Enemy Down

  Enemy Down

  Cathryn Fox

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. Maize

  2. Christian

  3. Maize

  4. Christian

  5. Maize

  6. Christian

  7. Maize

  8. Christian

  9. Maize

  10. Christian

  11. Maize

  12. Maize

  13. Christian

  14. Maize

  15. Christian

  16. Maize

  17. Christian

  18. Maize

  19. Christian

  20. Maize

  21. Christian

  22. Maize

  23. Christian

  24. Maize

  25. Christian

  26. Maize

  27. Christian

  28. Maize

  Also by Cathryn Fox

  About Cathryn

  Copyright

  Enemy Down

  Copyright 2021 by Cathryn Fox

  Published by Cathryn Fox

  * * *

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

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  ISBN 978-1-989374-34-4

  ISBN Print 978-1-989374-33-7

  1

  Maize

  “Hot, right?”

  I glance to my left, to lane number four as fellow track star—and my very best friend—Kaitlyn Collins catches up to me. I lift my face to the sky to take in the late afternoon sun. It might be early fall, but it’s always hot in Southern California this time of year. I swipe beads of moisture from my forehead and concentrate on my breathing and my pace. Our big meet is next week, and I need to take first in my category or…well, I can’t think of the consequences.

  “The sun is going down. It should cool off soon enough,” I say, but before I get a chance to turn my focus back to my own lane, I catch her mischievous grin, and the wagging of her eyebrows.

  “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” I ask, instantly regretting the words spilling from my mouth. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Honestly, I’d have to be a total idiot not to know she’s talking about the football team, and their…oh, how does she describe them in their tight pants? Sexy, hot football butts. If you ask me, they all look like overstuffed sausages ready to burst wide open. I never did have a taste for sausages, except those flat breakfast sandwiches ones from my favorite fast-food restaurant.

  “You don’t want to tap dat ass?” she teases. I take a deep, fueling breath and focus straight ahead, putting an end to this conversation. I am not discussing butts with her, or any kind of sausage. But will she let it alone? Hell no. This is Kaitlyn we’re talking about. She might want to work her way through the entire football team—bed every Falcon—but she can leave me out of it. I have more important things to think about than tapping any man’s ass. Wait, is that even a thing?

  “What about Christian?”

  “What about him?” I grumble.

  Her grin widens and yeah, I get it. She caught me staring at the quarterback as he called out the last play. I’d give just about anything to run track somewhere else, but no, Kingston had to efficiently build the track around the football field, forcing me to stare at cocky Christian Moore like it’s my damn job. When it comes right down to it, I don’t have to stare. I don’t even want to stare. I hate that guy with the power of a thousand burning suns, and honestly, that might not even be enough sun to accurately describe the extent of my loathing.

  Then why the hell were you staring, Maize?

  Isn’t that the question of the century. But there is one thing I know. It has nothing to do with his butt in those pants. Almost nothing, or maybe everything.

  “Christian is looking even harder this year, don’t you think?” She lifts her arm and flexes her impressive bicep.

  I put on my best bored expression. “I wouldn’t know.”

  I pick up my pace, hoping to leave my bestie behind, but she’s not having any of that. I might be the school’s top middle-distance runner, but she’s the top long-distance girl, and there isn’t a hurdle she can’t jump. My stupid gaze slides to Christian again.

  Speaking of jumping.

  Come on, Maize!

  Kaitlyn kicks out those long athletic legs of hers and catches up easily. Not that I really thought I could lose her. We’re both attending Kingston College on sport scholarships. Most students here are on their parents’ dime, but we’re star athletes from the wrong side of the tracks. We met at Sweetwater High, an uber rich high school in So Cal. We both had to take three different busses to get there each morning, since it was outside our school districts. That’s where I met Christian too. God, just thinking about him makes me want to hurl. The guy singlehandedly ruined my life in senior year.

  I cast Kaitlyn a glance, and as if being pulled by some greater force, my gaze once again slides to Christian, only to find his eyes locked on me—like he could feel me staring, feel me thinking about him. Holy shit. I tear my gaze away fast and suck in air.

  “We still on for the mall later?” I ask, trying not to sound winded. I could run for hours without losing my breath, but apparently, all it takes is one direct look from Christian to steal the air from my lungs.

  Get it together, girl.

  Her pace slows, as she finishes her run. “Yeah, but I can’t be long. I have a group project meeting later.”

  I toss my words over my shoulders. “Okay, I have one lap left. After I shower, I’ll meet you out front.”

