Varsity Quotes

Most Bolton students were scions of the city's wealthiest families. My crewe stuck out like hooker at church. We werent part of their pampered, priveliged world, and many of our classmates were quick to remind us of that fact. Taunting the "boat kids" was practically a varsity sport.

He's gawking at me when I open the door. "Damn girl," he says, looking me over, "what the hell are you trying to do to me?" I look down at myself, still trying to wake up the rest of the way and realize I'm in those tiny cotton white shorts and varsity tee with no bra on underneath. Oh my God, my nipples are like beacons shining through my shirt! I cross my arms over my chest and try not to look at him i the eyes when he helps himself the rest of the way inside. "I was going to tell you to get dressed," he goes on, grinning as he walks into the room carrying his bags and the guitar, "but really, you can go just like that if you want." I shake my head, hiding the smile creeping up on my face.

A game at which the liberals have become masters is that of deliberate evasiveness. The question often comes up `what can you do?`. If you ask him to do something like stopping to use segregated facilities or dropping out of varsity to work at menial jobs like all blacks or defying and denouncing all provisions that make him privileged, you always get the answer - `but that's unrealistic!' While this may be true, it only serves to illustrate the fact that no matter what a white man does, the colour of his skin - his passport to privilege- will always put him miles ahead of the black men. Thus in the ultimate analysis, no white person can escape being part of the oppressor camp.

Puberty flicked a switch inside of them and dreams were replaced by hormones and college prep courses and varsity sports while I continued to look for faeries in the woods behind my house.

You count the years until you get a varsity jersey, then you're a hero, an idol, a cocky bastard because in this town you can do no wrong. You win and win and you're the king of your own little world, then poof, it's gone. You play your last game and everybody cries. You can't believe it's over. Then another team comes right behind you and you're forgotten.

Let me tell you girls a story, short and sweet. In high school, I was a junior varsity cheerleader dating a senior who was up for football scholarships. I'd slept with him several times willingly. One night I wasn't in the mood, but he was. So he held me down and forced me. The few people I told about it - including my best friend - pointed out what would happen to him if I told. They stressed the fact that I hadn't been a virgin, that we were dating, that we'd had sex before. So I kept quiet. I never even told my mother. That boy put bruises on my body. I was crying and begging him to stop and he didn't. That's called rape, ladies.

This isn't 'I do something for you, you do something for me'. This is hard-core friendship. Varsity level. This is me asking you to do something for me without getting anything in return. This is friendship, Howie.

He slipped his hands around my waist and pulled me against him, tossing the ice cream cone over his shoulder. It landed with a splat on the sidewalk. "So does that mean I have a varsity girlfriend?" I giggled like a total girl and linked my hands behind his neck. "Yeah I guess it does." "Sweet." Then he bent his head, and I stood up on my tiptoes and we met in the middle. And it was perfect.

You think you can just throw me away for some junior varsity mall rat?

Lainey is hot in a prom queen kind of way and we used to be friends back in grade school, but that was two lifetimes ago. Now she’s a varsity soccer player and card-carrying popular girl who hangs out with the kind of mean girls and douchebags who get killed first in horror movies.

I wasn't worried about myself. I didn't consider the possibility that either of the men could catch me. I was all-star varsity soccer. I was Braveheart in Urban Outfitters. I was Supergirl. I was seriously delusional.

Two boys, both in varsity football, kissing under the bleachers, muscular silhouettes merging against the deep purple sky. I wasn’t the only one with a secret. In the grand scheme of things, my secret wasn’t even as dangerous as some of theirs.

Every three hundred years or so, our kind gets loosed upon an unsuspecting world. And this time around, the history books would know us as the 1989 Danvers High School Women’s Varsity Field Hockey team. Be. Aggressive. B-E aggressive.

