Campus Player

On a campus with over thirty thousand students, one would think that avoidance would be easy to accomplish. That hasn’t turned out to be the case. Somehow, we ended up in the same major—Exercise Science. I get stuck in at least one class with the guy each semester. This time it’s statistics, which is a requirement. Three times a week, I’m forced to see him. And then there are the weekly dinners at Dad’s house.

Every Wednesday, Rowan shows up without fail.

It’s so annoying.

No, he’s annoying!

Our gazes collide, and electricity sizzles through my veins before I immediately snuff it out and pretend it never happened.

I am not attracted to Rowan Michaels.

I am not attracted to Rowan Michaels.

I am not attracted to Rowan Michaels.

Maybe if I repeat the mantra enough times, it’ll be true. That’s the hope I cling to. I’ve made it through the last seven years trying to convince myself of this. I only have to get through our final year together, and then we’ll go our separate ways—me to graduate school or maybe to the Women’s National Soccer League, and Rowan to the NFL. He’s one of the most talented quarterbacks in the conference. Hell, probably the country. There is little doubt in my mind that he’ll be a first-round draft pick come next spring.

Trust me when I say that Rowan Michaels fever is alive and well at Western University. His fanbase is legendary. The guy is a major player.

Both on and off the field.

Girls fall all over themselves to be with him. They fill the stands at football practice, show up at parties he’s rumored to be at, and basically stalk him around campus.

It’s a little nauseating. Don’t these girls have any self-respect when it comes to a hot guy?

I wince at that unchecked thought.

Fine...I’ll begrudgingly admit it; he’s good-looking.

I shake my head as if that will banish the insidious thoughts currently invading my brain. Enough about Rowan. It’s time to focus on the reason I’m at the stadium at this ungodly hour. I rip my gaze from him as I hit the cement staircase. After half a flight, all thoughts of the blond quarterback vanish from my mind. How could they not when my quads, glutes, and calves are on fire, screaming for mercy as I force myself to the nosebleed section. By the time I finish, my legs are Jell-O, and I still have a two-mile run back to the apartment I share with my best friend off-campus.

I give Dad a half-hearted wave before leaving. It’s the most I can muster. His lips quirk at the corners as he shakes his head. He thinks I’m crazy. At the moment, I can’t argue with his assessment of the situation. Although, it’s the extra training I put in that helps me run circles around the other team in the second half of the game.

The jog home feels like it will last forever. By the time I unlock the apartment door, I’m ready to collapse. I beeline for the shower and jump in before it’s fully warm. My skin prickles with goose flesh, but it feels so damn good. Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed and ready to take on the day. My hair has been thrown up in a messy bun, and I’m making a protein smoothie that will fuel me for my morning classes.

Just before taking off, I poke my head into Sydney’s room. I know exactly how I’ll find her, and that’s buried beneath a small mountain of blankets. She doesn’t disappoint. We met the summer before freshman year in training camp and have been besties ever since. She’s the yin to my yang. The peanut butter to my jelly. The Thelma to my Louise. Where I’m more introverted and cautious, she’s loud and boisterous. She’s been known to leap without necessarily looking at what she’s jumping into. Every so often, it gets us into trouble. Sydney and I have lived together since sophomore year. I gave up trying to cajole her ass out of bed for a six o’clock run after the first week of us cohabitating when she nearly took my head off with an alarm clock.

“It’s that time again,” I sing-song obnoxiously, “rise and shine.”

There’s a grunt and then some shifting from under the blankets that tells me she’s alive.

When I chant her name repeatedly, each time escalating in volume, she growls, “Get the fuck out!”

“Awww,” I mock, “that’s so sweet. I love you, too.”

Sydney snorts before a hand snakes out from beneath the blankets to give me a one-fingered salute. Then she grabs a pillow and tosses it in my general vicinity. It falls about five feet short of its mark.

I stare at the dismal attempt. “If you’re trying to cause bodily harm, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Piss off.”

“All right then.” I shrug. “See you after class.” With that, I close the door behind me.