  She nods and wanders off the track as I keep running. I pick up the pace, wanting to feel the burn in my legs—and expel images of Christian from my brain. My lungs expand, and I enjoy the rush of endorphins racing through my body. Nothing, and I mean nothing—sex included—feels as good as running. Not that I’ve had a lot of sex. I’m practically a virgin. A few years back, my buddy Ryan—the boy next door back home—and I, decided we didn’t want to be virgins when we went off to college. So, we did the logical thing and had sex. It was awkward and fumbling, and it was over before it ever began. I’m not even sure I climaxed. Pretty sure I didn’t. I can barely get myself off with my own hand. Usually, I have to switch to battery operated, which I hate to do in an old house with nothing but seaweed between the walls. I have four roommates, and I’d die of embarrassment if they ever heard.

  Dear Mom, thanks for
that strict Catholic upbringing and all the teachers who body shamed us. At Sweetwater, our uniforms were constantly assessed. I was told numerous times my skirt was too high. Um hello. Tall girl. Long legs. Capri pants on other girls are like shorts on me.

  I’m about to slow my pace, but the next thing I know, something big and hard hits me in the side of the head, and I lose all sense of balance. The direct hit, combined with my speed, sends me flying forward, and the sound of bones popping, and skin ripping as I hit the ground hard, reverberates around me, over the ringing in my ears.

  My jaw skids shut with an audible click as my face hits the track, and I skid. It takes forever for my body to stop moving and the world to stop spinning. When everything slows, I lay on the ground face down, too afraid to breathe…to move.

  What the hell just happened?

  “Are you okay?” I try to move, to check my limbs, but whoever is hovering over me puts his hands on my back to hold me down. “Don’t move.”

  Move? I almost laugh, because I’m not sure I can move and that seriously freaks me out. I turn my head to the side, and that’s when Christian puts his face down, right there, inches from mine.

  “Maize, I’m so sorry.”

  What is he talking about?

  “My football,” he begins obviously reading the question in my eyes. “I don’t know. I threw it, and Kyle missed it, and then you were right there, perfectly aligned for it to hit. You weren’t there a second before. You must have picked up your pace.”

  “Oh, it’s my fault, is it?” I manage to get out.

  His brow furrows, and he shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  Voices echo in my brain as everyone comes running, and embarrassment floods me. I need to get up, to move, to run all the way to Canada, never to be heard from again. I move my hand, and once again Christian presses down, to stop me.

  “Can you stop doing that?” I whimper. “I’m fine. I don’t feel anything.”

  His face twists. “Yeah, that’s because of the adrenaline rush. Give it a second.”

  I swallow. Why do I get the feeling he knows something I don’t? “Christian—”

  “You’re going to be okay,” he says, but the strain in his voice tells another story.

  A burst of panic floods my body, and I slide my hand and touch my forehead to find an egg-sized lump. It’s possible I have a concussion. The world spins and my stomach lurches from the movement. Great, now I’m going to vomit in front of everyone. This ground might as well open up and swallow me whole.

  “Here,” he says, and slides his jersey under my head to cushion it from the ground. I sink into the soft material, heavy with the scent of soap and…Christian. Okay, I definitely have a concussion, because no way on the face of this earth would I be reveling in the stupid aroma of his shirt.

  Damn him!

  A siren sounds and I try to shake my head no. All I need to do is get up, throw a little dirt on my wounds, and I’ll be okay. I give a very unladylike snort. That’s what my Mom used to say to me when I was little and hurt myself. Throw a little dirt on it. Mom and me, we were a team. Just the two of us against the world. We did things on our own terms, and asked for nothing. We worked for everything, or we went without.

  “Maize, please,” Christian implores, his voice, heavy with worry, stills me. He drops to the ground, and lays on his side, his eyes locked on mine. Blue. My God, he has the most gorgeous blue eyes in the universe. I couldn’t see them that night we were locked in the closet, playing seven minutes in heaven. I wanted so badly to fit in with the ‘popular’ girls at Sweetwater. When Chelsea Haverstock invited me to her party, I was thrilled. Of course, I had no idea it would ruin my reputation and leave me friendless, except for Kaitlyn. She had no desire to be a popular girl. She knew mean when she saw it. Now I see it everywhere.

  “I think your ankle is broken,” he says his voice low, like it will somehow soften the blow.

  “No, it’s not.” I suck in a fast breath, determined to get up, but his big hand continues to push me down again and why the hell do I like that so much? What is wrong with me? I hate his face. I hate his touch, and I most definitely hate the way he’s pinning me down, and making me wonder what it would be like if he were on top of me.

