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I glance up from my computer when I sense someone next to me. Looking up, I don’t immediately recognize the one who spoke to Alina, other than I know he’s on the football team, but the other, I’d know him from a mile away.
Archer fucking Copeland.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
My entire body goes rigid when he smiles down at me, two matching dimples making an appearance on a face that looks more like something you’d see airbrushed on a magazine than in real life. He honestly puts me in the mind of a young Brad Pitt, only taller and with a more athletic build. Six feet, five inches of pure muscle, if we’re calling it as it is. Add on the dark blond, messy locks and piercing gray eyes and what you have, ladies and gentlemen, is kryptonite—plain and simple. Not mine, of course, but for just about everyone else... Kryptonite.
That’s because they don’t see what I do. They’re too blinded by his beauty and talent to see anything else. But I see him. His arrogance. His privilege. The way he walks around campus like he owns it. It’s infuriating really, why people give one man such power.
Who cares if he’s the star quarterback?
Who cares if he took our football team from a losing record all the way to the championship game in a single season?
I don’t care if he can produce sunshine from his asshole. I would never worship at his feet the way so many others do.
He can play a sport. Good for him. Doesn’t make him any more special than every other student on this campus. We’re all good at something. He just happens to be good at the one thing people value a hell of a lot more than they should. Football.
“Word on the street is you’re in need of a model.” My gaze jumps to his teammate, who addresses Alina directly.
He’s a good-looking guy. Brown skin, short hair, a smile that would melt just about any heart. He’s taller than Archer, but not by much. He’s more lean than muscular, but I’m still pretty sure his biceps are bigger than my head. And there’s a softness to his features, making him almost pretty, despite his intimidating stature.
“Nice try, Higgins, but I’ve already got someone lined up.” She pops her lip over the P, dropping back onto her elbows so that she’s looking directly up at him. “I needed a model with more”—her eyes drop to his crotch for a brief moment before flittering back up to his face—“to offer,” she finally finishes.
“You wound me.” He flattens his palm to his chest, not seeming the least bit offended by her insult.
The two must know each other well enough that they feel comfortable speaking to each other in such a way. Not that it surprises me. Alina knows a lot of people, many that I don’t, even though we’ve lived together for three years. She’s a bit of a social butterfly that one. I’m her polar opposite in that regard and know very few people more than just being casually acquainted. I tend to keep to myself, preferring to sketch away in my books rather than deal with people who don’t share my ambition.
The only football players I’m really all that familiar with are the ones who run with Enzo. And that’s only because every time I go out with Alina, they almost always tag along or show up at some point during the evening.
“Wish it were more difficult to do.” Alina smiles.
“What about you?” His attention turns to me. “You look like you could be fun to work with.” I might take offense to the way he says it if the kindness behind his eyes weren’t so striking.
“She already has a partner,” Archer speaks before I can, smiling as confusion spreads across my face.
“Actually, I don’t,” I quickly correct him, cursing the slight shake in my voice.
Why does he make me so freaking nervous? It’s infuriating. I hate him. I shouldn’t be nervous around him. I shouldn’t care enough to be. Then again, remember the comment I made earlier about being an introvert? Yep, still true.
“Don’t you?” He arches a brow in question. “You should have received an email from your professor by now. Perhaps you should check.”
Discomfort grows in my gut as my nerves churn violently.
As calmly as I can muster, I turn back to my laptop, quickly pulling up my school email. Sure enough, at the very top of the page is an email from Professor Clemens.
“What did you do?” I ask, not even bothering to open the email.
“If they’re going to force me to sit for an Art classagain, the least they can do is letmepick who I want to sit for.”
Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, I click on the email instead.
I don’t take the time to read it fully, just to the part where Professor Clemens advises me that my partner has been selected for me. My vision blurs and my heart kicks into high gear, pounding violently against my ribs.
“Pass,” I clip, slamming my computer shut with so much force it’s a wonder the damn screen doesn’t shatter.
“Pass?” He cocks his head to the side, a cocky smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.” He knocks his arm into his teammate, who I now know is called Higgins—though I would venture to say that’s his last name, not his first. “Let’s go before we’re late.”
“Later, Alina.” Higgins nods at my friend before giving me a slight tip of his chin, the two walking away before a single word can form on my lips.
