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Coach turns towards me, his face lit up with a happy smile. The kind of smile I rarely even see on him after a big win.
“Liam!” he shouts. “Let me introduce you to my daughter.”
Daughter?
Oh, shit.
I walk towards them, fixing a phony smile to my face even as my stomach sinks in disappointment. Could it really be …
As we get closer, my eyes grow wider. I stare intently into the deep, pristine pools of her blue eyes. Blue just like the eyes of …
“Zoey, this is Liam, one of the players on my team,” Coach says.
Zoey?
Oh, shit.
Coach turns his gaze to me, the proud smile still bright on his face. “Liam, this is Zoey, my daughter. She just transferred here from Georgia.”
When she hears my name, her eyes grow wide; it’s clear she’s experiencing the same revelation that’s rocking me.
What I dared to hope for was just confirmed—but in the worst way possible.
The girl from Psych class is the same girl I met on Halloween night. The same girl I pulled into a club closet and had the most unforgettable hookup of my life with.
And she’s my coach’s daughter.
7
ZOEY
My head is spinning. Liam, the guy who screwed my brains out in the hottest hookup of my life on Halloween night and then never texted me back, is one of the players on my father’s team.
Andthe guy who sits next to me in Psych class.
I don’t know how long it might have taken me to recognize him without the face paint and with his hair its natural color. But now that I know it’s him, I can spot the lines and angles of his face as a perfect match.
A heady wave of emotion washes over me.
There’s awkwardness as I think back to what we did together last October, with my father right here standing next to us.
Fast on the heels of that feeling is anger.
I’ve told myself over and over again that I have no right to feel angry at Liam for not texting me back. It was just a hookup after all. I told him that that’s all it was meant to be when it happened.
But, again, that’s the thing about emotions—they’re emotional, not rational.
Just seconds ago, I was excited to see him, recognizing him as the cute guy who passed me that drawing in Pysch class.
Okay, cute is a major understatement. He’s downright gorgeous with a heart-stopping face, movie-star messy hair, and a body built like a marble sculpture.
Now as I look at him, I can’t help but feel a wave of bitterness crashing over me, remembering the disappointment I felt in the days and weeks after Halloween, pathetically checking my phone every five minutes hoping for the message that never came.
“Hi Liam,” I finally manage to say, more a grunt than a usual greeting.
Liam’s face furrows with the same awkwardness. “Hey, Zoey,” he says. “Nice to … meet you.”
The tiny beat of a pause in that greeting feels heavy with the fact that, no, we’re actually not meeting for the first time.
