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  Pax sputters, tightening his grip around my neck. “I did not just hear that.”

  “No shaming!” Arlo says. “How many girls did you sleep with your freshman year?” he poses the question to Paxton.

  I raise my hands to cover my ears. “La, la, la, la, la. I don’t want to know. La. La. La. La.”

  Paxton pulls my hands free. “Probably less than half the number of girls The President banged.”

  I cringe at the reminder of the third rule I have for dating—never date a player.

  Lincoln makes no attempt to argue the point. Instead, his full lips pull into a delicious smile that makes my stomach tingle. Good God, I love his smile. Everyone does. And to make matters worse, he knows it and uses it to his advantage, wielding it like a weapon.

  Poppy grins. “Don't worry, we don’t plan to bother with the football team. You guys can stick to your cleat chasers. We're interested in the rugby team. Did you know they don't wear any pads?” She raises her eyebrows to let the insinuation sink in. “Talk about real men.” She delivers the teasing insult directly where it counts most—their pride.

  The three of them automatically reply, throwing insults and jabs at the sport and the players.

  “Real men, “Arlo scoffs and grabs himself through his jeans. “I'll show you—”

  Lincoln smacks the bill of Arlo’s baseball hat, sending it flying.

  “You guys are better than asshole jocks,” Pax adds.

  “Wait. So, you do know you're all a bunch of assholes?” I ask, feigning surprise.

  Pax grins. “You should find a nice guy. Maybe a tech geek or a book nerd like you?”

  “Watch it. I know where you sleep, and I still have your spare key,” I warn him.

  “Want to use it tonight?” Arlo waggles his eyebrows.

  “Don’t push me, Kostas,” Pax warns. “Your ass will be doing lines today for practice.”

  Arlo only laughs, undeterred. I'm fairly certain he only flirts with me to irritate my brother.

  Poppy giggles. I duck out from under Pax and veer to the left in the direction of my first class. “I have to get to class.”

  “We still have twenty minutes!” Poppy protests.

  “I know, but I want to get a good seat.”

  She frowns, her shoulders sagging. “Soak it up while you can because, after this week, you’re going to be a normal college student, slipping into class with five seconds to spare.”

  I don’t even attempt to remind her that won’t ever happen. She already knows my aspiration to become a cetologist can’t be rivaled with.

  “My fingers are crossed that you have a rugby player in your class!” Poppy yells.

  I laugh. “You, too!”

  Paxton shakes his head. “At least spare me the details.”

  “Done,” I agree.

  “Where are you headed?” he asks.

  I scrunch my nose. “Math.”

  Pax grins. “I'm heading over to the Pratt Building, too, hang on. Poppy, if you need anything, just let one of us know.” He pauses, his gaze moving between her and me. “I’m serious, though. You guys don’t want to get mixed up with any athletes. All they care about is the game and what happens on the field. None of them are looking for anything serious because they’re all hoping to either be drafted or possibly transfer to a new school for a better position.”

  Rule number four feels like a lead weight in my stomach: don’t get attached to someone who’s going to leave soon. Poppy’s ex-boyfriend, Mike, taught me this lesson, and I already know Lincoln will be moving on to bigger and better things—possibly as soon as the end of this year, next year at the latest.

  “We’re not looking for engagement rings,” Poppy tells him. “I don’t know why guys always assume girls want to get serious? Have you ever stopped to consider maybe we just want to casually date?”

  Paxton’s eyes narrow in thought, then he looks at Arlo and Lincoln. “Pretty sure we’ve seen enough crying girls to prove otherwise.”

  “Tears of joy,” I say.

  Pax smirks. “This isn’t high school. Here, athletes are practically celebrities. People ask for our autographs and our pictures. Follow us on and off-campus. They randomly show up at the house. I’ve had girls sneak into my bed. I get sexts every damn day, and I’ve been proposed to at least a dozen times. Trust me when I say there are a lot of girls looking for more than a good time. They want money and fame, and they know that’s a possibility if they find the right dude.”

  “That’s pathetic,” I say.

