Tackled by love, p.1
Tackled by Love, page 1
TACKLED BY LOVE
BELLEVUE BULLIES:THE NEXT GENERATION
TONI ALEO
Copyright © 2025 by Toni Aleo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Tackled by Love is Copyright © 2025 by Toni Aleo at toni@tonialeo.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright owner, and where permitted by law.
No generative artificial intelligence (AI) was used in the, writing of this work. The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication for purposes of training AI technologies to generate text, including without limitation technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Editing: Silently Correcting Your Grammar: Lisa Hollett
Cartoon cover by Gloinkdesigns
Photography by Wander Photography
Cover design by Toni Aleo…. Me.
Formatted with Vellum
CONTENTS
Introduction
Freshman Year
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Toni Aleo
About Toni Aleo
INTRODUCTION
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This book is for anyone who’s ever doubted their worth.
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FRESHMAN YEAR
Ambrosia
“I think there are better things to do than trying to suck Dawson Sinclair’s cock.”
Doesn’t that seem like a pretty normal thought to you?
Because it does to me.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love a good cock just as much as the next girl. I haven’t been with many, but the few I have were an okay time. Solid five inches of pump and dump. Didn’t even break a sweat. That’s probably why I feel like a cock shouldn’t be the main focus of a college party.
But with the way the Graces are looking at me, you’d think I’d said Ed Sheeran was the worst songwriter of our time.
Or that the Taylor’s Version albums were trash.
Or that the Bellevue Bullies’ hockey team was the worst team in the world.
Nope. All I said was that Dawson Sinclair’s cock isn’t meant to be worshipped.
How dare I.
As always, Grace M., Grace G., and Grace P. seem to think I’m spouting lies and there is nothing better in this whole wide world than sucking Dawson Sinclair’s cock.
Unlike my roommates, I’m not enamored with Dawson Sinclair. Yes, he is the next Sinclair to leave Bellevue for the National Hockey League, but my whole life has been spent around hockey players, so…good for him. Dawson comes from a long line of hockey greats, and just like those before him, he is a force to be reckoned with. Not only does he dominate the ice, but he can throw the hell out of a football too. He is the first freshman starting quarterback in Bellevue’s history. He is one of the highest-paid NIL athletes in Tennessee at only eighteen—whoa—and will probably go first in the draft in whichever sport he chooses.
Basically, he’s the next great.
Dawson Sinclair is also the sexiest guy to skate into the hockey world.
Or, hell, any world.
Fresh-faced with bright greenish-brown hazel eyes and a body that screams athlete, he’s a machine, all tall with big ol’ muscles. He has this hair—it’s dark and shaggy—that he is constantly pushing to the side with his whole hand. Not just a finger, like all his fingers comb his thick hair to the side. It has a bit of a curl to it that I don’t think he takes care of. As a curly girl myself, I know the proper care, but his has a wave that makes me want to trace it. Weird? Yeah.
He has a boy-next-door look—if the guy next door was built like a tank—and a huge smile that reminds me of a happy little golden retriever. He’s always smiling, always a good time, and boy, do the girls love him.
My roommates are his biggest fans.
Me? He’s just another guy who scores on the ice and off.
A lot.
Even as a defenseman, the dude is always scoring.
And as a guy, he’s falling dick-first into any willing hole.
“Ambrosia, it’s you or Grace P. who will suck him off tonight. It’s a rite of passage,” Grace M. says, and I give her a look.
Not only do my roommates all share the same name, but they are a copy-paste of one another. They are the picture-perfect example of Southern debutantes. They come from old money with families who are best friends, and they say they’re related when they’re not. All bright blond hair, big blue eyes, and the perfect little bodies. Short, with big boobs and small waists. My tía is convinced they all got their boobs done together after graduation. I don’t have the nerve to ask, but I don’t think she’s wrong. It totally seems like something they’d do.
While their personalities are trash, they’re all stunning.
Then there is me. While I also come from money since my dad is a retired hockey player and my mom owns a housecleaning business that only caters to the rich, I am nothing like them. I am tall, with dark hair and eyes, along with curves that people love to talk about. To some, I’m hot. To others, I’m too big. To me, I’m just trying to love myself. So I do a lot of ignoring of the outside world to keep the love alive inside me.
It’s hard out here for a thick girl.
Especially when your roommates are real-life Barbies. They tend to comment on my size a lot and always do that, “Should you be eating that?” thing skinny girls love to do when a thick girl is enjoying her burrito. I don’t care what they say or think about me. My dad has always told me, some people will come into your life only to teach you a lesson.
