by Trisha Wolfe
“Huh.” Slowly, he licks the remnants of cream icing off his finger. And not in a way that’s at all innocent.
His blue eyes roam over my body, lingering, invasive. His tongue swirls around the tip of his finger while his gaze practically peels away my clothes, sending a warm trill through my belly. It’s ridiculous. And then, because of how cliché it all is, and how lightheaded I suddenly feel, I laugh. Full-on, crazy woman laugh. He did not just try that lame move on me, did he?
“I’m sorry,” I say, waving my hand that’s not clutching the tray. “Thanks for the cake. But I need to go.”
Another laugh barrels from my mouth at the absurdity. I should’ve put it together before; the broad shoulders, muscles, cocky demeanor, entitlement (over a piece of cake!). I have a good bit of experience with his type, and I promised myself never again.
This guy can only be a jock.
2
Ryder
I’ve been launched into the past.
When this girl turned and spoke to me—it was like déjà vu. Like I was seeing a ghost. And maybe that’s why my brain isn’t sending the proper signals to my mouth, and I’m saying the dumbest shit. For one brief, terrifying moment, I thought she was Alyssa.
But she’s not. And I quickly realized that. It’s impossible. But I just can’t stop staring at her; she reminds me so much of the girl that plagued me—that still plagues me. Right when her big amber eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been slapped.
Just the way Alyssa slapped me; palm against face.
But this girl…she is hot. So similar it’s freakily uncanny, but she definitely has her own sexiness. Just something all of her own. She’s model thin minus the height. In every way my type, and she’s perfectly proportioned. She’s covering her body up pretty damn well with all those layers, but I can see a hint of toned, round curves just beneath.
Despite the resemblance, there’s something I can’t place about her. Something skittish and unsure, but assertive at the same time—it’s conflicting. That’s what really sets the divide. Alyssa was soft-spoken and tame. This girl has a livewire buried just beneath her surface. And that vigor radiates off her at a high volume. It’s drawing me in; everything around us so quiet, like I need the silence to hear what she’s not voicing with words.
These are my thoughts as she stands here, manically laughing and waving her hand in the air. Her dark ringlets of hair falling over one shoulder, drawing my gaze right to her small but ample chest. Her head cocked back, like I’ve just said the funniest shit ever—and I’d like to believe that. Feel flattered and stroke my ego. But the reality comes as a blow to the stomach when I realize she’s laughing at me.
Dammit.
Do I have something on my face?
“So…bye,” she says, dropping her hand and gripping the tray with both now. Her knuckles turn this white color. She’s so high-strung—a strange desire to unhinge her sweeps through me. Just to see how she’ll respond. I need more. Just more.
I make one more attempt to fix whatever’s off by running my hand over my face, hoping to clear any icing away, feeling like a completely awkward dork right out of high school. Or hell, like I never left.
The memory of Alyssa has dragged me right back to the past. I’m unnerved.
But I’ve missed my chance. She’s gone.
As I watch her walk away, her narrow hips swaying, sexy—but with no intention of being sexy—an easy smile curls my lips, pushing away some of the unease. That’s what’s so hot; she has no clue. But I feel like I just got called out. She—and I really wish I would’ve caught her name—saw right through that lame-ass move. Offering her a piece of my cake? Did I really just go all grade school there?
I pop my finger into my mouth to finish off the icing.
For some reason, I don’t think bragging about being quarterback is going to win over any points with her. I’m glad I didn’t go there, even though I was about to…I was getting desperate to keep her from leaving. And really, every other girl at Braxton goes for that shit. Don’t fix what’s not broken, right? Though, no—I’m definitely thinking she’s nothing like any of those girls.
“Burn.” This from Gavin—my center—my main guy on the field and off.
My jaw clenches as my gaze quits the little hot girl and swings to him. “Not yet,” I say.