  His smirk grows as he shrugs. “Is it? Do you know how much a first draft athlete makes?”

  “If a girl is only trying to sleep with you because she’s hoping to date a famous athlete, then she deserves to shed a few tears,” Poppy says before I can consider girls looking at my brother in the light he’s painting.

  I look at my best friend, and she’s cool and calm, her shoulders pulled back, likely because this news isn’t sending her reeling, realizing that even without the obvious ten rules for me not to date Lincoln, there’s an entire campus vying for his attention.

  “Trust me, you guys don’t want to get mixed up in all that drama,” Paxton says again.

  Poppy smiles widely. “Like I said, we’re set on the rugby team. We also have the swimming team. Water polo. Wrestling.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Lacrosse…”

  “Lacrosse,” Arlo scoffs. “How is that even a sport?”

  “Okay, I’m really going this time.” I take two steps back, offering a half-hearted wave.

  “Yes,” Paxton says. “Focus on school and important shit.”

  “Like you do?” Poppy asks sarcasm has her lowering her chin and raising her eyebrows.

  “Do what I say, not what I do, or however that shit goes.” He jogs the few feet to catch up to me and drapes an arm over my shoulders as I turn toward the large red-brick building.

  “Hey, Lawson!”

  Paxton and I both turn at the sound of our last name. Lincoln stands beside Arlo, grinning.

  “What?” Pax yells.

  “Nothing.” Lincoln shakes his head, and then a girl walks past him, saying something to him that I can’t hear from where we’re stopped some hundred feet away.

  He’s too far away, and my brother is standing too close to confirm it, but I swear Lincoln’s looking directly at me.

  I swallow, staring back.

  “See,” Pax whispers. “Trust me. You don’t want to deal with dating an athlete.” His arm around my shoulders tightens, and he begins to turn, leaving me to follow him, my head on a swivel as I try to watch Lincoln’s reaction.

  The last thing I see before I turn toward the math building is Lincoln flashing a smile to the stranger.

  2

  I should heed Paxton’s warning. After all, I know the truth: athletes are as bad as rock stars when it comes to the disposal of women. Too often, they think they’re above it all—relationships, school, laws set forth by state, and even those we privately enforce with our own company, like decency and respect.

  Tonight, I have no doubt I’m about to see all the social laws being broken at our first frat party. I tried to say no, told Poppy I’d rather hit up our favorite Chinese restaurant over on Fifth Street where they constantly play eighties movies, which somehow makes eating drunken noodles all the better. But Poppy reminded me of my goal for this year, my oath to get over Lincoln, and suddenly I found myself agreeing to come, entering the address into my phone so I’d have directions for when I got home and changed.

  I should have waited for Poppy. She had to work this afternoon but swore she’d get off early and insisted I come and scope it out. She thinks that because I’m a born extrovert, I thrive in these situations. Though now, when thrown into the thick of it, I might be more introverted than either of us realized.

  “Hey!”

  I fight the impulse to turn around. I’ve been here for twenty minutes and have turned no less than a dozen times when hearing someone ye
ll out a greeting in hopes it’s someone I might know or recognize. Instead, I feel like a bigger outsider because no one is directing the reception to me.

  “Hey!” The voice calls again, and then a hand closes around my elbow.

  I turn and discover Arlo, a full cup in one hand and a broad smile on his face. If I didn’t know Lincoln, I might have a crush on Arlo. Between his subtle Jersey accent, olive skin, and instant smile, the guy has all the qualities to be swoon-worthy, except that he gets distracted by every skirt that walks in front of him.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  His grin is equal parts teasing and mischievous. “Tracking you down. Pax was concerned you guys would get drunk, and someone would take advantage of you.”

  I sigh. “I figured as much.” I stand on my toes, looking around for Paxton. “He’s being ridiculous. I don’t need a chaperone.”

  Arlo isn’t listening to me, though. His attention is lost in the crowds of people. “I love the beginning of the school year.” He rubs his palms together. “Freshmen think we're gods, and sophomores and juniors are struggling with self-confidence and are willing to sleep with any guy who looks their way.”

