Study Buddy Part 1
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Jen Cooper
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38
ONE
ZEKE
Zeke adjusted the thick, black strap of his gym bag on his muscular frame, flexing his half-naked body as he walked down the bustling dorms with a knowing smirk. He was being watched by his expansive fan club, and he knew it.
Fall semester was starting tomorrow, and the girls were all eyeing him up to pick up right where they had left off before summer.
And during summer. He winked at a girl he vaguely remembered sucking his dick at last weekâs âbefore-school bash,â and she giggled, blushing as she turned to her friends, who he also remembered from that same party.
Zeke was down for whatever the girls of San Francisco State University wanted to do with him.
âZeke. Catch!â Fabian, the Krakensâ catcher, threw him a baseball over the top of the crowded hall.
Zeke caught it single-handedly.
âSave it for the diamond, Fab!â Zeke called, and launched the ball right back, his pitching arm ready for the throw as if they were in the middle of a game right on the baseball field.
It knocked Fabian back, and he grinned, hooting like an idiot.
Zeke shook his head with a lazy smirk, then brushed past the rest of the students, all moving into their dorms for the semester. Zeke ran his hand through his damp, dark hair that fell into his eyes, pushing it back.
Droplets of water fell from the strands and dropped onto the olive skin of his bare chest. He swiped it away with the towel hanging on his other shoulder.
He could barely hear himself think through the chaos of the filling hall, but he was used to the noise. It was never quiet in the dorms, especially at the start of the semester or at night.
Most of the students left their doors open, and there was always a party to go to.
Zeke made it to his door, getting groped at least five times by girls âaccidentallyâ bumping into him, âaccidentallyâ brushing their hands against his abs. He wasnât an idiot; he knew the lean, muscular six-pack he had was a game changer with the ladies.
He was not built super stocky like the Krakens shortstop, Alex, and wasnât as lanky as the center fielder, Jase, but he fell somewhere in the middle and had surpassed the six-foot height mark last summer. Now he was apparently in that sweet spot that made women drool. And he took full advantage of that.
He shouldnât, though. He should study instead, try harder to pass his papers. But it was hard to focus when he could live the life of a star athlete.
He was doing his bachelor of kinesiology, and it wasnât like the work was too hardâhe knew his shitâbut when it came to remembering that shit or studying what he needed to learn, he just couldnât focus. All he wanted to do was play baseball, and everyone knew he was only studying to hold up his end of the baseball scholarship heâd gotten.
Oh, and to prove to his parents that he could get his degree. Even if he was doing a really shitty job of proving that so far.
He just wasnât a man of commitment, whether that be women or his studies. The only things he could do really well were play baseball, drink copious amounts of alcohol, and fuck.
Grabbing his key from his pocket, Zeke unlocked his door and walked into his single dorm, disturbing the collection of colorful Post-it notes that had been slipped under his door from his groupies. He grinned and picked them up, flicking through them absentmindedly.
There were love hearts, lipstick prints, invitations, and his personal favoriteâa pair of black lace panties with a dorm number. He had only been gone for thirty minutes to shower, but coming back to girlsâ numbers and messages shoved under the door was pretty common for him.
He lived a blessed, sated life.
He closed the door behind him and placed the notes on his desk in a pile with the others he had already managed to accumulate in the two days heâd been back on campus. They toppled onto the other pieces of paper scattered over his desk, and he grimaced. Those papers werenât as fun.
His grades from last semester.
He was so close to failing, and he hadnât taken last semester nearly as seriously as he shouldâve.
With a heavy sigh, he tossed his gym bag onto his unmade bed and slid out of his scuffs. He had hoped that those papers and grades would magically change while he was away for the summer. Then he could pretend things were fine.
It was a stupid hope, but he had given into it anyway, disappointment crushing him as he stared at the bright red REVISE on his last submission. He was so fucked.
If he didnât sort his shit, he was going to lose his scholarship, and his future would be gone because of a few stupid grades. It was his own fault that his grades were bad, and he knew that.
He knew his lifestyle of drinking as many nights in a row as he could and being with any woman he wanted (which was all of them), whenever he wanted, though luxurious and fun, was something he couldnât keep up if he was going to have a future in baseball.
Once he made it to the top, he could keep doing who and what he pleased, but until he got there, he had to figure something out.
This semester had to be different.
Which included finding a way to study and make time for his assignments to get his grades higher.
Zeke furrowed his brows heavily in thought. He was so mad at himself, mad that he had let himself become so reckless, and he didnât want to disappoint his coach, parents, or himself.