He chuckles. “Dude. She straight up dissed you, man. But hey, she’s new, huh? Give her till the end of the day to figure out who you are, then she’ll be spreading those skinny little legs wide open.” He flops down onto one of the plastic chairs and makes a crude motion with his hands and mouth, miming going down on a girl.
Gavin has no filter. Or shame.
I force a laugh. Because really, you have to laugh at the guy, or it’s just sad.
Laney, as if on cue, ambles over from her designated table and plunks onto Gavin’s lap. Her high ponytail swats him in the face, and he yanks on it, pulling her face toward him so he can devour her mouth.
They’re not a couple—just on again, off again fuck buddies for the past few years. Whenever they’re single and bored. The smacking and sucking noises can be heard over the chatter of the cafeteria.
Forgoing my initial inclination to chase after the chick that laughed at me and walked off with the other half of my carrot cake, I settle down onto a chair and dig into my piled-high plate. I’m already dismissing the eerie notion that she looked anything like Alyssa. It was the lighting. Or the angle. She just caught me at an off moment. Moving on. That was a blast from the past I don’t want to revisit.
Until I find out her name, I’ll just give her my own to completely separate the two. But, damn, if she hasn’t hijacked my whole brain. I can’t get those amber eyes out of my mind…
Gavin pulls his head back and says around Laney, “Coach still riding your ass about beefing up?”
Grateful for the diversion from my morbid thoughts, I nod, forcing down the starch-filled biscuit. “I’m six pounds away from goal weight.”
He adjusts Laney on his lap, maneuvering her to the side so he can get to his food. “That sucks.”
I huff a curt laugh. Not to sound like an ass, but that’s probably about the most sympathetic and enlightening thing I’ve ever heard come from the guy’s mouth.
“Thanks, dude.” I lift my fork to dive into the cake but pause. The flimsy utensil hovering over the icing. I didn’t realize it in the moment with my thoughts racing, but it’s been a long while since I was prompted to do anything—even as little as sharing the last piece of my favorite dessert—for anyone else. Especially a girl. Ever since sophomore year, since I made starting quarterback, I’ve had girls falling over themselves to make sure I was taken care of.
Clothes. Food. Sex. You name it. I’m like a prized stallion here at Braxton—and I’m really not trying to sound asinine. Or vain. It’s just the truth. For nearly three years I’ve been pampered, groomed, and indulged to assure the team’s victory. So very estranged from my bleak high school years where I was a skinny runt nobody.
Football changed my life.
And the events that rocked it right out of control.
“I’m out,” Gavin says. He bucks Laney, making her giggle, then lifts her up to stand. “See ya on the field. Fucking Keebler is riding my balls in algebra.” He’s gone before I can acknowledge this. Keebler—professor from hell—might be the reason why Gavin gets benched for a while. Which would really hinder our game. I need him on the field.
I hurriedly stuff the last of my lunch into my mouth, still chewing as I jump up to leave. Unlike Gavin, who gets his shit worked over pretty hard, the professors are a little more slack on me. Doesn’t mean I don’t get a good ass chewing from time to time.
Just recently, Professor Collins took an interest in me, requesting I work an extra half hour before class to improve my writing skills. It’s the reason why I now eat lunch in the boring cafeteria rather than at Jack’s Bar Wench downtown with the rest of the team. I have less than five minutes
to make it to her class.
On my way out, I glimpse the new girl once more. Poking sadly at her salad. It is a pretty sad salad. But from here, at a safe distance, I note the differences between her and Alyssa—the things I couldn’t register as clearly in my shaken state. The slender nose that buds out to a cute button. The slight cleft in her chin. The full top lip that plumps her mouth into a sultry pout.
She looked just similar enough to evoke my guilt. And I’ve clung to that for a long time.
A sudden, fierce desire to go back in time to just a few minutes ago sweeps through me. I wish I’d said something else—I don’t know. Maybe I can salvage something from that awkward encounter. And what’s more, I don’t just want to; I need to—I need to know about this girl. She’s triggered some neurotic side of me that I fear will only get worse if I don’t see this through.
