Hard Hitter

Fran pretends to gasp, then shakes her head. “Like I said, I want to wait for someone I really like. I’m not a slut-skank like you.”

I gasp back, obviously so offended. “Slut-skank, bitch? You better watch it!”

And then I hear it—a booming, loud, bass-filled male voice behind me, accompanied by the strong scent of…man.

“Who’s a slut-skank and how do I get her number?” the voice asks. I turn around, expecting to find another sunglass-wearing-meathead or a grinning chad with a fireman’s outfit on, but instead, I find myself staring directly into a pair of sparkling blue eyes that just happened to be attached to the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

“Whoa…” I whisper without even realizing it.

“Whoa? Whoa what?” he asks with a grin that could melt panties.

“Huh?” I stammer. “Oh, nothing. And since you were asking, she’s the slut-skank.”

As I point to Fran, I realize I don’t even know why I’m doing it. This guy is hot, clearly a jock, and a perfect candidate to lose my virginity to. When his eyes leave mine and move to her, I feel it like a punch in the stomach, then quickly reach out and tug on his hand.

“Kidding!” I laugh. “I’m the slut-skank. Looking for a good time?”

Ouch, what was that? I regret it as soon as I say it; I’m failing on every single level right now, and that’s confirmed when Fran bursts out laughing. Thankfully, Mr. Mystery Man just smiles.

“You’re a liar,” he says, catching me off guard.

“Excuse me?”

“I know who you are,” he says, waving a scolding finger at me. I can see his biceps ripple through the sheer fabric of his T-shirt. “You’re Red, the quirky art girl who thinks she’s too good for everyone.”

Now that comment knocks me completely off balance. My jaw drops open and I glance over at Fran, who looks like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or chew him out. She chooses the third option and stays silent.

“Um…excuse me?”

Not my best response ever, but what the hell, right? Is this guy stalking me?

“You heard me, Strawberry,” he says, his grin widening.

He’s referring to my hair, which in a childish act of rebellion, I dyed bright red six months before graduation and have maintained ever since. It’s also the reason Fran calls me Red instead of my real name.

“Strawberry?” I reply. “And what do they call you? Eggplant?”

I cover my mouth with my hand as soon as the word escapes my lips. But it’s too late, Mr. Jock is already laughing.

“Yeah, yeah they do,” he chuckles. “The girls do at least.”

“Oh, vom,” Fran groans.

“They call me Blue,” he says, pointing to his eyes, as though that’s supposed to mean something to me.

“Blue.”

“You don’t know me?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

“Should I?” I ask. He’s obviously some kind of athlete, but that’s all I know.

“Starting quarterback?” he continues. “On my way to the NFL?”

Oh, shit…

“Good for you,” Fran says.

“It is good for me,” he says to her, oozing with confidence. He turns his eyes back to me. “And you know what I think?”