A loud knock on the door broke him from his thoughts, and he rolled his shoulders back, shaking off the pity party to go and answer the door.
Baseball coach and Krakens legend, Allen Wicker, stood slightly taller than Zeke at six feet four on the other side of the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He was a huge man, full of muscle and power from deadlifting.
His build made him seem like a giant, intimidating as ever, and the wisdom in his green eyes commanded a respect from Zeke that not even his own father held.
Coach smirked, his wide, toothy mouth pulling to the side.
âYou donât own a shirt, boy?â he teased, his voice warm and comforting, coated in a heavy Scottish accent.
Zeke grinned.
âNah, the girls tore them all to shreds or stole them to sniff later.â
Allen let out a booming laugh before turning serious.
âCan I come in?â Coach asked, indicating Zekeâs dorm.
Zeke knew why he was there, but he still held onto that naive hope that maybe he could get away with a string of shitty marks and still keep his scholarship. But Coach wasnât one to sugarcoat anything, and Zeke had a feeling he was about to slaughter that hope.
Zeke nodded, and Coach Allen stepped inside, his ginger hair under a baseball cap, his bushy stubble more tame than last semester along his jawline.
Zeke closed the door behind him and looked over at his coach, who stood with his feet wide and arms barely crossed over his chest purely because of the size of his impressive biceps and pecs.
He had been lean once, fast as hell in the diamond, but that had been before.
Now he bench lifted, and it showed.
âIâm sure youâve seen your miserable excuse for a grade by now?â Coach questioned him, holding the sugarcoating.
Zeke nodded, his jaw clenched as he fought the urge to argue defensively, but he had no excuse that wouldnât get him in more shit.
âSpeak, kid,â Coach ordered.
Zeke averted his eyes, hating to see the disappointment there. âIâve seen it, Coach.â
âThen you already know you have to sort your fockân shit, yeah?â Coach scolded in the same way Zekeâs dad would have.
But Zeke actually listened to Coach Allen.
Sinking further into âfuck my lifeâ territory, Zeke looked up to meet Coachâs gaze.
He had to own his fuck-up; it was expected, and the respect in that would get him in a slightly better position than being fucked with Coach.
âI know Iâve gotta sort my shit, Coach,â he started. âIâll admit the distractions here are hard to resist, though, and I indulge in the social scene a bit more than I should, but Iâll change this semester. Iâll find a way to focus on my studies, even if it leaves every girl here crying into my stolen T-shirts at night,â Zeke teased lightly, but Coachâs gaze hardened at the joke.
Coach stepped forward, looking down on Zeke. âDo you love baseball?â
âYou know I do.â
âThen stop taking it for granted. You have everything now, but one distraction too many and it can get ripped away from you,â Coach warned, looking down at his knee that had been busted and lost him his scholarship.
Zeke swallowed hard at the reminder of legend Allen Wicker playing his last game and losing everything.
It had rocked the community, and he had never recovered.
Zeke couldnât imagine what that had been like and hated that Coach thought he was taking any of it for granted, but looking at how he lived, he kind of was.
Coach placed his hand on Zekeâs shoulder.
âYouâve got to grow up, son. This lifestyle is a reward for the hard work you put in, not a right. Stop showing up to do the work, and youâll be left with nothing. Youâve got more talent in you than players Iâve seen go pro, and I want that future for you. Donât let it get away because you canât hit the books instead of the booze,â he said.
Zeke nodded. He had to do better. Had to make Coach proud.
âI can fix this,â he mumbled, not sure exactly how yet.
âGet your head in some books and sort your grades, or your luck will run out, kid,â Coach said, and the way he said it made Zeke think he was speaking from experience.
âWhat do you suggest I do then, Coach?â Zeke asked, genuinely interested because he had no fucking idea where to start.
Coach smiled his wide, signature grin, and Zeke knew the serious talk was over.
âWell, considering you love talking to women all the time, I recommend finding yourself one with brains rather than a pair of tits to tutor you, and I mean actually studying, Zeke.â
It wasnât the worst idea, but if his tutor had brains and tits, then that wasnât his fault.
âIâll sort it,â Zeke said, and his coach gave him an approving nod before seeing himself out.
He stopped just before opening the door and turned back to face Zeke. âOh, and perhaps move somewhere a bit quieter, away from all those distractions you mentioned. Just a suggestion,â Coach noted, leaving through the noisy hall.
Zeke sighed, not liking the idea of moving, but if it would save his scholarship, then heâd do it.
Hell, heâd try anything to keep it.
