I scoffed. “Y’all acting like pledgees out this bitch.” Half the place snickered and laughed. “Who the fuck wanna go back on line?” The room sounded in snorts, denouncing that concept.
“I know it better not be nobody from my line. Some of y’all ain’t resemble Bigs,” Coleman snorted. I couldn’t hold my humor. “Shit. I’mma call y’all niggas Lils. Speaking of which, most of what we’re gonna cover tonight is this year’s rush process.”
I acknowledged him and the room with a firm nod. “As you know, last spring at the final chapter meeting of the year, it was decided that I’d be the DP of this year’s line. The job of Dean of Pledge is time-consuming—hella meaty. It requires 24/7 access, something I don’t have with my football career preparing to peak—” The room erupted with a sharp applause. They were proud, and I was thankful. “With that said, I will not be fulfilling the role of DP.” I placed my hand on Coleman’s slender shoulder. “I’m switching roles with Coleman, and will be the Assistant Dean of Pledge. For those of you not that familiar, it’ll be similar to Pledge Dad.”
“Damn, man!” Big Brown from Illinois griped. “That means you won’t be having fun with us on the head of these wet youngins?”
“Nah.” I chuckled. “I’ll be the one wiping their tears and collecting y’all asses for doing too much.”
Half the room laughed, the other half groaned.
Coleman turned to me and murmured, “I’m gonna make you proud, my G.”
I threw my hand up for a grip. When he met my hand, I assured him, “Just make sure those pups know their shit. I can’t get embarrassed in front of the chapter Bigs.”
“For sure.” He nodded before turning to the room. “Alright! Alright! Now moving on…” Coleman continued with the agenda.
I was the first of a few to leave the chapter house, and that’s because most lived and/or hung out there. I opted not to this year, being sure to stay focused on my League goals. But damn, did I have good times there. Even though I’d been in a relationship with Aivery most of my college career, I’d still been able to run wild with the boys without compromising my commitment to her.
My thoughts and words were halted at the sight of a nemesis who wore the same letters as I did and was branded with the same lion’s head as me. Benjamin Pettiford leaned on the hood of my Panamera with one fitted-cut dress pant leg crossed over the other. His white dress shirt was fitted, too, with the first few buttons undone to expose the top of his chest. This country motherfucker need all that on a college campus full of what should be kids to him at this point in his life… He sported the same goofy ass grin he always did when coming my way.
I stopped a few feet away from him, silently talking myself out of knocking him the fuck out. I couldn’t; he’d enjoy seeing me lose it.
“So this what we doing now?”
He laughed, standing from my ride. “What we doing?” he mocked.
I scratched the back of my head, giving my surroundings a cursory glance to see who was around to pretend not seeing me fuck Pettiford up. That quickly, I decided to let it go…again. It’s what his old ass wanted, and I wasn’t in the business of giving clowns a circus.
“Oh, you ain’t got shit for me? No, ‘hi, Big?’ Nothing?” he pushed as I sauntered to the driver’s side.
“The fuck are you even doing here?”
“I’m mentoring Jeremey. We had dinner and he remembered the chapter house meeting.” He shrugged. “I shot him over and told him I’d wait for him.” His smirk melted. “Or are you asking why am I standing outside of my own frat house, lurking like a weirdo?”
I laughed, pulling out my keys. Yup. He was fucking with me. “Nah.” I cracked the fuck up even louder. “Never that. I’ll leave the pleasure all to you.”
Just as I was about to duck inside, he asked, “I’m sure you heard I got a job with the Lady Panthers.” His face folded. “I’d be curious to know who told you, though.” Then the muscles in his face lifted, Cheshire cat smile illuminating. “Lil ViVi or A.D. Jones.”
With cavalier disregard, I chuckled. “Deeze nuts, bitch.” Then I dipped inside my ride, masking my boiling venom.
Seconds into my ride, deeper into campus, my cell rang. It was Aivery.
I was not available.
Samantha was out of breath and damn near limping into the locker room after our “workout.”
“This is how you train?” she panted.
Giggling silently, I shook my head with my eyes roaming all around. This was my first time in the recreation center. This was where all non-athletes at BSU worked out. It was nice…big, but different from the one on the athletic compound. It was hard to explain, but the machines were basic. This place resembled your average L.A. Fitness, which made me appreciate the athletic program even more.
We passed through the open door leading to the vanity section of the locker room, going straight to the back.
“I’m wiped out,” Samantha cried, swiping the sweat from her forehead. “How do you do this every day?”
“Only about five days a week,” I explained. “Six if I’m preparing for a fight.”
“Damn, that’s a lot!” She pulled clean clothes from her locker. “Is that why you never broke a sweat?”
Taking a seat on the bench, I laughed at that one. No, I wasn’t dripping in sweat like her, but my heartrate had elevated.
“Put it this way: we only did a quarter of what I have to do in my sessions. That was what we call a warmup to get me ready for the real deal.”
Samantha fell into the lockers dramatically. “Well, damn, Tori. Call me a fat loser while you’re at it!”
“You are not fat. Knock it off!”
I wasn’t into emotional blow jobs, but I liked Samantha. I’d been getting to know my roommate, although it was hard. I didn’t like meeting new humans. Shit. I’d had a hard enough time with the ones I’d known all my life. But she was reaching with the fat description.
Her face twisted into a pout. “That’s not what the cheer team told me last year.” She shrugged. “And when I went out for track, the coach told me I’d need to go on a diet before they’d even consider me.”
“I don’t know much about track, and especially at the college level, but I do know Blakewood don’t play when it comes to their athletes. They got my ass on a diet. I hate diets.”
She blew me off with a wave of her hand. “You don’t need them. What are you? A hundred and thirty pounds? I know you’re tall, but you look great.”
I shook my head. “I’m five-ten. My trainers wanna get me up to a hundred sixty-five/a hundred seventy. That’s why they’re regulating my food.”
“They want you to gain weight?” Her eyes went wild.
I threw a few air jabs. “They want me to knock out bigger broads.”
“You do that?”
Both our attention went behind us to the group of girls coming in, wearing all black: short biker shorts and matching tanks with low-top sneakers. Their hair was in high ponytails, too.