Maybe I’ve been given a second chance…some shot at redemption.
With one last peek, I note the carrot cake is missing from her tray with a crooked smile. Score a couple points for the QB.
3
Arian
First day from hell.
But I survived. Sort of. I got through each class, loaded down with course work literally coming out of my binder, and I managed not to attract any unwanted attention. The main staff at Braxton knows why I’m here. That I was kicked out of my last college and that I had limited choices as to where I would attend next.
The dean let me know, not too subtly, in front of my brooding parents that he was uncomfortable with why I selected Braxton. Even though I assured him it was a top choice. Still, it wasn’t my choice at all. My father picked the most out-of-the-way school imaginable, where he could hide his shamed offspring.
It’s not like I made Internet star status with my scandal. Hardly. No one particularly cared at Dartmouth. While I was being reprimanded, another student became a YouTube celeb with his hazing stunt. The images of a guy—his buttocks burned so badly after being torched with a Bunsen burner—were all over campus.
Still, being caught with speed was all it took for them to toss me out. I wasn’t a student body icon. I wasn’t on a sports team or a club leader. Despite my prestigious name and my father’s standing with the school, they had no real qualms about replacing me with another highly regarded student that had been waitlisted.
Because I’m not a future leader of tomorrow.
And that’s fine, really. My aim was never that high. I never wanted the pressure of living up to that standard; I have enough stress just meeting my family’s expectations. I remind myself of this as I trudge down my dorm hallway, weighed down by my assignments. I have so much work to make up, just so I can barely pass this semester after missing months of school. And Braxton prides itself—small private university that it is—on academic achievement.
And football.
Every few steps, there’s another poster glorifying the Braxton Bobcats. Booster signups for new members apparently started this week, and a signup sheet is stationed at every turn. Vanessa has talked non-stop about us joining—the reason why she’s been racking her brain for a raffle ticket idea. She even got those sample tickets printed to show her commitment. If she can’t be a cheerleader, she said to me during our first encounter, then she’ll be the next best thing.
I noticed, in my short time here, that she doesn’t so much as talk about supporting the team as a whole, as she does about some player named Gavin. Why she insists on eating lunch in the cafeteria—where he eats. She’s never come across as shy to me, just the opposite. But when it comes to matters of the heart, I know just how awkward it can be. How much you want the other person to notice you without having to be the one to put it all out there.
My stomach lurches as I push my room door open, memories of my one brief attempt at a relationship invading my thoughts. So much wasted effort for nothing. I won’t be getting mixed up with another selfish, conceited jock, that’s for damn sure.
Besides, after the disaster that was Stephan, my father vetoed all jocks from my most eligible bachelors’ list. He doesn’t know the whole truth, only that I was “involved” with someone he considers beneath my status. And he blames me for allowing a “fling” to get so out of hand I’d turn to drugs.
God, if he only knew.
Shaking off my unsettling thoughts, I close the door and toss my tote on the floor.
“Good!” Vanessa hops off her bed and bounds right for me. “I so did not want to go by myself. Haley isn’t feeling well, so she’s not going tonight.” She grips my shoulders and pushes me toward the closet.
“Whoa…what?” I dig my heels in, stopping myself right before the open closet door. Outfits are strewn around, littering the floor, like they exploded from the closet. “Where?”
She sighs. As if it’s so tiring that I’m utterly clueless. I can’t help but agree with her sentiment. “The bonfire, A. It’s the big send off before the Bobcats go fight our nemesis tomorrow.”
I will never get used to this we’re-all-about-our-football-team school mentality. Oh, well, regardless, this is my new home for now. I better learn to embrace it.
With that decided, I hesitantly allow Vee to dress me in clothes my stepmother would have a stroke over. But hey, this was my parents’ choice. Dartmouth has its flaws, too, but those are overlooked because of the prestige. Now, I’m a Bobcat, Becca. Embrace it.
