Penalty: A Sports Romance

By Rowena

Once superstar jock Abraham Stone notices shy Madison Mills, all hell breaks loose. He is determined to have her, finally deciding to shed his longtime, gold-digging girlfriend, Bethany, in favor of the quiet, unassuming nerd.
But with Abe’s determined desire comes crippling unforeseen consequences. Jilted Bethany won’t go down without a vicious fight, and in the end, they’ll all pay for crossing paths, one way or another.
Can the athletic alpha convince Madison he’s worth the cost?

A new adult love triangle story taking place on a college campus. No cheating and an HEA!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eromantica Publications
• Release date: Jun 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370495245

Rowena

Rowena writes steamy friends-to-lovers romance and erotica with an element of reluctance. She likes a bit of darkness involved as long as no one really gets hurt—at least, only in good ways. ;) Forced proximity and kidnapping romances are her favorites.She enjoys making up circumstances in which two people are forced to confront their feelings—sexual and otherwise—to the object of their desire, feelings they’ve been hiding or running from because of a major barrier or conflict of interest. Usually, her characters have known each other for quite a while, so their first sexual encounter has been a long time...coming.Rowena writes outlaw romance novels starring strangers at odds getting to know each other better under the name Lexi Gold.

Book preview

Prologue

Madison

8 years ago…

Dear Diary,

The new boy’s so cute.

But there’s a sadness about him that makes me even more curious about him.

He’s too young to have that sort of darkness floating around him, and I can’t think why that would be.

He looks about the same age as me—maybe a year older. So fourteen, maybe?

He’s at that stage where he’s a boy just about to transition into a man. His arms already look strong.

And the look on his face—it’s way beyond his years and sometimes makes him seem much older than he probably is.

What could possibly be so bad?

I have this crazy thought that if I mustered up the courage and actually introduced myself to him, he might lighten up a bit.

If I smile at him in greeting, he’ll have to smile back, right? And even if it’s a fake one, if he does it long enough or often enough, he’ll start to feel it, and his sorrow might be temporarily lifted.

‘Fake it till you make it,’ my mom says sometimes—when it’s obvious her smiles aren’t real and don’t do much to mask the terror in her eyes.

I know she thinks she’s going to die after all, despite everything…

Part I

Cutback

1

Madison

Present Day

Ikeep getting tossed between regret and relief.

As I stand in front of my dorm room mirror, brushing my curly, brassy tresses, I’m relieved I don’t have to go far to reach my English class. I don’t have to rush doing my hair or anything because I’ve calculated how long it will take me to get from here to there with time to spare.

But as I glance over at my roommate’s side of the room, regret fills me once more.

I absolutely would’ve preferred a single, but priority went to those who have been here longer, and as a transfer, I ended up getting stuck with a double.

I was apparently ‘lucky’ to get on-campus housing at all, especially since I transferred in the spring semester.

Sure, I could have rented a place outside of school, but that whole process seemed nightmarish to me. I hate hassle, and this double seemed like the quickest and easiest solution.

Plus, I figured being on campus would help me get acclimated to the new school faster; the orientation period alone won’t cut it.

But every time my roommate, Judy, and I cross paths, I groan inwardly.

Not that she’s terrible or a pain or anything—I just like my own space. I prefer things arranged the way I like, and as quiet as I like, without occasional weird smells and surprise questionable objects showing up in my living space. I like not having to pretend I didn’t hear the sounds of sex coming from Judy’s side of the room—the lucky guy continually groaning oh yeah as the bed also told on them, giving me an idea of the rhythm of his thrusts as it squeaked. I prefer not hearing Judy moan—even though I could tell she tried to be quiet.

I had wondered if her lover got off on having another girl just a few feet away, a victim of the live porn suddenly thrust upon her; maybe it made him feel like he was with two women instead of one. Maybe he enjoys being watched and listened to—I heard that’s a thing. Perhaps they both get turned on by the idea of someone paying rapt attention to their fornication, unable to help their physical reaction to the sounds of it.

I did my best not to let my imagination run away with me and give the guy a face or body, tried hard not to think about his hard, long penis shoved inside her vagina, driving into it with rhythmic thrusts.

I tried to stop wondering what that feels like—to have a man between your legs, part of him inside of you, the feel of his hard, long organ pushing in and out as his ass contracts with the effort of riding you.

Were they completely naked? Did the guy just have his dick out, otherwise remaining clothed while she lifted her skirt and pulled her panties aside?

