Crap, I’m late. I wiped sweat off my forehead and tried not to wince as I hobbled into the athletic training classroom of the Griffin Athletic Complex. When my head coach frowned at me, I looked down as I scooted past her. Mackenzie’s eyes widened when she saw me, but she gestured to an empty chair she’d saved. Love my roomie.
A small gasp escaped as I slid into the hard plastic chair. I’d never been so sore before, and hustling across campus in the heat hadn’t exactly helped my situation. I felt Mackenzie’s questioning eyes on the side of my head, but I kept my focus glued to the stack of papers sitting on the curved desk attached to my chair.
“Sign that one,” she whispered as she pointed to the top paper.
I scribbled my name without caring what I signed. A guy in a suit and tie stood at the front of the classroom, droning on about NCAA policies. I wondered what the NCAA would think about me banging a teammate my first night on campus. Was that against the rules?
Mackenzie lifted one corner of the top page of my stack and whispered, “That one, too.”
I followed her instructions to sign five more times. As I turned the pages, a few words registered about academic credits, extra benefits, and eligibility, but mostly it was a blur.
“Okay, this next form’s about NCAA drug testing,” the suit said.
I slunk down in my chair as I realized why my throat felt raw. Though the memory was hazy, I knew I’d smoked weed. My hand had seemed under someone else’s control as I’d accepted the joint from Blake and taken a hit. Maybe the beer, vodka, and weed together had made me pass out. Fucking idiot!
“The NCAA has two types of testing. If they test you on campus, they only test for performance-enhancing drugs.”
Phew. No steroids for this girl.
“If they test you at NCAA championships, they’re looking for PEDs and recreational drugs.”
My stomach clenched until I remembered that wasn’t until March of next year. No way weed would last over seven months in my system.
“Sign at the bottom to allow the NCAA to drug test you.”
Did I have a choice? With my coaches perched near the door, no way I’d ask my question out loud. Like good little foot soldiers, all twenty-three of my teammates and I signed the form. I watched Elyse rest her ear on her hand, her elbow propped on the desk. The team captain couldn’t have looked more bored. Following her lead, I tried to exhale. This was routine stuff that shouldn’t freak me out.
“The next form is for Highbanks drug testing,” he continued.
Freak-out, recommence.
“We conduct year-round random tests for recreational and performance-enhancing drugs. Know this: you will be tested. Don’t roll the dice.”
My heart hammered. But they don’t test freshmen. Wait—where had I heard that? A niggling sense I was missing something tugged at the corner of my mind.
Jessica Monroe, I scrawled on the form. This signature looked shakier than the rest.
“Thanks, Bill,” another guy said as he shook the suit’s hand. This man looked younger than Bill, and not just because of his casual maroon short-sleeved polo and khaki shorts. With his smooth, earnest face, he could pass for being in college.
He turned toward his audience of college swimmers. “We also have some medical forms for you to sign.”
I leaned toward Mackenzie and whispered, “Who’s that?”
“Our athletic trainer. Can’t remember his name.”
I hadn’t realized I needed to sign my life away just to swim here. After yet more forms, the athletic trainer said, “We have some great resources for you at Highbanks.” He looked right at me. “Freshmen, you’re probably too overwhelmed to remember much of this right now…”
Understatement of the year.
“…but I want you to meet our awesome support staff. First up’s our sport psychologist, Dr. Valentine.”
I sat up when a woman with straight blond hair and a polka dot shirt faced us. Dane had met with her on and off for a couple of years, and he seemed to like her. She was a little shorter than me with a solid build, like a softball catcher.
“Thanks, Zeke,” she said. When she smiled, her hazel eyes crinkled. She wore a silver necklace with a huge medallion. “Hey, swimmers! I’m Carly Valentine. How y’all doing this hot August day? Who wishes Highbanks had an outdoor pool?”
Laughs and murmurs echoed around me, but I scowled. Plunging into cold water in the sunshine sounded exquisite right now. Stanford and USC had wooed me with their gorgeous outdoor pools, but I was kind of scared to go to college two thousand miles away from home. And after Highbanks had hired Coach Fredericks last year, Mom thought I would enjoy swimming for a female coach.