Once again, airborne forces appeared to be coins burning a hole in the pockets of Allied commanders, coins that simply had to be spent. Soldiers soon mocked the operation as VARSITY BLUNDER, and burial squads with pruning saws and ladders took two days to cut down all the dead.

The main one I could understand was that money-earning ones pay taxes. Whereas you can’t collect shit on what people grow and eat on the spot, or the work they swap with their neighbors. That’s like a percent of blood from a turnip. So, the ones in charge started cooking it into everybody’s brains to look down on the land people, saying we are an earlier stage of human, like junior varsity or cavemen. Weird-shaped heads.

It would be useless to try to segregate outstanding members of Washington's varsity shell, just as it would be impossible to try to pick a certain note in a beautifully composed song. All were merged into one smoothly working machine; they were, in fact, a poem of motion, a symphony of swinging blades.

Jen- I have to tell you - I haven't said this before but I've wanted to + now I want to say it all the time: I LOVE YOU. I love you on the page + I love you in the library + in the coffee shop + in the last row of the Varsity. I love you here. I love you in negitive space - ok, i don't know exactly what that means but i'm pretty sure its true - + I love who you have been + who you will be. I should say this to you in person, and i'm going to - over & over - but I think I needed to say it here first. Jennifer Heyward, I love you.

During my last year of high school, I tried out for the varsity golf team. For about a year, I’d taken golf lessons from an old golf pro.

varsity

You're playing hookey for her? You met her, what, five minutes ago? And now she's what? Your girlfriend? Did you give her your varsity jacket?

When Jordan was cut from the varsity team, he was devastated. His mother says, “I told him to go back and discipline himself.

This kid, he has to remember, this freaking junior varsity water boy, cut the heads off five men and rolled them across a disco floor like he was duckpin bowling. Guilty feet ain't got no rhythm, Eddie thinks.

The myth that if you don't start early, you might as well not start, tends to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. The music-making world that young people confront reminds me a lot of the world of school sports. After a lot of weeding out, in the end you've got a varsity with a few performers and an awful lot of people on the sidelines thinking, "Gee, it's too bad I wasn't good enough." We need to be careful about that. There seems to be an unspoken idea, in instruction of the young, that the people who start the fastest will go the farthest. But that's not only an unproven theory; it's not even a tested theory. The assumption that the steeper the learning curve, the higher it will go, is also unfounded. If we did things a little differently, we might find out that people whose learning curves were much slower might later on go up just as high or higher.

Coach McConaughy grabbed the whistle swinging from a chain around his neck and blew it. “Seats, team!” Coach considered teaching tenthgrade biology a side assignment to his job as varsity basketball coach, and we all knew it. “It may not have occurred to you kids that sex is more than a fifteenminute trip to the backseat of a car. It’s science. And what is science?” “Boring,” some kid in the back of the room called out. “The only class I’m failing,” said another.

And more to the point, I have no idea what I want to do. It shouldn't be a surprise. I've had years to think about it. That and just the other day I was pestering Wolf about what he wanted to do--talk about the pot calling the kettle black. But that's just it, I guess. I've never had to think about it. I have very diligently kept all of my options open. The AP classes, the killer GPA, the SAT scores in the 99th percentile, the varsity letters from swim team, the debate club, the fundraising... I've taken on everything and succeeded at it. There is not one weak spot that can be pointed to in my resume, not a single thing that would make an administrator say, "Yes, but what about her..." Except maybe this. Except the part where it's suddenly clear to me why I've been struggling so much with my college essays, with articulating who I am in so few words. How can a person even know who they are if they don't know what they want?

The snow was still drifting from the sky when we stepped out into the parking lot. The Hellcat was covered with a fine layer of the white stuff because it’d been parked there for so long. Beside me, Rimmel shivered, and I felt like an ass because she’d been out in this cold half the day and then stood in the drafty tunnel and had to wait on me. The engine was already purring; I’d hit the electronic start as soon as it came into sight. I pulled off my varsity jacket as we walked around to the passenger side, and I draped it around her shoulders. “Pretty soon I’m gonna have your entire wardrobe.” She smiled and pulled my coat farther around her. “You can have whatever you want, baby.

