of the
world snaps back into focus. I punch the air victoriously as my teammates
charge over to celebrate my touch down. The players and coaches on the
sidelines are losing their shit. Even Coach Cahill allows himself a heartfelt
smile. But even though there at thirty thousand people showering me with
adoration, there’s only one person in that number who’s affection I really care
about. And she’s sitting right up front, in the seats reserved for friends and
family of the team.
Jessa Cahill stands at the railing, her hands cupped to her
mouth as she lets out a cheer. Our eyes lock across the chaotic scene, and I
feel my thumping heart swell in my chest. Knowing that she’s there, looking on
as I do what I do best, makes me unbelievably proud. Not just of my skills on
the field, but of knowing that someone like her supports me. I’ll take her
cheering me on over a stadium full of fans any day.
A few minutes later, the clock runs out on our first game of
the season. We’ve delivered a win to the school, the town, and all of our fans
across the country—and the world. Not only that, but I got to kick some serious
ass and cement my place as the cornerstone of this team once again. But even
with all that, I know the best part of the night is still to come.
That is, the part I get to spend with Jessa.
Jessa
Damn. I thought the Greek Row party that went down before
classes started was wild, but that was a tea party compared to our campus
tonight. I’m pretty sure every single Rayburn student—not to mention their
friends from other schools, some locals, and god knows who else—is out to have
a good time tonight. The campus is entirely overrun in the wake of our first
win—or should I say Crash’s first win? If anyone is responsible for
bringing us to victory tonight, it’s him. And the entire school knows it.
As Blaire and I make our way across campus with a few of our
other friends in tow, I’m amazed to hear Dean’s name on so many people’s lips,
to see them wearing his number. One passing sorority girl has both his name and number painted across her cleavage for god’s sake. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not
jealous. I’m just astounded that this person who everyone knows and loves wants
to spend so much time with me. But you know what? I’m not gonna look that
particular gift horse in the mouth for another second. I’m too busy keeping my
eyes peeled for the man of the hour anyway.
“Where do you think we can score some MDMA around here?”
asks Blake. He’s one of Blaire’s friends—a lithe, beautiful guy enrolled in the
dance program here.
“I think you’re much more likely to find some bud light and
a spliff,” laughs Kelsey, an African-American visual artist who also runs in
Blaire’s circle.
All three of my new artsy friends are sophomores. Even
though I’m technically still a freshman, I prefer hanging out with people my
own age. A year might not seem like a lot, but the difference between eighteen
and nineteen is still pretty distinct. I’d rather spend time with people who
are interested in more than the latest gossip going around the dorms. Being a
writer myself, I’ve always been drawn to people who make art, whatever the
medium. Even the boys I’ve been into in the past have had something of an
artistic flair. Andoni was a musician, his speciality being classical guitar.
Dean is definitely the outlier on this front. Though honestly, the way he
navigated that field, launching his body across the space and pivoting on a
dime to avoid being tackled…I have to admit, there’s an art to it.
Christ, listen to me. Comparing football to art? Hormones
really do scramble the brain.
My breath catches in my throat as I finally catch sight of
Dean, holding forth on the front steps of a stately old dorm building. He’s
surrounded by teammates and admirers, including plenty of cheerleaders and
their gorgeous associates. But the second Dean spots me approaching, his
world snaps back into focus. I punch the air victoriously as my teammates
charge over to celebrate my touch down. The players and coaches on the
sidelines are losing their shit. Even Coach Cahill allows himself a heartfelt
smile. But even though there at thirty thousand people showering me with
adoration, there’s only one person in that number who’s affection I really care
about. And she’s sitting right up front, in the seats reserved for friends and
family of the team.
Jessa Cahill stands at the railing, her hands cupped to her
mouth as she lets out a cheer. Our eyes lock across the chaotic scene, and I
feel my thumping heart swell in my chest. Knowing that she’s there, looking on
as I do what I do best, makes me unbelievably proud. Not just of my skills on
the field, but of knowing that someone like her supports me. I’ll take her
cheering me on over a stadium full of fans any day.
A few minutes later, the clock runs out on our first game of
the season. We’ve delivered a win to the school, the town, and all of our fans
across the country—and the world. Not only that, but I got to kick some serious
ass and cement my place as the cornerstone of this team once again. But even
with all that, I know the best part of the night is still to come.
That is, the part I get to spend with Jessa.
Jessa
Damn. I thought the Greek Row party that went down before
classes started was wild, but that was a tea party compared to our campus
tonight. I’m pretty sure every single Rayburn student—not to mention their
friends from other schools, some locals, and god knows who else—is out to have
a good time tonight. The campus is entirely overrun in the wake of our first
win—or should I say Crash’s first win? If anyone is responsible for
bringing us to victory tonight, it’s him. And the entire school knows it.
As Blaire and I make our way across campus with a few of our
other friends in tow, I’m amazed to hear Dean’s name on so many people’s lips,
to see them wearing his number. One passing sorority girl has both his name and number painted across her cleavage for god’s sake. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not
jealous. I’m just astounded that this person who everyone knows and loves wants
to spend so much time with me. But you know what? I’m not gonna look that
particular gift horse in the mouth for another second. I’m too busy keeping my
eyes peeled for the man of the hour anyway.
“Where do you think we can score some MDMA around here?”
asks Blake. He’s one of Blaire’s friends—a lithe, beautiful guy enrolled in the
dance program here.
“I think you’re much more likely to find some bud light and
a spliff,” laughs Kelsey, an African-American visual artist who also runs in
Blaire’s circle.
All three of my new artsy friends are sophomores. Even
though I’m technically still a freshman, I prefer hanging out with people my
own age. A year might not seem like a lot, but the difference between eighteen
and nineteen is still pretty distinct. I’d rather spend time with people who
are interested in more than the latest gossip going around the dorms. Being a
writer myself, I’ve always been drawn to people who make art, whatever the
medium. Even the boys I’ve been into in the past have had something of an
artistic flair. Andoni was a musician, his speciality being classical guitar.
Dean is definitely the outlier on this front. Though honestly, the way he
navigated that field, launching his body across the space and pivoting on a
dime to avoid being tackled…I have to admit, there’s an art to it.
Christ, listen to me. Comparing football to art? Hormones
really do scramble the brain.
My breath catches in my throat as I finally catch sight of
Dean, holding forth on the front steps of a stately old dorm building. He’s
surrounded by teammates and admirers, including plenty of cheerleaders and
their gorgeous associates. But the second Dean spots me approaching, his
Similar Books