“Well, I can’t offer you a sunny swim, but I can offer you free counseling at Sports Medicine,” Dr. Valentine continued. “Quite a few student-athletes have met with me over the years. We talk about mental toughness behind the blocks, so you’re not too pumped up or too chilled out, or other stuff like managing stress and relationships.”
Judging by last night, I definitely needed help with relationships. But I didn’t want anyone to know I’d jumped into bed with the first guy I’d met. The media hadn’t cared as much about Dane and me since Mom lost the presidency, but she was still a high-ranking senator, and I didn’t want to embarrass her.
Now the sports dietitian was talking. She was tiny—probably a former gymnast. “I love working with swimmers,” she said. “I was a diver at Highbanks.”
Ah. Swimming and diving were often lumped together as one sport, but the two activities were oceans apart. I couldn’t dive gracefully for the life of me, and no way I’d even jump off the ten-meter platform, much less do flips from that crazy height.
“With your intense training, it’s hard for swimmers to meet their nutritional needs. I can develop an individualized plan for you.”
Now that she mentioned it, I would typically be starving after skipping breakfast. But my stomach was still in a tight ball, clenched by nausea. I closed my eyes.
When the meeting finally ended, we had to wait our turn for physicals. As I stepped into the hallway, I watched my coaches walk out of the building. They’d just informed us we had an optional practice in the afternoon, and I hoped I would feel better by then. Puking in the gutters wasn’t exactly a way to impress my new team.
Mackenzie asked, “Why are you limping?”
“Um.” I blinked rapidly as I tried to come up with a lie. “I carried in so many boxes yesterday. My hamstrings are killing me.”
“You should’ve used the carts they have in the dorm. I got mine chockers with all my crap.”
“Good idea.” Thank God she hadn’t been in the room when we’d wheeled my cart in.
Elyse leaned back on the wall next to me. “Optional practice, my ass,” she grumbled. “We’ll catch hell if we’re not there.”
Mackenzie laughed. “Good to know swim coaches are the same in America as in Australia.”
Kaylee sidled up to us. “How many yards a day would your team swim, Mackenzie?”
“Meters. Around twelve K, more if Coach was in a ripper mood.”
“What happened to you last night?” Elyse asked me.
Her question startled me. Mackenzie and Kaylee continued their conversation, but Elyse kept staring. “I went home, I guess.”
“You guess?”
My face flamed. “I think I blacked out. Kind of embarrassing.”
“But you didn’t drink that much.”
“I know, it’s weird. Maybe I was just tired or something.”
She frowned, then after a beat she grinned. “Who knew a Republican could be so cute.”
“Mateo?” When she nodded, I smiled, too. I wondered what he’d done the rest of the night.
“So he has to travel everywhere with Secret Service? That would get old, real fast.”
“It does.” I sighed. “Johnny—one of Mateo’s agents—he protected me before the election.”
“Wild. He’s kind o
f hot, too, but Mateo…yum. He could turn me into a cougar.”
I smirked. “You’re not that much older.”
“Nah, I’m over the hill. Besides, it’s clear he only has eyes for you.”
When I whipped my head toward her, I reeled from dizziness. I tried to breathe. “He just wanted to check out a party, like a normal freshman.”
“Uh-uh. Nothing normal about that jalapeño.”
The prickling of hairs on the back of my neck stopped my chuckle mid-stream.
“What the fuck?” Elyse said as she looked over my shoulder.
“Jess.”
That deep voice zinged a frisson of fear through me. I rotated to see Blake standing there. His royal-blue T-shirt hugged his muscular frame and brought out the blue in his eyes, but I didn’t feel turned on. I felt trapped. I couldn’t breathe.
“What’re you doing here, Blake?” Elyse asked.
He ignored her and stared at me. “I want to talk to you.”
My heart was like a jackhammer, and my feet wouldn’t move.
