Oh, Henry

  “Well,” Georgie continues, “then it makes perfect sense. She’s disrupted your game mojo, Henry.”

  “Why? It’s not like I got attached to her.”

  “Maybe not, but you liked her and she dumped you. That’s never happened.”

  “I feel fine. I promise, no broken hearts here.” Though maybe I do miss hearing Elle’s snorty laugh.

  “If you say so, but she’s planted a seed of doubt in that thick skull of yours. So you’re going to have to find a way to fix it.”

  But how? Elle hates me. And we fight every time we see each other. “Easier said than done.”

  “Not really. Whatever you did to piss her off, just apologize.”

  “I didn’t do anything. She says we’re just not right for each other and accuses me—me of all people—of not being a man.”

  My sister frowns and rubs her pointed little chin. “Hmmm…then man up. Show her you’re not afraid to grovel a little. If that doesn’t work, then hit her with the old Henry charm. I’ve yet to see a girl resist you when you act like an actual human being.”

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  Other Works by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Author’s Note

  About Digging a Hole

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt of Smart Tass

  Excerpt of Mr. Rook

  About the Author

  OTHER WORKS BY MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF

  COMING SOON!

  Pawn (Part 2, Mr. Rook’s Island Series)

  The Goddess of Forgetfulness (Book 4, Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Series)

  Skinny Pants (Book 3, The Happy Pants Café Series)

  Check (Part 3, Mr. Rook’s Island Series)

  Digging A Hole (Book 3, The Ohellno Series)

  THE ACCIDENTALLY YOURS SERIES

  (Paranormal Romance/Humor)

  Accidentally in Love with…a God? (Book 1)

  Accidentally Married to…a Vampire? (Book 2)

  Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Book 3)

  Accidentally…Evil? (a Novella) (Book 3.5)

  Vampires Need Not…Apply? (Book 4)

  Accidentally…Cimil? (a Novella) (Book 4.5)

  Accidentally…Over? (Series Finale) (Book 5)

  THE FATE BOOK SERIES

  (Standalones/New Adult Suspense/Humor)

  Fate Book

  Fate Book Two

  THE FUGLY SERIES

  (Standalone/Contemporary Romance)

  fugly

  it’s a fugly life

  THE HAPPY PANTS SERIES

  (Standalones/Romantic Comedy)

  The Happy Pants Café (Prequel)

  Tailored for Trouble (Book 1)

  Leather Pants (Book 2)

  Skinny Pants (Book 3) – SPRING 2018

  IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC., SERIES

  (Standalones/Paranormal/Humor)

  The Immortal Matchmakers (Book 1)

  Tommaso (Book 2)

  God of Wine (Book 3)

  The Goddess of Forgetfulness (Book 4) WINTER 2017

  THE KING SERIES

  (Dark Fantasy)

  King’s (Book 1)

  King for a Day (Book 2)

  King of Me (Book 3)

  Mack (Book 4)

  Ten Club (Series Finale, Book 5)

  THE MERMEN TRILOGY

  (Dark Fantasy)

  Mermen (Book 1)

  MerMadmen (Book 2)

  MerCiless (Book 3)

  MR. ROOK’S ISLAND SERIES

  (Romantic Suspense)

  Mr. Rook (Part 1)

  Pawn (Part 2) FALL 2017

  Check (Part 3) SPRING 2018

  THE OHELLNO SERIES

  (Standalone/New Adult/Romantic Comedy)

  Smart Tass (Book 1)

  OH, HENRY

  The Ohellno Series

  Book Two

  Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  A Mimi Boutique Novel

  Copyright © 2017 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  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 are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design by Earthly Charms (www.earthlycharms.com)

  Creative Editing by Latoya C. Smith (lcsliterary.com)

  Line Editing and Proof Reading by Pauline Nolet (www.paulinenolet.com)

  Formatting by bbebooksthailand.com

  OH, HENRY

  PROLOGUE

  HENRY

  Austin, Texas. Alpha Phi Frat House.

  “Sorry, Henry, but I don’t owe you an explanation. It’s over, and that’s all there is to it.” Elle’s big brown eyes show zero emotion, so I put on my game face. I’ve never been chucked like this. Never. Because I’m fucking Henry Walton, one of four heirs to the Walton oil fortune, famously handsome, and the most anticipated NFL college draft pick since that asshole who got signed with the Steelers.

  Elle’s giant brain must be broken.

  Standing in the doorway of our two-story, Southern-charmer of a frat house, I step outside in my Pirates PJs bottoms onto the porch. I carefully close the door so the guys inside, who are fellow Pirates, don’t overhear. They’d never let this go. Football players live to fuck with each other.