I have always noticed in high school yearbooks the similarity of all the graduate write-ups—how, after only a few pages, the identities of all the unsullied young faces blur, how one person melts into another and another: Susan likes to eat at Wendy’s; Donald was on the basketball team; Norman is vain about his varsity sweater; Gillian broke her arm on Spring Retreat; Brian is a car nut; Sue wants to live in Hawaii; Don wants to make a million and be a ski bum; Noreen wants to live in Europe; Gordon wants to be a radio deejay in Australia. At what point in our lives do we stop blurring? When do we become crisp individuals? What must we do in order to end these fuzzy identities—to clarify just who it is we really are?

Again and again the demons closed upon Tom, and again and again he took his imaginary basketball and dribbled it into a clear space. He zigzagged fast, dancing feet barely touching the ground, changing direction sharply and unpredictably. “What is he doing?” Stella gasped, her hand over the bleeding wound on her stomach. “He made varsity,” Twist said. “He made what?

Look, no one wants to hear that maybe she’s the reason her mother flew the coop. But my advice to you is to put this behind you. File it away in the drawer that’s saved for all the other crap that isn’t fair, like how the Kardashians are famous and how good-looking people get served faster at restaurants and how a kid who can’t skate to save his life winds up on the varsity hockey team because his dad is the coach.

Pete Berman sized up his competition like a predator lining up its prey. Gerry Williams dribbled once with his left hand, stopped on a dime, and nailed an open 15-footer. He had played on the Fellingwood Varsity Basketball Team since his freshman year, and was now a 16 year-old boy in a man's body. Pete sat on a board of the old splinter-ridden, wooden stands fixed on Gerry, but he was unable to defend his turf. His team was losing badly again, and the waiting was pure agony.

always loved school. I played varsity lacrosse and field hockey. I could be friends with the cool kids and the smart kids and the sporty kids and even the stoner kids although I didn’t like to get stoned. I could cross social lines seamlessly and be whoever people needed me to be. I’d like to say it was a gift born of my curiosity about people, but in truth it was more of a response to trauma. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel safe. So I needed every single person I met to like me, and if I could make them love and need me, even better.

And this isn’t high school. Now that you’re not worried that (a) your skirt is too short or too long and the other kids will laugh at you, (b) you’re not going to make the varsity swimming team, (c) you’re still going to be a pimple-studded virgin when you graduate (probably when you die, for that matter), (d) the physics teacher won’t grade the final on a curve, or (e) nobody really likes you anyway AND THEY NEVER DID… now that all that extraneous shit is out of the way, you can study certain academic matters with a degree of concentration you could never manage while attending the local textbook loonybin.

For the rest of Kat’s childhood, she moved from one relative’s house to another’s, up and down the East Coast, living in four homes before entering high school. Finally, in high school, she lived for a few years with her grandmother, her mom’s mom, whom she called “G-Ma.” No one ever talked about her mom’s murder. “In my family, my past was ‘The Big Unmentionable’—including my role in putting my own father in jail,” she says. In high school, Kat appeared to be doing well. She was an honor student who played four varsity sports. Beneath the surface, however, “I was secretly self-medicating with alcohol because otherwise, by the time everything stopped and it got quiet at night, I could not sleep, I would just lie there and a terrible panic would overtake me.” She went to college, failed out, went back, and graduated. She went to work in advertising, and one day, dissatisfied, quit. She went back to grad school, piling up debt. She became a teacher. Kat quit that job too, when a relationship she had formed with another teacher imploded. At the age of thirty-four, Kat went to stay with her brother and his family in Hawaii. She got a job as a valet, parking cars. “I’d come home from parking cars all day and curl up on my bed in the back bedroom of my brother’s house, and lie there feeling desperate and alone, my heart beating with anxiety.