“Elyse Jones, you’re up.” The athletic trainer stood at the door of the training room, holding a manila folder.
She looked at Blake, then at me. She shook her head.
“Elyse, let’s go. The doc’s waiting.”
She blew out a breath and entered the training room for her physical.
“C’mon.” Blake cocked his head down the hallway.
My throat hurt when I swallowed, and I shoved my hands in the pockets of my shorts to hide their tremble. As I passed my teammates to follow him, Mackenzie winked at me.
When we were alone, he reached out to touch my hair, and I quailed.
He frowned. “Your hair’s still wet—did you shower?”
Why did he care?
“You didn’t text me back.”
“I was sleeping.” My voice was raspy, and I cleared my throat. “Then I was late to my meeting, so I didn’t have time.”
He offered a lazy smile. “You live across campus from here. I’ll drive you next time.”
No way I’d ever get in a car with him, I realized. Then I wondered why I didn’t want to. He was incredibly handsome, and a senior to boot. He was into me. Why did I want to get the hell away from him?
“You took me home last night?” I despised the tremble in my voice.
His eyebrows pushed together. “Don’t you remember?”
“Did you take my clothes off?”
He leaned in really close. “We were naked together, baby.”
Don’t barf.
“You got nothing to worry about. You’re beautiful. Can’t stop thinking about you.” He brushed his fingers down my arm.
I pulled back on instinct, but he inched closer. My heart exploded, and my queasy stomach rocked.
“When can you come over again?”
I shook my head. “I can’t.” My voice sounded shrill.
“We have amazing chemistry. You said we could be together.” His forehead creased. “You can’t change your mind now.”
“I…” I licked my lips. How could I get out of this without causing a scene? I had to find a way to keep him away from me. “I’m just starting at Highbanks, and it’s too soon—”
“I won’t tell anyone about the weed.”
I gaped at him.
“I won’t tell your coach, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He’d tell my coach? I couldn’t breathe.
“Jessica Monroe?” The athletic trainer beckoned me from down the hall.
Blood rushed in my ears as I turned back to Blake. “I gotta go.”
“I’m not giving up on you, Jess.”
I really wish you would.
“Text me,” he demanded.
“Okay.” Hell, no. Get out. Get away. I panted as I zoomed to the training room. When I approached, my athletic trainer held out his hand. “Ezekiel Woods. You can call me Zeke.”
My legs shook as I followed him to a padded table. He asked me to hop up, and somehow I made it. He slipped a blood pressure cuff on my arm and pumped a few times. The suffocating pressure of the cuff suddenly mimicked the force of Blake pushing himself on me. The memory stole my breath.
Zeke frowned at the number. “Is your blood pressure always this high?”
Chapter 4
THIRTY SETS OF EYES stared at Johnny and me as we entered the classroom. Welcome to the first day of school. At least Karen had stayed by the classroom entrance. She’d yelled at me this morning for forgetting to check my blood sugar the past few nights, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near her right now. I already had a mom.
The room seemed pretty full, but a couple of guys in the back waved at me and pointed to some empty seats.
“Can we sit back there?” I asked.
Johnny’s mouth twisted to one side. “Gotta do some recon first.”
What did that mean?
He led the way to the rear of the classroom, and students gawked as we passed. Take a picture, it lasts longer, Joey would’ve said. I missed hanging out with my snarky best friend. But she’d gotten into Berklee—the premier school for musicians—and I had to settle for Highbanks.
The guys who’d waved at me smiled as we neared. One of them wore a Chicago Cubs baseball hat, and he looked up when Johnny said, “Please remove your hat, sir.” He shrugged, then slipped it off to reveal shaggy, brown hair.
“What’s your name?” Johnny asked.
“Fitch.” His delivery was slow and easy. “Ryne Fitcherson.”
Johnny tilted his head. “Spell that.” As Fitch dictated, Johnny typed the name into his phone, then read: “Born in Chicago, moved to Cincinnati four years ago when parents divorced. One younger sister. Methodist. Three point two high-school GPA. Drummer.”