A small part of me wanted to peek, I won’t lie, but the thought made me feel guilty, and the room was dark, anyway—I wouldn’t have been able to see much.

I could hear them, though, and my imagination filled in enough blanks to make me slick between my legs and sort of jealous I didn’t get to feel it myself. It sounds like it feels so good—not that I have a ton of experience listening to people have sex.

I’ve never actually watched porn, though I glimpsed it once when a high school classmate emailed me a clip, and I unwittingly opened it since the title and body of the email were misleading—it said something about cute, funny puppies; obviously, my classmate’s sick idea of a joke.

My mom caught me almost immediately since the speakers were on, and the man and woman were making sounds much like my roommate’s and her temporary lover, although much louder, more exaggerated.

My mom and I had quite a talk after that, and even though the whole thing wasn’t my fault, I felt guilty enough to suppress all curiosity along those lines. It’s not like I had a boyfriend at the time or anything, anyway.

I haven’t had to wonder about sex for years, buried deep in my studies and other concerns—until my roommate reminded me what I was missing two nights ago when she got pounded a few feet away from me, making me touch myself for the first time in a long time as my core tingled with need, moving me to ease the urge.

Judy’s exactly what my mom would have called ‘a bad influence,’ had I met her earlier. But I’m not so impressionable now, so I try to be open to her, even though she’s one of those alternative types—sort of goth and emo with her almost all-black wardrobe, dyed black hair, piercings, and tattoos.

Still, I had to have a talk with her about bringing guys over like that, and we agreed not to.

Of course, it’s easiest for me to follow that rule since I never had a boyfriend, and I don’t expect to pick one up while trying to finish my studies distraction-free.

Judy seemed cool and understanding about it though, and luckily, she leaves pretty early for her first class of the day. Plus, she’s far more social than I am, so she finds other things to do and places to go in the evenings and on weekends. I don’t have to deal with her much.

After a few more brushes, I gather my three and a half feet of hair into twists and manipulate it so it doesn’t look nearly as long as it is.

My hair has never been cut, and though it would be more convenient to have a shorter, more manageable style, my hair is pretty much the last thing I have that reminds me of my mother besides photos.

I look nothing like her otherwise—she was a creamy-skinned blonde with blue-green eyes, and I have light brown skin with brown eyes and dark, wavy locks.

But we both sported thigh-length hair.

I never met my dad, but I imagine he had dark brown skin and brown eyes like mine. He’s likely responsible for the overall stark difference in looks between my mother and me—why some people thought I was adopted. He’s probably the reason my hair curls at all instead of hanging straight like my mom’s, but at least I got her growth cycle, and I’m hesitant to get rid of signs of that part of me—that part of her.

I know it’s silly, but it still feels so recent since she left me behind to navigate the world without her.

In some ways, three years is a long time. In other ways, it’s far too short.

Three years is not nearly enough time to get over the death of your mother.

I arrive at my English class early enough to snatch a seat at the back.

There was a time I didn’t mind sitting at the front of the class, raising my hand frequently to answer questions, but I quickly realized that kind of visibility makes you a target. No one likes a know-it-all, so I get my A’s quietly these days.

Sitting at the back also gives me a chance to low-key check everyone out as they enter the class.

I try not to make eye contact with anyone, but I produce a small smile when I do because it’s always better to be friendly when given the opportunity, isn’t it?

A few smile back automatically, since we’re built to mirror behavior, but some just stare at me coldly—or through me.

Eventually, I stop watching the influx of my fellow classmates; we’ll be forced to introduce ourselves once things settle, anyway.

I get lost in my head for a moment, and when I look up again, my eyes collide with bright green ones on the chiseled face of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.

My breathing immediately changes.

The guy beats me to a friendly smile because my mouth hangs open, about to release drool, I think.

No way I’m letting that happen.

I quickly gather myself and smile back at him, and it dawns on me who just practically melted my panties with a mere half-smile—Abe The Babe Stone. College football star.

I heard about Abraham long before I stepped foot on campus—or rather, read about him during my research on the school.

I doubt any of the straight guys call him by his nickname—it’s obviously one he earned from the quivering ladies of A.U., and now I fully understand why.

Initially, I wasn’t that impressed with the few photos I saw of him—not that he wasn’t good-looking. He was handsome, no doubt—very symmetrical with a typical athletic bod, so whatever. I could definitely see why some silly-ass girls would give him the nickname; I don’t expect much of shallow ditzes who get so easily swayed by muscles and a player smile.

But in person, Abraham Stone is absolutely magnetic, and it’s