but I need to talk to my professor afterwards so I might be a little late," she says, and grabs her bags. I climb out of my truck, grab my bag and stroll round to open her door. She looks up, surprised, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks.

"Want some help?" I ask, noticing she's holding her crutch between her thighs.

"I'm good, thanks though," she says, shrugging her backpack onto her shoulder and hopping out. With her sports bag in on hand, her laptop bag slung across her torso, and her backpack on her shoulder, she sticks her arm through the top of the crutch and heads off ahead of me, the metal click of the crutch the only real sign that she's struggling.

My gaze travels the length of her body, focusing on how her hips move. She has a perfect ass, round with just the right amount of jiggle.

"Thanks for the ride, you can stop staring at my ass now," She says, and I chuckle at her. She's a feisty one for sure.

"Who says I'm looking at your ass," I call back, and she turns, walking backwards, and I'm impressed with how easily she manoeuvers with the crutch. She raises her eyebrow at me, giving me a "I know you were looking," smirk before turning to head into the building.

Following her in, I take the empty seat next to her, rather than my normal seat at the back earning me a eye roll.

"I don't need babysitting you know," she grumbles and I shrug.

"I'm not babysitting, I fancied a change," I grin at her scoff. Why is it so fun to annoy this girl?

"Sure you did," she says, sarcasm dripping off every word.

"What did you mean eariler when you said I should get to know a girl before passing judgement on them?" I ask, the comment from this morning having been niggling away at my mind. Violet huffs, her fingers tapping at her wrist. For a long quiet moment, she stares ahead, lost to her own thoughts to the point I don't think she's going to answer me.

"You all assumed I can't be a dancer just because I live with chronic pain," she says, her voice so quiet if I wasn't sat beside her I'd have missed it.

"You assume because I don't party, or sleep around I'm stuck up, or judgemental, or no fun. If you got to know me, really got to know me, you might understand me a little better," she turns to face me, a slight smile pulling up the corners of her mouth, but not reaching her eyes.

I stare at her for a moment, then turn in my seat to face front as the professor walks in. He scans the room, and upon noticing Violet, makes a beeline for us.

"You doing alright Miss Beckingham?" He asks, noticing the crutch laid at her feet.

"I'll be fine Professor Anderson, but if I need to step outside I'll let you know," she says, but the professor doesn't move until he taps his ear and walks away. Violet chuckles and shifts, pulling out a pair of wireless earbuds and pops one in her ear before pulling her phone out.

"What was that about?" I ask, curious. Violet gives me side eye before showing me her phone screen, her Spotify home page up.

"He's given me permission to listen to music, on low volumn," she says with a half shrug just as the lecture begins.

All throughout the lecture I glance at Violet. She never stepped outside, instead she'd tap her wrist on and off throughout. At one point she turned the volumn up on her phone, not enough for the whole class to hear, but enough for me to, although I couldn't make out the lyrics.

Professor Andrews dismisses the class and walks over to Violet, dropping four folders on her desk.

"These are for your house mates. They aren't due back until next week and I'd hate for any of you to drop behind," he says and taps two folders.

"Be sure to help them if they need it Miss Beckingham. I'd hate for Miss Forester or Miss Andrews to fall behind," with that he walks back to his desk while Violet sighs heavily.

"Let me take them back to the football house. That way you aren't carrying extra weight," I say already grabbing them and stuffing them into my backpack before Violet can protest. She stares at me, blinking in surprise.

"Umm, thanks I guess. I'll take them off your hands when you pick me up," she says and slowly gathers her belongings, her hand covering her mouth on a yawn while I stretch, attempting to wake myself up.

I'd had to pinch myself several times during the lecture just to stay awake, I'm not sure I've absorbed everything Professor Anderson had been going on and on about.

Violet on the other hand had been taking notes, asking questions even starting a full blown debate with the professor. How she's awake and firing on all cylinders I have no idea when she hardly had more than three hours sleep.

"I'll see you at one then," Violet says and takes off, dissappearing into the crowd. I groan in frustration, not really knowing how to navigate this strange and temporary partnership.

