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“Yeah... well.” It’s his turn to hesitate, and if I’m not mistaken, he may even turn a little red. “My football team won the national championship a few weeks ago, but most of these guys weren’t back on campus until classes started this week. They’re still pretty excited.” And there’s something about the way he says it—like he’s embarrassed by it—that intrigues me.
“That’s amazing. You guys must be pretty good to make it that far. Congratulations.” We stop by a keg where I’m handed a yellow Solo cup of foamy beer, then led over to a veryindoorcouch sitting outside next to a heat lamp. Brandon drops down and stretches his thick legs in front of him and his arm across the back while he waits for me to sit.
When I eye him skeptically, his smile grows bigger. “Youreallydon’t want to be here, do you?”
“Not really. It’s kind of a big week for me. I should honestly be sleeping.” Could I possibly sound more lame?
“Listen, I wasn’t kidding before. You can really help me out. I just wanted to chill tonight, but the guys had other plans, and I couldn’t say no. How about you stick by my side and act like we’re together?”
“Ha. Does that usually work for you?” I tease.
“I’m serious. You’d be doin’ me a favor. No funny business. Just sit here with me and talk. People will think we’re together. That’ll keep the guys away from you and the girls away from me. Win-win.”
His white thermal shirt stretches across an impossibly muscled chest, and an unbuttoned blue and gray flannel covers that. He looks comfortable and warm, and for some reason, I kinda think I might actually trust him, so I sit.
Probably a dumb move. Definitely one I’ll regret. But it’s the first time I’ve ever had a hot guy ask me to spend time with him, so why not?
Yeah... this isn’t going to end well.
* * *
Brandon
“So why should you be in bed at eleven o’clock on a Thursday night?” I ask this beautiful girl as she sits as far away from me as possible and pulls her knees up against her chest. She’s skittish like a kitten, but every move she makes is graceful and perfect, like she’s practiced the movement thousands of times. It’s a strange combo.
“I have a long flight out Saturday, and the next few weeks are going to be kinda crazy.” She looks down at her beer. The one she hasn’t so much as sipped yet. Her thick strawberry-blonde hair falls in front of her face, and yeah... that hair would look fucking fantastic wrapped around my fist while I fucked her from behind, but that ain’t happenin’.
Not tonight.
Not with this girl.
Everything about her screamsgood girl. From the top of her tight little black cardigan sweater with white pearl buttons all the way down to the ballet flats on her feet. This isn’t a one-night-stand girl. This is the girl you protect from the rest of the assholes at the party who’d chew her ass up.
“Where ya flying to?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Paris,” she whispers. Yup. She’s a good little rich girl too. Fucking figures.
I take a sip of beer and watch her as she fidgets with her pearls. “Family vacation?”
“No.” Her fingers still, and she looks around, like she’s looking for Nina or someone to save her. “I have a competition.”
Okay. Now I’m intrigued. “What kind of competition?”
“Umm... Did Nina really not tell you guys? It seemed like you knew her.”
What the hell? “Nah. She didn’t say anything. I think her and Eric have only been hooking up for a few weeks.”
“Good to know.” She shakes her head, then lifts sparkling green eyes to mine. “We’re going to the Olympics. She and I are both on the US Women’s Figure Skating team.”
“Damn. That’s... just wow. That’s incredible.” I look at her again, really look this time. She’s a tiny thing, with long fucking legs, and I’m pretty sure her clothes do a decent job of hiding a smoking hot body. One I never would have guessed from the obvious way she avoids attention. I guess the graceful way she moves makes sense now. But if she’s good enough to make the Olympics, why aren’t strength and confidence oozing from her bones. “Nina is too?”
“Yeah. Odds have her winning the gold. Her dad is our coach. I live with them.” Then, as if she wants to stop talking, she takes her first sip of beer, and based on the sour look on her face, I’m pretty fucking sure it’s her first ever taste of the stuff.
I drag my eyes from her face back to the cup and take it from her hand.
“Hey,” she calls out. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to the Olympics in two fucking days. You don’t really want to be drinking this piss, do ya?”