The lesson the Graces have taught me? To be kind. No matter what.
I’ve been living with them for six months now, and it’s easy to say they don’t know the word kind. They are the epitome of mean girls, yet they tolerate me. They’re never outright mean to me, but they’re always quick with the backhanded comments. I’m used to it, though, which I know is a sad thought. Not that my family has ever made me feel less than, but everyone else?
Yeah, I’m never good enough.
One thing is for sure—I’ll be moving to an apartment after this year. Unfortunately, I have to stay on campus my freshman year, which is why I’m in this predicament.
Because any other day, no one would catch me at a Bullies’ house party with these three.
Or at a party, really.
Especially a college hockey team party.
I’m not really the party type, and since I have been around hockey guys my whole life, this isn’t my scene. With my dad’s career as a professional NHL player, and then when he moved to broadcasting, I’ve been able to go to a bunch of camps full of hockey guys and I know them better than anyone. While I know there are good guys in the sport, I have met nothing but shitty ones. Yet just like every other naïve girl out there, I keep chasing those red flags. It’s hard when I want what my parents have, a loving, supportive marriage, but I only meet guys whose brains are in their dicks.
I want someone to share my life with. But I’m only eighteen; shouldn’t I be having fun?
But sucking Dawson’s Sinclair’s cock doesn’t sound fun to me.
I mean, it does, and I bet he’s hung, but I refuse to be like the masses.
The fact that everyone is obsessed with him is a turn-off, especially when I know he wouldn’t give me a second glance or even remember me after.
“A rite of passage would be getting drunk and playing hockey in the guys’ gear. Sucking a guy off is not the same thing,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You’re really judgy,” Grace M. says, her words a bit slurred. “You never wan
Oh, you read that right. They hook up with one another.
It’s okay, though. They’re drunk when it happens, so they’re not really bi.
I feel like I get dumber just breathing the same air as them.
I cover my mouth to hold in my laugh. “Yeah, sorry. I have better things to do than worry about sex. I have—”
“Goals,” they say together, rolling their eyes.
It’s Grace P. who says, “Your goals are ruining your life.”
I make a face. “Or making them better,” I say, not one to hold back. My dad says I have a bit of a mouth on me. That I never really think before I speak.
He’s not wrong.
“What else is new— OMG, there he is!” Grace G. says, and they all puff up like peacocks. Tits out and duck lips in full force. I fully expect them to start doing mating dances at the drop of a puck. I roll my eyes, not sparing Dawson Sinclair a look before I point at nothing.
“I’m going to go get some air.”
I don’t miss what they say under their breath.
He wouldn’t let her suck him off anyway. She’s not his type.
She’s such a loser.
Only a couple months and then we’ll be rid of her boring ass.
I can’t help but laugh.
What they don’t know is I’m way meaner to myself than they could ever be.
I walk through the Bullies’ house to the kitchen, where a huge tub of Bullies Backyard Punch is out in the open. Now, I wouldn’t get any if there weren’t a sober guy in charge of watching the punch to make sure no one drops drugs into it. As much as I hate parties, the Bullies are very much about the safety of their guests. Especially women.
“No drugs?” I ask, and Wilson Masters flashes me a grin.
“Nope,” he says, popping the P. “But I know where to get some.”
I wink before taking the ladle and pouring some punch into my cup. “I’m good. Have a great night.” His eyes move across my body, and I roll my eyes. “Not gonna happen.”
“You gotta give me another chance,” he practically begs, and I shake my head.
“You couldn’t find my clit, Willy, then came in your pants when you did.”
He grins sheepishly. “I’ve learned things.”
Okay, yes, I hooked up with him. I was sixteen, and he was my first kiss. I know I shouldn’t hold it against him, but if I’m going to take off my pants, I want to be guaranteed an orgasm.
Willy doesn’t give off guaranteed-orgasm energy.
“I’m good,” I say with a wave and a wide grin. “See you around.”
“I’m gonna convince you,” he calls out, and I shake my head.
“Not after you told everyone I sucked your dick, when I didn’t,” I say before flicking him the bird.
“I was a stupid guy.”
“Don’t you mean, am?” I call back with a wink.
His laughter follows me out of the kitchen. I move through the house, taking in the crowd of my peers who are dancing and rubbing against each other in the primal dance of youth. It’s foggy in here from all the vapes and weed, almost choking me out. Add in the mixture of sweaty bodies, sex, and all kinds of beer, and I want to gag.