  “Boy, you sure know how to make a girl feel important.”

  Arlo laughs. “Except for you, of course. “

  “Of course,” I echo.

  “What time is Poppy supposed to get here?” he asks, his attention tracing over every female in sight.

  “Soon. You can go. Tell Paxton I’m fine.”

  “That's okay. I'd like to keep my left nut intact.”

  “Paxton is all talk. Want the numbers of my exes? I promise they're all still alive.”

  “But do they have all their original teeth and limbs?”

  A tall blond guy with dark eyes and a devious grin walks past, his gaze fixed on me so long he has to turn his head.

  “Okay,” I say, shoving Arlo away. “You're scaring all of the guys away. Time for you to get lost.”

  “Don't give Pax a reason to kill me, all right?” he calls over one shoulder, a brunette already in his sights.

  I don't bother with a response because he's already out of earshot. Instead, I take a deep breath and wander farther into the house. With my mother teaching at my high school and my brother being an all-state athlete, my aunt being the chief of police, and my dad being a dean, I wear a prominent yield sign around my neck, and the damn thing only lights up when any of my family members are present. Deterrent is an understatement. I've been ready and willing to lose my virginity since turning seventeen, and I’m pretty sure the only way I’m ever going to lose it is to a stranger in another state.

  My first boyfriend, Ben Kroger, and I dated summer of my sophomore year. He'd been ready to sleep together, but I hadn't. So instead, I broke up with him, and that fall, I learned he had been dating someone else the entire time we dated.

  My second boyfriend was Simon Copper. He was a good second boyfriend. He carried my books, called every night at eight-thirty, and always had good breath thanks to his obsessive need for chewing gum. He moved to Arizona over Thanksgiving break my junior year. I cried—a lot.

  My third boyfriend, Jamie Marten, was, well… a mistake. So we won’t go there.

  My fourth boyfriend, Zach Webb, lived in a neighboring town, my family history unknown and his interest in me high. Unfortunately, his interest dropped like a gavel when my aunt pulled him over and arrested him for driving under the influence, underage drinking, open container, and reckless intent. It was probably good that he ended things because when my parents found out, they were livid and nearly grounded me because of our affiliation.

  And the fifth and final entrant in my dating history is Owen Graham. He was hot but ridiculous and needy like most high school boys. He shoved his hands up my shirt, and grazed my nipples, then pinched them so hard it drew tears. I dumped him the following week, and the very next day, he was working to swallow Brianna Tizznec's face.

  My dating history can be located somewhere south of Hell. But this year is going to be different. Better. Epic.

  With my chin held high, I stroll past the kegs of beer, pretending I have a purpose and destination, even though I don't.

  “Hey,” a guy says, stepping forward, his hand loosely circling my wrist.

  He smiles when I stop and looks nearly giddy when I grin. “I'm Johnny.” He places a hand on his chest like I need the explanation.

  “Raegan,” I tell him. “It's nice to meet you.”

  He leans closer. “Are you a freshman?”

  I consider Arlo's assessment of freshmen and contemplate lying. But, then, I think about the long list of reasons that I’m here tonight, including making new friends, being single, and wanting to make the most out of my college experience—not to mention finding a new path, a fork in the road, or more preferably a freeway to get my feelings and thoughts far from Lincoln. Maybe this guy's smile and hot skin could burn away those harbored feelings, leaving only the remnants of Lincoln’s memory in the recesses of my mind. I tilt my chin higher and smile. “I am. Are you?”

  Johnny flashes a smile, the dimple in his chin catching my eye. “I'm a junior.”

  I think I’m supposed to ask him something personal, something flirty, something besides the mundane basics like where he's from and what his major is—something that will differentiate me from every other girl he’s met.

  Unfortunately, I’m not that original.

  “I saw you walk in with Arlo. Are you guys…?” he smiles coyly.

  I return the smile, leaning forward as well. “Are we what?” I know what he’s asking. Know that he’s waiting for me to deny Arlo and I are together, but I’ve never been a fan of trailing off sentences. They beg for misplaced apologies and misinterpretations.

