Page 4 of These Secret Years

He runs a hand over his short hair and looks away from me again, like he just got distracted and hadn’t meant to stare. Now that I realize I’m staring, I look away, too, back to Gabe, who’s telling us to find our names on one of the tables, have a seat, and introduce ourselves to our tablemates.

Deandre claps me on the back, and we head off in different directions.

I wind up with the twin in the blue shirt—Dillon, another football player named Tyson, and a skinny dude with glasses. He says he’s studying architecture, and he introduces himself as JT.

Tyson shuffles and deals the first hand. It’s a best out of five situation, forcing us to stay at the table until we’re decently acquainted. Not only that, but as the two first players to finish at each table advance in the bracket, there’s a losers bracket, too.

No one’s going anywhere any time soon.

“So,” Dillon says once the first card is thrown. “Where’s everybody from?”

“What I wanna know,” Tyson interrupts, “is who’s got something better than water to drink?”

Dillon chuckles. “I gotchu, bro.” He leans back and slides a silver flask out of his jeans pocket just enough for us to get a peek at.

Hastily, we all pass our cups his way.

Chapter Two

KNIGHT

It’s a miracle I’ve won a single hand when I can’t take my eyes off the guy with the big blue eyes and the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. I’m surprised I can even hold my cards. My thoughts are a jumbled series of oh fuck, holy shit, not this, not now, not here. The cupcake I ate in one bite lingers in my upset stomach like a fucking canoe in the middle of Lake Superior during a storm, tossing back and forth, capsizing, drowning, then surging back up to break the surface.

Enough people have snuck alcohol into this dumb game night that an hour into it, there’s a lot more laughter and chattering. Since I don’t drink during the season, the increased noise around me isn’t helping me do anything but get more unnerved.

But Jesus Christ, when that guy smiles, he’s fucking radiant. He’s got these gorgeous lips that stretch over perfect teeth and two deep dimples—deeper than my own small one—that are making me sweat. I might as well be drinking for how hard it is to focus on anything but him.

He hasn’t looked at me again since that first time before everyone sat down, and that’s definitely a good thing. He’s probably not like me. Or if he is, I’m not his type, and that’s a good thing, too. I wish I didn’t feel like I needed to know which. I wish I had the ability to stop myself from trying to find out everything I can about him, but single-mindedness is both my greatest strength and greatest weakness. Helpful in football and in a classroom, but stupidly annoying when it comes to shit like this. Shit I shouldn’t have on my mind ever.

I need to meet him, and it looks like I’m going to as we both keep advancing in the winner’s bracket and moving toward the south side of the room, closer to the windows overlooking campus.

He’s at the table next to me in the final rounds. The lack of control I have over a hand of UNO is irritating to the point where my knee is bouncing restlessly, and I keep sneaking glances at his game. He looks like he’s having fun. I mean, I don’t know him, have somehow not managed to meet him yet in this weird mixer, but inevitably we’re all getting to know each other. If it weren’t for him, I might be enjoying this, but currently it feels more like waiting in line to meet a fucking celebrity, and I’m his number one fan with a full-blown parasocial relationship, expectations, and everything.

I hope he hates me. I hope that if I wind up sitting next to him or across from him at the final table, he treats me like trash. Like a dumb jock. Like I smell foul and look hideous.

My roommate Rodrigo, a tight end from Miami, plays a green eight, and it’s my turn. I look down at the two remaining cards in my hand. An eight and a Skip. Laying down the eight, I say, “UNO.”

Rodrigo and the other guys I’m with—Tate and Jimmy, both not on the team—release a collective sigh.

Rod has at least seven cards, but the other two are getting down to their last few. Because of the special cards, I can’t just show them my skip and put them out of their misery. For all I know my roommate might play a Take Four on me, but he looks decently defeated.

My knee bounces faster. No one uses a strategy to keep me from winning, and I play my Skip, winning the game at the same time the way too gorgeous guy plays his second to last card. I turn in my seat to watch the rest of their game and study him.

There has to be something wrong with him. He’s not normal looking. Now that I’m closer up, I can pick his weird face apart and hope this band of tension around my chest loosens up.

His features are large—bordering on exaggerated. But that would only be off-putting if it were just his eyes or nose. In his case, he’s got the trifecta. Big eyes, big nose, big lips that cover a full mouth of teeth, making his mouth protrude slightly from the rest of his face, but it works out because his cheekbones are high and broad, perfectly balanced with the square of his smooth-shaven jaw.

He’s got the slight build of someone who does a lot of cardio, but not like an athlete unless he runs track. Sitting between the twins, he looks small, but I’ve seen him move through the room. He’s not short.

His hair should bug me. I really, really want his hair to bug me. It’s long. Not to his shoulders but slightly past his chin. It’s thick, and a plain, dark blond. Not as dark as his eyebrows, but that somehow works, too. If he told me he was a model, I’d also believe that.

When he laughs at something one of the twins says, it’s a low noise that rumbles before it starts to break up into a higher pitch.

All I’m seeing now is a gorgeous guy who knows how to have a good time, and that shit is not helping.

Dillon skips him on the next turn, prolonging the game, and I get up, too sick to my stomach to eat, but about to knock the table over with my restless knee. I loom over the four of them, and a whiff of Jack Daniels hits me.

Gabe checks in with our table as the game finishes up. He jots the rankings on his bracket and offers me a fist bump. “Way to go, Winters.”