  “You—you’re rejecting me?” I point to my bare chest, snarling down at her little round face. Sure, she’s got a genius IQ and is the likeliest person to build a tele-transporter or some geeky Star Trek shit like that, but I’m what the ladies call a bona fide catch. Six-five, two hundred and eighty pounds of pure muscle pleasure, orgasm philanthropist, future football Hall of Famer, and—fucking bonus point—I’m an all-around fun guy. Elle can’t deny it. My ability to turn her frowns into smiles is irrefutable. It’s the reason she bought that raffle ticket, the prize being a date with me, during our fraternity fundraiser. It’s the reason she said she wanted me to show her a good time after she won. Which I did. Several “good times” in one night and about fifty more “Oh, Henrys!” since then.

  So why is she dumping me? Not that we were official. But, dammit all to hell, I like her. I really fucking like her. Normally, I don’t go nerd, but Elle suckered me with her cute little gap-toothed smile and spunky personality. Okay, and she’s a blonde, which I like, and she has nice jugs.

  I swallow down a tangled mess in my throat. “Fine. Plenty of fish in the sea. I’m cool with that.”

  “Errr…you don’t look cool. Do you need to sit?”

  “Just a hangover,” I lie. “Big party last night.” Actually, I can’t remember what I did.
I can’t think straight.

  Elle touches my arm, pity written all over her face. “Henry, we were never really going to work out. Even you had to know that.”

  I slowly remove her hand. “Never gave it much thought.” Too busy living the dream and all that.

  She shoves her petite hands into her pink overalls. “Well, I need more than a hot guy with big muscles. I need…” She blows out a long breath. “I need a man. One who will be there when things get difficult. One who’s had to deal with the real world. You only know screwing and football, and I respect that. I might even be jealous. But there is no universe in which your interests and mine could coalesce into a symbiotic relationship outside the bedroom.”

  “Who says you even symbiotified me there?” No. That’s not a real word. And we both know I could fuck Elle all day long and never get tired of her. There’s this little squeaking thing that she does right before she’s about to come. Adorable.

  Wait. No. Fuck that. It’s annoying. Just like her shrill laugh, obsession with spy novels, and stupid nerd jokes about black holes—“Two protons walk into a black hole, blah, blah, stupid science punch line, blah, blah.”

  Good riddance.

  But as I think those words, something deep inside sets off like a grenade. Boom. I’m pissed. I just can’t fuckin’ believe that she’s kicking my awesome ass to the curb and won’t even tell me why. Not the real truth anyway. Because even a guy like me with only above average intelligence can see that Elle’s little line about needing “a man” is bullshit. Men just don’t come any manlier than me.

  Elle laughs, followed by a little squeak. My eyes zero in on that gap between her teeth. How had I thought that was hot? She looks nothing like a young Madonna.

  Yeah, she looks more like Urkel. Only pale as shit with blonde pigtails and tape in the middle of her glasses. I’m the one who actually broke them, though. I sat on them after we screwed. She kind of got mad, and I offered to replace them ten times, but she just shrugged it off. “No biggie. What’s a nerd without a little tape? I’ll fix ’em later,” she said.

  Elle finishes honking out a final laugh. I can’t believe I’m into her.

  Was into her.

  “Symbiotified. Oh, Henry. I’m going to miss your humor.” She grabs my arm and gives it a squeeze. “It was nice knowing you.”

  I jerk my head. “Been nice knowing you, too. Good luck with your…math ’n shit.”

  Fuck. That sounded lame.

  Elle crinkles her nose. “Yeah. I’ll cross my fingers and hope those big scary numbers finally make sense.” She turns away and heads toward campus, shaking her tight little ass in her overalls.

  Jesus, what was I even doing with her? I can get tens—ten cheerleaders, ten models, or ten of the hottest women at any party.

  I snarl at the back of her head and clench my fists. “Stupid geek!”

  Without slowing her pace or turning around, she throws up a middle finger. “Dumb jock!”

  I can’t help but laugh. She may look like a helpless, lost little nerd begging for social ridicule, but I’ve yet to meet anyone with bigger balls. Male or female.

  Stop it, Henry. It’s over. I gush out a breath of frustration. Fuck her. I don’t need anything but football.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Four weeks later.

  “Walton! Get your sorry ass over here!” the coach yells, cutting our play short and eliciting a mixture of groans and “eat me, Waltons!” from my fellow Pirates.

  I don’t know why I’m in my worst slump ever. I really don’t. Play says go right, I go left. When I’m supposed to block left, I put my head up my ass. It’s like my brain is scrambled or something.

  “Fulking herl,” I mumble, spitting out my mouthpiece and releasing my chin strap. This is the seventh play I’ve fucked up this practice, and it wanes in comparison to the chunky-style cluster I created during our last game versus San Diego. And the game before that with LA. And the game before that with Notre Dame—we lost that one. The other games were close calls. Too close.

  “Hey, man, it’s okay. Everyone has a bad streak,” says Hunter. He’s the new starting quarterback, so not as big of a dude as me, but a damned good player especially for a freshman. The topper? He’s a damned good friend too—something I never expected to gain out of this shit storm more unaffectionately referred to as the sinking SS Henry.

  But I’m not a quitter.

  Never have been.

  Never will be.