  “You guys together?” His eyebrows rise with the question.

  I study him a moment. Was that a leading question for a hookup? Make sure the other person is single so that you can act without regrets.

  “Sanders!” a girl screams, stumbling forward. Her tank top is at least a size too small, and her shorts are even tinier. Her hair is striped with shades of blonde, and her cat-painted eyes are glassy from alcohol. “I want a piggyback ride.”

  I take a step back, watching his attention shift to her cleavage.

  “You can ride me anytime.” He grins like this is sexy.

  She giggles.

  I frown. Encouragement is the last thing this guy needs. She climbs him like a tree, and his face brightens before he turns and gallops, making a horrible impression of horse sounds.

  Is this normal? Was he even flirting with me?

  I elect to bury the incident somewhere between that time I ripped my track shorts while trying to hop a fence and my entire freshman PE class saw my underwear and the summer of eighth grade when Evan Springer called every night for two weeks, then suddenly stopped and began dating Kim Kelly two days later.

  “Speaking on behalf of all guys, I’d like to assure you he is not the norm. Some of us do have manners, can speak in complete sentences, and won’t add crude jokes to every sentence.” A guy with dark blond hair and a friendly smile tips his cup toward Johnny. He’s cute, not in the same manner as Lincoln, who you picture on the front of a bodice-ripping book, but rather like a guy you’d find on the glossy pages of a magazine, modeling expensive clothes.

  “Just some?” I ask.

  “Maybe on occasion….” He smiles. “Less occasionally if you're Johnny, I’m guessing.” As if on cue, Johnny makes a whining sound mid-gallop and straightens, nearly losing his passenger.

  “I have a feeling you're right.”

  “I'm Derek,” he says

  “Like Derek and the Dominos?”

  He shrugs, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Derek and the Dominos? Do I want to know what that is?”

  I shrug. “A who. They were a band. A blip on Eric Clapton’s timeline.” I shake my head, wishing I hadn’t blurted out the original question. No one
knows who Derek and the Dominos are except my mom, who plays their single album continuously. And mentioning her right now would make me only seem stranger.

  “You’re a music buff, and you aren’t dating Johnny. You keep getting better and better.”

  My cheeks pull into a grin that he matches and then raises. His eyes are a caramel brown, freckled with darker hues, and curtained by thick lashes that match his mussed hair. His looks are subtler than Lincoln’s, but they become more persistent and prevalent the longer I look at him.

  “I'm Raegan.”

  “Raegan,” he repeats my name. “I don't think I've ever met a Raegan, and I don’t know any bands with that name in the title.” He chuckles. It’s a nice sound, warm and easy. “Would you like something to drink?” He lifts a red Solo cup filled with red punch that has likely been spiked.

  I don’t intend to drink it, after all, though his smile and laugh seem genuine, I don’t know that he wouldn’t put something in the cup. However, I’m willing to accept it. Hold it like a promise so I can learn more about him.

  My fingers wrap around the cup, but before I can take it, someone else reaches for it and pulls it away, taking my attention as well. Lincoln steps beside me, his gaze on Derek as he lifts his chin in greeting. My heart falters and then begins to skip wildly in my chest. This is the first time I’ve been around him at a party, and my thoughts are spinning faster than I can process them as I picture him dancing, kissing me, drinking, kissing me, laughing, kissing me. The temperature seems to rise twenty degrees, making the already warm house nearly unbearable.

  “Hey! What's up, Beckett?” Derek extends a hand that Lincoln shakes once. It's casual but too quick. There’s tension between the two that distracts me and has me staring at Lincoln for several seconds longer than I should.

  “You guys know each other?” I ask.

  Lincoln doesn’t meet my inquiring stare, keeping his focus solely on Derek. “Our new teammate, transferred from Texas State.”

  My eyebrows rise, and my mouth falls open. “Oh. You … you’re on the football team?”

  Derek turns his attention to me, a wide smile gracing his lips and light brown eyes. “You like football?” he asks.