  “The paramedics are almost here. Let’s wait and see what they say.”

  “I’m not waiting for anything.” No, I’m getting up, finishing my run, and meeting Kaitlyn for a fast trip to the mall for new laces. If I wait, they might tell me what I refuse to admit. If I refuse to admit it, then I won’t be off the team, my scholarship won’t be stripped from me, and I won’t have to move back home, having made nothing of myself. I have big dreams, for God’s sake. I want to be a lawyer, I want to right all the wrongs and help people.

  His fingers splay on my back, teasing all my nerve endings until pleasure mingles with pain. I’m familiar with the sensations from running, and I have to admit, my body craves that rush. The next thing I know, I’m being checked out by two men, and nearly blinded by a flashlight. Everyone is moving, fussing about, and my head starts to pound so hard, nausea grips my stomach. If they would all just leave me alone, I’ll be fine. The two paramedics move me, and shift me to a gurney. I briefly close my eyes, wishing I was an ostrich and could shove my head in the sand. I might be an athlete, but I don’t love being the center of attention, and right now, every member of Kingston’s football team is staring at me—so are their girlfriends, and all the cheerleaders.

  It takes great effort to go up onto my elbows, to check out my body, and a sound that seems to scare everyone around me crawls out of my throat when I glance at my foot, which is twisted in an unnatural way.

  “No…” I whisper. “No, no, no.”

  “Maize,” Christian says, and I turn to him as tears burn behind my eyes. “It’s going to be okay.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  I swallow against the pain in my throat. Christian is a rich kid, born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has no idea that his wayward football just put an end to my scholarship. How the hell am I going to pay for next term’s tuition?

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I shoot back, and he withdraws his big hand from my shoulder, worry and guilt all over his face. “You ruined high school for me, and…” a humorless laugh crawls out of my throat. “And now, not only have you ruined my senior year of college, but you might have ruined my future too.” He rears back like I just slapped him. His mouth opens and closes, like my words have shocked him, but he knows what he did that day in the closet, what he’s done now. I hold my skinned palm up to stop him. “Just go.” He inches back, and I square my shoulders to pull myself together. No way, no how am I going down like this. I’m a fighter. A survivor. A girl who can stand on her own two feet—well, at the moment, on one good foot. As long as I can stand, I’ll do whatever it takes—anything—to stay in college.

  Well, just about anything…

  2

  Christian

  I pick my helmet up from the ground, and the coach comes over to me. He dips his head, and assesses me like he does after I’ve taken a hard hit on the field.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I respond as Maize’s words beat against my gut. She blames me for ruining high school for her? Honestly, that’s news to me. After our seven minutes in heaven, when she pulled my pants down to my ankles, and opened the doors so all the girls could get pictures, I never spoke to her again. Yeah, I get it, the mean girls were hazing the skinny new guy. I never paid Maize much attention after that, and even though she left me standing in my boxer shorts, the rumors about her being an easy lay never seemed to ring true. Then again, she did take my pants to my ankles. But how was that me, ruining school for her?

  But the past is the past and what’s happening now is far more serious than a stupid hazing prank. I might not like her as a person after that stunt—that doesn’t mean I don’t admire a beautiful girl when I see one—but I’
d never forgive myself if she lost her spot on the track team because of my football.

  Coach’s voice pulls me back. “Why don’t you go to the hospital, check on her.”

  I nod, tap my helmet against my leg and glance around. My best friend Linc, and his girlfriend Steph, slowly walk toward me.

  “Okay, guys back on the field,” Coach Meyers orders. He waves his hand and the guys all start back, and I nod as they check in with me.

  “Fuck,” I say to Linc. “Her ankle is shit.”

  He tears off his helmet and runs his fingers through his mess of dark hair. “That was Maize, right? From high school?”

  “Yeah. That was Maize.” I shake my head and stare at Linc, like he can somehow make this all better, even though I know he can’t. He’s a good guy, and back in high school took me under his wing, on and off the football field. We’ve been best friends ever since. I was sixteen when we moved to So Cal, and a skinny kid at that. It wasn’t until eleventh grade that I filled out, and tried out for the football team. During my sophomore year, the girls might have teased me, splashed a picture of me with my pants at my ankles all over social media, but my status quickly changed when I excelled on the football field. Then I was moving in different circles, Maize’s stunt long behind me, and the pictures from the closet became almost legendary, something to be admired instead of ridiculed. How fucked up is that?