William worked on his passing too, so he could feed the ball to the best players in the park. He wanted to keep his place on the court, and he knew that if he made the other boys better, he had value. He learned where to run to provide space for the shooters to cut in to. He set screens so they could take their favorite shots. The boys slapped William on the back after a successful play, and they always wanted him on their side. This acceptance calmed some of the fear William carried inside him; on the basketball court, he knew what to do. By the time William entered high school, he was a good-enough player to start for the varsity team. He was five foot eight and played point guard. His hours of practice with the glasses had paid off; he was by far the best dribbler on the team, and he had a nice midrange jumper. He’d

Talking about your crazy spots not only saves your daughter the work of trying to change your fully formed personality, it also builds her emotional intelligence. In its more basic form, your daughter’s emotional intelligence will help her to consider competing mental states. But when you teach her about your crazy spots, you are taking her emotional intelligence up several notches: you are inviting her to think about your motivations in a broad perspective that includes past experiences and relationships. By encouraging her to expand her insight beyond what’s happening in the moment, you’ll advance your daughter from varsity level emotional intelligence (“Why does Mom act psychotic when I track mud through the house?”) to the pros (“Mom acts psychotic because she didn’t have to share her space when she was growing up, so she doesn’t always handle it well now”).

At Notre Dame, we have a squad of about three hundred lads—both varsity veterans and newcomers. They keep practicing fundamentals, and keep it up, and keep it up, and keep it up, until these various fundamentals become as natural and subconscious as breathing. Then in the game, they don’t have to stop and wonder what to do next when the time comes for quick action. The same principles apply to selling, just as well as football. If you want to be a star in the selling game, you’ve got to have your fundamentals— the A B C’s of your job, so firmly in your mind, that they are part of you. Know them so well that no matter at what point a prospect breaks away from the path to closing, you can get him back on the track again without either of you consciously realizing what has taken place. You can’t develop that perfection by looking in the mirror and congratulating your company for taking you on. You’ve got to drill and drill and drill!

[...]a man and a boy, side by side on a yellow Swedish sofa from the 1950s that the man had bought because it somehow reminded him of a zoot suit, watching the A’s play Baltimore, Rich Harden on the mound working that devious ghost pitch, two pairs of stocking feet, size 11 and size 15, rising from the deck of the coffee table at either end like towers of the Bay Bridge, between the feet the remains in an open pizza box of a bad, cheap, and formerly enormous XL meat lover’s special, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ground beef, and ham, all of it gone but crumbs and parentheses of crusts left by the boy, brackets for the blankness of his conversation and, for all the man knew, of his thoughts, Titus having said nothing to Archy since Gwen’s departure apart from monosyllables doled out in response to direct yes-or-nos, Do you like baseball? you like pizza? eat meat? pork?, the boy limiting himself whenever possible to a tight little nod, guarding himself at his end of the sofa as if riding on a crowded train with something breakable on his lap, nobody saying anything in the room, the city, or the world except Bill King and Ken Korach calling the plays, the game eventless and yet blessedly slow, player substitutions and deep pitch counts eating up swaths of time during which no one was required to say or to decide anything, to feel what might conceivably be felt, to dread what might be dreaded, the game standing tied at 1 and in theory capable of going on that way forever, or at least until there was not a live arm left in the bullpen, the third-string catcher sent in to pitch the thirty-second inning, batters catnapping slumped against one another on the bench, dead on their feet in the on-deck circle, the stands emptied and echoing, hot dog wrappers rolling like tumbleweeds past the diehards asleep in their seats, inning giving way to inning as the dawn sky glowed blue as the burner on a stove, and busloads of farmhands were brought in under emergency rules to fill out the weary roster, from Sacramento and Stockton and Norfolk, Virginia, entire villages in the Dominican ransacked for the flower of their youth who were loaded into the bellies of C-130s and flown to Oakland to feed the unassuageable appetite of this one game for batsmen and fielders and set-up men, threat after threat giving way to the third out, weak pop flies, called third strikes, inning after inning, week after week, beards growing long, Christmas coming, summer looping back around on itself, wars ending, babies graduating from college, and there’s ball four to load the bases for the 3,211th time, followed by a routine can of corn to left, the commissioner calling in varsity teams and the stars of girls’ softball squads and Little Leaguers, Archy and Titus sustained all that time in their equally infinite silence, nothing between them at all but three feet of sofa;

