Score (Skin in the Game Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

far off in Lala-land, she’d forgotten the number one rule in the Belinda Grace Mitchell Playbook.
    Never go to football games.
    When she came back to this planet, she eyed me up and down, her brow wrinkled with pity.
    “And you looked like…”
    “Say it,” I groaned. “Just say it. Callum Samskevitch is a Greek God and I look like shit on the bottom of someone’s shoe.”
    “Well, not always,” she said with an encouraging smile. “But yeah. Today, it’s not looking great, Bee. That’s why I always tell you—”
    “I know, I know. ‘Never leave the house without lip gloss and mascara on. You never know when you might run into a Hemsworth’,” I parroted back to her.
    She’d drilled it into my head enough, but somehow I’d managed to ignore her. Now, though, I was starting to think she had a point.
    I wondered idly if I possessed the willpower to just hold my breath until death took me.
    Flora rolled to her feet and flopped on my bed next to me to take my hand. “Don’t think I’m about to let you sell yourself short, girl. You put that five-minute face together, bare your cleavage next time, maybe put on some clothes that fit you for once, and he’s yours.”
    Getting a guy was exactly that simple for Flora. On her, it was the recipe for instant success. Me? Unless he had a passion for girls who could run super fast despite carrying ten extra pounds or cook a mean can of Spaghetti-O’s, I was pretty sure I was shit out of luck.
    I was about to tell her that when I realized that wasn’t the point.
    “I don’t want him, anyway,” I murmured.
    She cocked a dubious brow in my direction and snorted. “You do realize you are probably the only girl on campus who has ever said that?”
    That was truth. There was no denying that a specimen of man as fine as Callum Samskevitch probably had his own entourage of female admirers.
    “Totally not worth the ego and drama that comes along with footballers, but you’re right. There should be a law against a guy being that hot,” I agreed. “It’s entirely too distracting.”
    “Not to mention that he’s hung like a water buffalo,” Flo said with a broad wink.
    I tossed aside the pillow I’d been hugging to my chest and sat up. “Wait, what? How do you know that?”
    “Gossip,” she said, inspecting her manicure.
    I should’ve known. There wasn’t a gossip-worthy tidbit alive that Flora wouldn’t latch on to and retain until she was on her deathbed.
    A ridiculous image of a naked Callum Samskevitch planted itself in my head. In it, he looked like a muscular tripod, so well-hung that it practically dragged on the ground. He’d have to roll it up, like a garden hose, just to fit it in his pants.
    Was that even a good thing?
    I didn’t have much experience with that part of the male anatomy. I mean, the only one I’d ever come into contact with was Stephen Bushmill’s at prom four years ago, and he was hung like a mosquito.
    My cheeks went hot and I banished the image of a naked Callum from my mind, focusing instead on the peeling paint on the ceiling.
    “Well, good for him. And, sure, he’s great looking. But I’m still not interested,” I insisted, willing the heat in my cheeks to subside.
    I didn’t know much, but there was one thing I knew for sure. Ball players made terrible partners. They had three things on their minds twenty-four seven. Football, themselves, and other women, in that order. I’d have to be a masochist to want to be with a guy like Callum.
    Not that he would ever want someone like me anyway.
    Which meant all was right with the world. Things were exactly the way they should be. The Callum Samskevitches never wound up with the Bee Mitchells. It was best for everyone that way.
    So then why does your stomach flip every time you think about him?
    Flora stood, crossing the room to her dresser and fishing around for a bra. Unlike me, she’d smartly planned her senior year schedule so she had all afternoon classes, with course