STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

They’re gone. My eyes widen, and I see that they’re just now exiting the building. The guy who called me hot— I didn’t even get his name— is at the back of the group, and flicks his eyes back to me with that same intense expression. I feel something in my waist clench, and my breath shortens. He tips his head toward me a little in farewell, then follows the rest of them out the door. I stare, trying to regain my balance, trying to figure out what this means.

Was he seriously into me the way it seemed?

Or was it all just some strange college football ritual—humiliating girls for sport?

Movement around me— the auditions are over and people are shuffling down to the gymnasium floor to celebrate or console auditioners. I try to push the guy from my mind and hurry down to hug Trishelle tightly. She’s flushed with exertion and excitement when I reach her, and hugs me so tight that her ribs carve into my stomach.

“I’m so proud of you!” I squeal, and she bounces up and down in front of me. “Let’s go celebrate, okay?”

“Apparently we’re all going to some yogurt place— the whole squad, I mean,” Trishelle says in a whisper, like she’s afraid if someone overhears it won’t be true. “You should come!”

“Yeah, sure. You were amazing, Trish. That tumbling pass, the last one? Holy shit,” I say, grinning.

I stick by her side as the people who didn’t make the cut filter out, and registration papers are handed out to the new girls. Within a few minutes, arrangements for transport to the yogurt place over on the west side of town are being made. Neither Trishelle nor I have cars, since we’re freshmen and can’t apply for parking spots, so we shoot our hands up when an older girl asks who else needs a ride.

“Okay, and then there’s Trishelle and— oh, is this your friend?” the girl asks, her bright green eyes falling on me. She’s gorgeous in a crazy supermodel kind of way— like, so good looking that it makes me snicker at the girls we considered beautiful back in high school.

“Yeah, this is my friend. And roommate,” Trishelle says.

“Cool! Well, this is really just a bonding thing for the team. Sorry, sweetie,” the girl says. She’s smiling, and it’s a nice smile— but there’s something hard underneath it.

“Oh,” Trishelle says, faltering. I don’t mind being alone, but Trishelle does— and being in a room of strangers she’s supposed to make small talk with definitely qualifies as “alone” as far as she’s concerned. She gives me a panicked look, and I smile.

“No problem,” I say, loud enough that the other cheerleaders can hear me, but actually speaking to Trishelle— no problem. This is cool. You’ll be fine.

“Alright, let’s go! Touch up lipstick, please, before you hit the doors. Remember that you’re always representing the team now, ladies,” the girl— the head cheerleader, obviously— says, and the rookies practically dive for their bags.

“See you back at the apartment,” I say, then hug Trishelle quickly before leaving. Only as I step outside does it occur to me that Trishelle isn’t the one who ended up being alone.

I am.

Chapter 2

College is easier than high school.

There, I said it. I know it’s not supposed to be.

But all in all, college is easier because I can set my own schedule, nap between classes, and because everyone is ostensibly an adult. I don’t have to ask permission to use the restroom, and no one hassles me if I dart into class a few minutes late. There’s no lunchroom or classroom seating politics, and so far I haven’t encountered a single godforsaken group project.

There is, however, one pretty glaring similarity to high school: Football players and cheerleaders are royalty. And the rest of us are simply peasants.

Normally, I don’t give a shit about this fact, because I’ve always been of the opinion that if your greatest achievement is risking head injury, your crown is temporary. But with Trishelle on the cheerleading squad, I’m sort of thrown into the thick of the scene.

Trishelle has already started waking up early to wash and style her hair, wears makeup to class, and is wearing ever-higher heels, something she’s never worn given how devastating a rolled ankle would have been to her gymnastics career.

“Look! We’re the same height!” she says gleefully one evening, walking up to me after studying herself in the full-length mirror that hangs on our bathroom door. We’re technically in a dorm, but all student housing here is apartment style, so we’ve got our own bathroom, own bedrooms, and a teeny tiny kitchen area with an even teenier tinier living room.

“Wow, this is freaking me out,” I say honestly. I’m not tall, but Trishelle has never been able to look me in the eye before.