Fitch’s mouth hung open. Combined with the lingering indent of hat head, it wasn’t a good look for him.
I heard something behind me, and watched Karen stop the professor as he entered the classroom. She spoke to him, then gestured in my direction. He frowned when he looked at me. Great. He probably didn’t welcome the circus freak show I brought with me everywhere I went.
Johnny turned to the guy next to Fitch. His eyes looked Asian—Japanese, maybe? But his light-brown skin threw me.
Johnny nodded. “Name, please, sir.”
“Who wants to know?” Japanese guy said.
“US Secret Service.” Johnny’s tone was clipped.
He ran his hand through his black hair. “And if I don’t tell you?”
Johnny glanced at Karen, then back at Japanese guy. “We go for a chat outside.”
That didn’t seem to faze the guy, but Fitch shook his head. “Class is about to start. Just tell him, Itch.”
Their names are Fitch and Itch? Locos.
“Ichiro,” he finally said. “You know what? You coming in here and demanding to know our names, then broadcasting the information—it’s plain rude.”
“Nothing personal.” Johnny scrolled through his phone. “We’ve done background checks for all the students in Mr. Ramirez’s classes.”
Itch eyeballed me. Not my choice, dude. I shifted the backpack on my shoulders.
“Ichiro Kahanawke,” Johnny read aloud, though he did lower his voice so that I could barely hear him. He adjusted his earpiece. “Also from Cincinnati. Japanese mother. Father a descendent of the Mohawk tribe. Two older brothers. Four—”
“I know who the fuck I am,” Itch growled.
“—point four GPA,” Johnny continued.
A GPA of 4.4? Dang, he might be smarter than Alejandro.
As our professor fiddled with something at the podium, I noticed Karen’s gaze bouncing from us to her phone and back to us. Johnny was probably reading aloud to let her know the names of the guys I’d be sitting next to. If he ever let me sit down. The entire class continued to stare at us.
“Plays keyboard and bass guitar.” Johnny nodded at me. “Okay, they check out. Have a seat, Mr. Ramirez.”
I
slid into the chair next to Itch, and Johnny sat on the other side of me.
Itch leaned across my desk to glare at Johnny. “Mateo seems cool. He can sit with us. You, not so much.”
Johnny stared straight ahead.
“We’re kind of a package deal,” I said. “Sorry.”
Itch drummed his fingers on the desk, then sat back in his chair.
“How long you been playing bass?” I asked.
He rolled the tip of his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “Since the band started. We didn’t have a bass guitarist, so I had to teach myself.”
“You’re in a band?” I’d die to be in one.
“With Fitch.” Itch’s thumb popped toward his bandmate, who was wearing his Cubs hat again. “Started a few years ago in the ’Nati.”
What the heck was the ’Nati? I gauged Itch. “You’re the lead singer?”
Fitch chuckled.
“Fuck, no,” Itch said.
“His voice is like a honking goose straining to take a dump,” Fitch offered. “Ehreehreeuh.” He tensed his arms at his side and squeezed his eyes shut.
Not a visual I need right now.
Fitch dropped the pooping-goose act. “I’m backup vocals. Our lead—he’s still in Cincinnati. He’s too stupid to go to college.”
“What’s your instrument, man?” Itch asked me.
“Vocals and guitar.”
“Acoustic or electric?”
As I leaned toward Itch, my heart fluttered. Joey played the flute and could talk nonstop about classical music, but I’d never had the chance to discuss my kind of music, my passion, with anyone before. “Mostly acoustic. I play a steel-string Ovation.”
“Ovation?” Itch cocked his head. “That’s kind of old-school. Where’d you get it?”
I paused. Here I was trying to fit in like a normal college student, and answering his question wouldn’t help me much. Next to me, Johnny held his wrist to his mouth, likely saying something to Karen on the comm-link. Who was I kidding? I was far from normal.
“Uh, Neil Diamond gave it to me when he performed at the White House.”
Both Itch and Fitch gawped at me.
“You met Neil Diamond?” Fitch asked.
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