Welcome to college.
This is the experience adults want for us.
So awesome.
I can’t help but take in the wall of fame. Some of the greats, including Dawson Sinclair’s dad, Jayden, and his uncles, Jace and Jude. They are royalty around here, so it only makes sense why Dawson Sinclair is idolized.
The Bullies’ house is a cool place. Multiple floors, lots of rooms for the guys, and super modern. While it’s all sleek with white marble and slate gray walls, it also has a sense of home. Maybe it’s the cushions on the couches or all the photos of the team from year to year, but you can tell that the guys are taken care of. That they love where they live.
I head out to the courtyard behind the house as I pull out my phone. I see a few couples talking close, getting to know each other before they go find somewhere to get naked. They don’t pay me any attention as I sit down on a large beanbag with the Bellevue Bullies logo on it that is next to a huge fire pit.
I lean back, looking up at the stars as a smile moves across my face. The only reason I agreed to come tonight was because my interview to broadcast for the Bellevue Bullies’ girls’ hockey team was a success. I will call all the games next season, and I’m super stoked about it.
I should have gone to Cold Stone to celebrate instead, yet here I am. I tried not to be the boring person that the Graces claim I am, and I listened to my dad, who told me to come celebrate.
I open my text thread with him and hit the microphone.
“You told me to come, and I’m sitting alone because people my age suck.”
He messages right back. I hit play, and his deep voice makes me grin. “All people suck. You gotta find your people.”
“I don’t think they exist. Only you, Mom, and Tía.”
“They’re out there. Don’t worry. Try to have some fun. There are hockey players there. Find one and talk shop.”
“They’ll try to make out with me.”
“Thank you for ruining my night with that image.”
“You suggested it.”
“I said talk, not suck face.” I snort. “Though, you’re probably right, you’ll impress them with all your hockey knowledge and then, bam, they’ll fall in love and try to sleep with you. You let me know so I can kill them.”
I grin. “Of course, Dad. I’ll tell you about all the guys who hit on me.”
His voice is playful but stern. “Good. Have fun. I love you, Ro.”
I smile, my heart warming. “I love you too, Dad.”
“Be safe.”
“I am.”
I tuck my phone into my pocket as I lean back to look at the sky once more. I smile to myself at the thought of finding my people. I don’t know if they’re out there, and honestly, I’m sick of trying to make myself a space at all these damn tables where people look at me like I’m not good enough.
I am good enough.
“Less teeth. Girl, what are you doing? Stop trying to stop me. You said I could fuck your mouth.”
Laughter sputters out of me, and I look over at where the gruff voice came from. As bright as the moon, a pair of thick ass cheeks clenches as the owner of said ass cheeks makes a sound of distress. I look around in shock, finding that the other couples who are out here have wide eyes, and they quickly go inside.
I look back as the guy backs up, fixing his jeans. “I’m not getting the rhythm. Let’s make out,” the girl suggests.
No joke, the guy puts his hand on her head, stopping her forward motion, and says, “Chick, fuck no. I don’t kiss on the mouth, and you suck at sucking dick.”
Damn, I can’t help but flush with embarrassment for the girl.
That is, until she lets out a shrill, “Let me try again!”
I’d know that shrill cry anywhere.
The guy moves away just as Grace P. tries to stand, but she wobbles on her sky-high heels. Her mascara is in streaks down her face, along with her tears. Her mouth is swollen, her cheeks red, and I feel awful for her. I can tell she’s drunk, but also, she’s mortified. I don’t know why it surprises me that Dawson Sinclair is the guy fixing the front of his pants, but it does. I knew she was on a mission, and good for her to get what she wants, but damn, even I’m burned by his rejection.
What an asshole.
The whole situation is wild to me. It’s like when everything is so wrong and all you can do is laugh to ease all the tension. Which is why I let out a nervous giggle at the sight before me. Grace P.’s eyes whip to me, her jaw dropping a bit when she realizes I’m a witness to her lowest moment. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but then she glares with all the rage in her body.
As if I’m the one who said she sucks at giving head.
I smile. “Told you it wasn’t a rite of passage.”
She growls at me. Like a fucking dog. “Fuck you, Ambrosia. You’re just jealous!” she spits, and yeah, I snort.
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of the fact that no one would want your ugly, fat-ass self to suck their dick! You try to act like you don’t want anyone, but we all know it’s because you can’t land anyone.”