  I’ll do anything to turn my ship around, even leaving the coveted Alpha Phi frat house a few weeks ago. With my head in such a bad place, I decided I might be due for a change. That and the parties every night were getting on my last iron-pumping, protein-shake-fueled nerve.

  “Walton! You deaf or something?” the coach yells, still standing on the sidelines, waiting to chew me out.

  I look over at Hunter, whose face is all soured up, like he’s cringing on my behalf. He knows, just like I do, that the coach doesn’t want me here anymore because I’ve been playing like a moron. Of course, he needs me too much, and luckily, my agent says no one else is worried. The offer to sign with the Texans after graduation is still on the table.

  “Uh-oh, Pretty Boy Liam’s in trouble,” one of the guys sings teasingly.

  I fucking hate it when they call me that. I do not look like Liam Hemsworth. I am definitely Chris. But bigger.

  “Shut it, asshole,” I tell the guy and remove my helmet. I jog over to Coach Newton—a short bald dude with shit-brown eyes. “Hey, Coach, I know that wasn’t great, but I’m working on it—”

  “You’re out, Walton.”

  My gut fills with cement. “Out? You can’t make me sit out. I need to practice, not jerk off on the bench.”

  “No, jackass. You’re out for the season. Take a seat.” He points his finger in my face. “And don’t start, Walton. I warned you, so you’ve only brought this on yourself.”

  I am literally speechless. This is my fourth season playing for the Pirates, and my stats have put this team on the map. The publicity alone has attracted new players with solid pro potential, like Hunter, and Coach Newton is now hailed as the best college coach in the country. Everyone is living the dream, thanks to me. Okay, and it doesn’t hurt that my family donates a few million each year to the school. We have the best equipment, best facilities, best everything.

  I cross my arms over my chest and snarl down at Coach Newton. I may be a college student, but I’m no child. I know the score. I know my value. “You bench me and you’re the one who’s going to look like a jackass. Everyone’s going to put this on you—your inability to manage one of your star players. Then there’s the fact that the university chairs won’t be happy. The Waltons are key donors.”

  Coach Newton’s sunburnt nostrils flare, and his right eye twitches. “That a threat, Walton?”

  “No, sir, just a fact. A fact like any other. Including how I could’ve switched schools and taken my money with me. A fact like I’ve been playing flawless defense for almost four seasons and nothing will get more guys signed and bring in more money for the school than me.” I point to my chest. “Me getting drafted for ten mil a year.” It’s a three-year contract, so that adds up to a nice sum, but I’m not in it for the money. I love the game and have since I was old enough to walk.

  “Look, Walton,” Coach hisses quietly, “no one is going to deny what you’ve brought to the table, but I’m not putting the championship at risk because you suddenly decided to act like a chimpanzee rolling around in his own shit.”

  Dick. My playing isn’t that bad. I’m more like an untamed stallion. Who’s forgotten how to run. “I thought chimps wore diapers,” I say.

  “Shut up, Walton!” He points a stubby finger in my face. “I don’t know what’s gotten in your head, and I don’t care. I’ve given you a month to turn it around, but you keep playing like a little cunt, which means we’ll lose the season. All of us.”

  Fuck. I run a hand over the top of my sweaty h
air. I can’t really argue with his logic. If I keep screwing up, our team won’t go to the play-offs, and that’ll make us all look bad.

  I kick at the muddy grass. “Yeah, well. That’s not what I want.”

  “That’s a good boy.” Newton goes to his tiptoes and taps the top of my head. “Knew you’d see it my way. Now take a seat.” Coach turns and walks away.

  Good boy? And did he just pat me on the head like a dog?

  “But I’m still playing!” I belt out.

  The coach stops in his tracks and slowly turns to face me.

  “Hey, don’t look at me.” I throw him a snide grin. “You’re the one who says ‘quitter’ is just another word for giant pussy.” I smile and point to my crotch. “And I’m not seein’ pussy down there, Coach.”

  Just one big dick. Which I’ve had to be in order to get where I am. Because despite growing up in a privileged family, I’ve had to fight tooth and nail every step of the way.

  I put on my helmet and walk past him, giving him a slap on the ass. “Thanks for the pep talk, Dana. Just what I needed.”

  Dana is his first name. We think Coach hates it because it’s a chick’s name, too.

  My teammates eye me in silence as I take my place on the field, head down, fingers pushed into the mud.

  “You okay?” Hunter asks, coming up to my side.

  “Never better. Let’s play.”

  Hunter stands there for a moment too long, like he wants to say something, but then leaves.

  Good choice.

  The guys line up, some playing offense and facing us.

  I can do this. I can make this play. I have to believe that. I have to push out the noise in my head that keeps me from being here and nowhere else.

  Focus, Henry. Focus. I can’t keep letting everyone down. Not when their dreams are on the line, too. Most of us have worked since we were ten to get here—the last stop on the way to pro. And there is no sweeter glory than doing what you love for a living, even if it’s just for a few short years. It’s what we’ve all been killing ourselves for: The chance to say “I did it. I made it.”