I snort. She’s not wrong about that. I can practically feel the coveted stares and hear the whispers as we move up the stadium steps in search of seats. There are a lot of thirsty bitches around here waiting for an opportunity to steal my man. Especially now that he’s done the unthinkable and committed to one specific female.
Me!
Yeah, I still can’t get over it.
Any moment, I’m going to break out into a little happy dance. Although, I think Mia would slap me upside the head if I did.
Even though Colton is only a sophomore at Wesley, he’s been a hot commodity since stepping foot on campus freshman year. Not only is he good-looking, but he’s also a first-string wide receiver for the Wildcats. The idea of dating a guy like him is much akin to capturing a mythical unicorn. The girls who don’t want to strangle me seek me out for advice. As if there’s a secret formula to my success. If only they knew the truth.
I have absolutely no idea what happened to make him change his mind.
For the first couple of weeks, I was overly cautious, waiting for the bottom to fall out—waiting for him to wake up one morning and say that he’s not interested in being tied down when there are a ton of groupies willing to spread their legs. I was almost afraid to sleep with him, figuring that’s when he would break things off.
Instead, six weeks have slipped by, and we’re still going strong. Gradually, I’m figuring him out. I’d always assumed he was just a guy who enjoyed screwing as many girls as he could. After spending time with him, I suspect there’s more to it than that. He’s surprisingly guarded. It’s almost as if Colton puts up a façade for everyone around him. Only now am I beginning to peel back the layers to the man lurking beneath the surface. It makes me wonder what happened in his past for him to erect so many walls. It’s tempting to ask. Instead, I’ve remained silent in hopes that he’ll open up on his own when he’s ready.
Mia points to two open spots in the middle of the row. We slide past a dozen people before settling on our seats with our drinks and popcorn. We wave to a few friends before the band performs the school song and the players jog onto the field in a wave of red and black. Even though there are ninety guys on the team, my gaze cuts right through them, locking on number twenty-five. My heart flips over in my chest as I watch him. The pads only accentuate the broad set of his shoulders. My gaze drops to his ass. I’m not going to lie, the red stretchy pants do wonders for it.
Mia bumps into my shoulder with her own. I tear my gaze away from Colton and glance toward her in question, only to find a grin simmering around the corners of her lips.
“I know what you’re staring at, perv.”
I snort out a laugh. “Can you blame me?”
She straightens in her seat and tilts her head as if giving serious consideration to the question. “Objectively speaking, the guy has a mighty fine ass.”
Yes, he certainly does.
The ref flips a coin, and Tennessee will kickoff. I munch my popcorn and settle in to watch the first play of the game. My father is a die-hard football fan. It doesn’t matter if it’s the NFL, college, or high school. It’s more of a religion. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday are days of worship in the Williams household. That meant loads of BBQ chicken wings, pigs in a blanket, chips, and cold bottles of beer. Not exactly dancer-friendly food. But Mom always made sure to have a veggie platter with hummus and lots of fresh fruit for me.
After about fifteen minutes, a ref blows a whistle, throws up a flag, and stops the play.
“What happened?” Mia asks, brows drawing together as she watches the guys standing around.
“There’s a penalty for holding,” I explain.
When she continues to stare in confusion, my lips twitch. “It means that one of our guys grabbed hold of the other team’s defensive player while trying to block him. They’re not allowed to do that. Now there’s a penalty, and we lose ten yards.”
Her brows pinch together. “It’s almost as if you’re speaking English, but I still can’t understand a word you’re saying.” She lifts a hand to her face before touching her mouth. “Am I having a stroke? Is that what’s going on?” There’s a pause. “Wait a minute...aren’t I the one who shouldn’t be making sense if I’m stroking out?”
I burst out laughing. “Neither of us are stroking out. Although, if these refs don’t get their heads out of their asses, I just might.” I point to the field and explain, “Now we’re further from the end zone, which makes it more difficult to score a touchdown.”