* * *
The crackle of a roaring fire and beat of deep, bass-filled music pricks my senses, heightening my anxiety, as Vee and I shuffle across the loose beach sand.
This bonfire party is close to the North Carolina shoreline, just a few miles away from campus—and I have to admit, I’m kind of disappointed it’s nighttime. I haven’t been to the beach in ages. Even though Stoney Creek is located near the Florida coast, we never took group fieldtrips anywhere. It was more of a lock-yourself-away-from-the-world-until-you-feel-safe-to-reemerge type deal.
And although my parents own a beach house along the coast of St. Augustine (hence why I was admitted to Stoney in the first place; their little secret place to stash the child who shall not be named, banned from Dartmouth of the elite), I spent far too many tiring days of study at school to visit much.
Now, with the cool night air whipping at my cheeks, destroying the painstakingly grueling hairstyle Vee attempted, having tamed my rebel curls, a surge of homesickness rushes over me with each crash of the waves, amplifying the effect.
Regardless of my discomfort, I love the ocean.
Like, not the way someone says, “Oh, I love the ocean!” This is a serious obsession. I have collected a ridiculous number of killer whale stuffies and shells and anything else ocean-y I could get my hands on since I was a kid. It was always my secret dream to run away from all the pressures of living up to my family’s name to simply buy a cottage on the beach, where I could do whatever the hell I wanted.
I haven’t thought about that fantasy in a long time, though. It was quashed right alongside all the other desires I had before college, when the realization really sunk in that my life was already planned out—my father relaying how after I graduate, we’ll have my match decided and an engagement announcement.
I did appreciate his attempt to make it seem like I was going to be a part of this decision. He said, “we’ll have…” But I knew even then that was just a formality. I may get some say, but ultimately, it will be from a preselected lineup of his approval.
A little piece of me—scratch that, most of me—died that day. Any hopes I had for college—being on my own for the first time, experiencing new, exciting things, freedom—all blown to hell in one single, family brunch.
And I know, it’s not the 1800s; I’m a woman of the twenty-first century who has rights and doesn’t have to bend to my father’s will. Yet, knowing this doesn’t mean one can affect that change. Old money doesn’t work like that. I’m a debutante. A debutante. The word just sounds archaic.
Before my junior year of college, I had a “coming out�
� ball. I was presented, like an auction prize, to eligible men of equal status and old money to start something akin to a bidding war. Wining and dining my father, making professional propositions, talking about a merger between families like it’s a business deal.
And that’s just what it will be; a business deal. I’ve grown up aware of these customs, so it wasn’t so much as shocking as it was finally comprehending the absolute finality. I’m sure if I tried to explain this to Vee she would be outraged. But it’s just the way things are. I’ve accepted it, and the thought of trying to fight the inevitable is just exhausting.
I would be cut off from my family. I don’t care about the wealth; it’s the thought of severing a link to my blood, to the people who have known me forever, that terrifies me. I have no one else.
As Vee steers me toward the crowd circling the blazing fire, amber light blooms around us, illuminating the scene. Girls wearing skimpy outfits with some kind of Bobcat attribute. Guys in football jerseys, their faces painted blue and white—totally reminding me of Braveheart. A line wrapped around a keg stand near the flames, which I think might be dangerous…but I silence my inner nerd.
Just go with it.
I can feel the fire’s warmth before we’re even close; it’s huge. Embers pop and sizzle into the glow of what looks like low-hung clouds. The humidity casting everything in a hazy blaze; peaceful, if not for the rowdy mob—shouting, laughing, music thumping. A post stands erect in the center of the roaring flames. I stare harder into the orange inferno, and realize the wooden beam is dressed in a football jersey and sporting a helmet.
“Engleton,” Vee says, nodding toward the fire. “We’re roasting our rivals.”
“Wow. That’s…fierce,” I say, and she laughs.