I don't do relationships, they only ever lead to heartbreak and distraction and I don't have time for either. So it's difficult to know how to navigate this.

We aren't friends, but after last night, it's be rude to say that, afterall I did help the girl get changed last night. Gods, I had to keep reminding myself not to look, not to try my luck. I was worried she'd feel my arousal when I'd climbed into bed to comfort her but she didn't seem to notice, which can only be a good thing.

Honestly, the girl is confusing as hell.

Last night she'd clung to me, pressing herself against me as though I was her only anchor in a stormy sea. As though I was her only safe habour in a storm but this morning she can't put enough distance between us, not that I blame her. I'm not known as a player for no reason.

Maybe she's embarressed about how she acted last night? Whatever her reasons, I feel like I have whiplash.

I guess I can kind of understand, before last night I had nothing to do with her, except annoy her. Heck, I didn't even know her name! I didn't even know she's Maxwell Beckingham's daughter. So having to rely on a virtual stranger, especially a stranger with a reputation as a player, when she was probably feeling vulnerable, would make her wary of me, or embarressed.

My phone pings and I take it out to find a text from Eric,

Eric - I've got a photocopy of the router from next door, and I grabbed some stuff for our guest. It's in your room.

Me - Thanks mate, I owe you one.

Eric - It's all good, we still on for drinks tonight?

I stare at the message, trying to remember if I agreed for drinks, when an alert chims on my calander. I mutter under my breath, cursing the fates, gods, or whatever is out there when I spot the date.

It just has to be now doesn't it? Since I met Eric our freshmen year there is a two week period where he's not himself. Two weeks of hardly sleeping, and when he does he's screaming, trapped in nightmares he won't talk about. Two weeks of emotional hell where his temper is quick and he's more likely to get into a fight with our team mates.

Me - Yeah mate, I'll bring some cans back.

Over the pass four years we've developed a way for him to cope with whatever is going on. He won't talk about it, refuses to, so instead I take him to a boxing club and we punch the living sh'it out of each other over those two weeks. It doesn't stop the nightmares, but it does stop him from taking his emotions out on others.

I normally take him out for a few drinks, but tonight we'll have to settle for some beer back at the house.

Hopefully Violet doesn't do or say anything that'll set him off. I really don't want to have to go out looking for him after he's gotten stupidly drunk.

I leave the classroom and head back to the football house, dropping in at an off licence to pick up some cans of beer and a bottle of vodka.

When I walk through the door at the football house Eric looks up from the framed photo he keeps locked away in his room.

"Brought back some drinks for tonight," I lift the drinks up for him to see, drop my bag by the door and head into the kitchen. Normally he'd be on the move, hiding that framed photo as though it's something to be ashamed of, but when I get back to the living room he's still sat on the couch holding it, his knuckles white.

Taking a seat on the couch next to him, I'm stunned when he passes it to me. No explanation. Taking it, I stare at the faces of three high schoolers. A younger version of Gypsy smiles brightly at the camera, her arms wrapped around the waists of the boys on either side of her, both fully kitted out in football gear. Eric stands to her right, his arm wrapped Gypsy and the other guy, his other arm fist pumping the air. The other guy has the breath freezing in my lungs.

He was the guy I was meant to battle it out with for the spot as first Quarerback. Bradely Cooper.

He smiles at the camera, laughing, his arm wrapped around Eric and Gypsy.

I'll always remember the phone call I'd gotten that day. The day I learnt Bradely Cooper had been killed in a school shooting.

"We were best friends since middle school, the three of us," Eric says, his voice hollow and raspy from suppressed emotions.

I don't know what to say.

"Mate, I'm so -" I start to say, intending to tell him how sorry I am for his loss.

"Don't Jordan. Just don't." Eric interrupts me, his gaze glued to the photo.

"He died that first day of the attack, in my arms, and Gypsy...." He closes his eyes, pain crossing his face.

I get up and head to the kitchen because something tells me I'm going to need a drink.