How do you build peaks? You create a positive moment with elements of elevation, insight, pride, and/ or connection. We’ll explore those final three elements later, but for now, let’s focus on elevation. To elevate a moment, do three things: First, boost sensory appeal. Second, raise the stakes. Third, break the script. (Breaking the script means to violate expectations about an experience—the next chapter is devoted to the concept.) Moments of elevation need not have all three elements but most have at least two. Boosting sensory appeal is about “turning up the volume” on reality. Things look better or taste better or sound better or feel better than they usually do. Weddings have flowers and food and music and dancing. (And they need not be superexpensive—see the footnote for more.IV) The Popsicle Hotline offers sweet treats delivered on silver trays by white-gloved waiters. The Trial of Human Nature is conducted in a real courtroom. It’s amazing how many times people actually wear different clothes to peak events: graduation robes and wedding dresses and home-team colors. At Hillsdale High, the lawyers wore suits and the witnesses came in costume. A peak means something special is happening; it should look different. To raise the stakes is to add an element of productive pressure: a competition, a game, a performance, a deadline, a public commitment. Consider the pregame jitters at a basketball game, or the sweaty-hands thrill of taking the stage at Signing Day, or the pressure of the oral defense at Hillsdale High’s Senior Exhibition. Remember how the teacher Susan Bedford said that, in designing the Trial, she and Greg Jouriles were deliberately trying to “up the ante” for their students. They made their students conduct the Trial in front of a jury that included the principal and varsity quarterback. That’s pressure. One simple diagnostic to gauge whether you’ve transcended the ordinary is if people feel the need to pull out their cameras. If they take pictures, it must be a special occasion. (Not counting the selfie addict, who thinks his face is a special occasion.) Our instinct to capture a moment says: I want to remember this. That’s a moment of elevation.

No matter how remarkable his behavior was, you always felt that he was detached from it. More than anything else, it was this quality that sometimes scared me away from him. I would get so close to Fanshawe, would admire him so intensely, would want so desperately to measure up to him—and then, suddenly, a moment would come when I realized that he was alien to me, that the way he lived inside himself could never correspond to the way I needed to live. I wanted too much of things, I had too many desires, I lived too fully in the grip of the immediate ever to attain such indifference. It mattered to me that I do well, that I impress people with the empty signs of my ambition: good grades, varsity letters, awards for whatever it was they were judging us on that week. Fanshawe remained aloof from all that, quietly standing in his corner, paying no attention. If he did well, it was always in spite of himself, with no struggle, no effort, no stake in the thing he had done. This posture could be unnerving, and it took me a long time to learn that what was good for Fanshawe was not necessarily good for me.

When I burst into the terminal, my eyes swept around, bouncing from person to person in the crowded, bustling space. My stomach fell a little when I didn’t see him, but I knew he probably couldn’t come this far. He was probably at baggage claim. I looked around for a sign to point me in the right direction and finally saw one labeled Baggage Claim with an arrow pointing off to the left. But I didn’t follow the arrow. My eyes fixed on someone standing beneath the sign. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his well-worn slouchy jeans. The relaxed action pulled the waistband low, highlighting his flat, narrow waist his Henley tee molded to. As usual, he was wearing his varsity jacket and his blond hair was a mess. My gaze locked on his sapphire-blue eyes and didn’t let go. His eyes, ohmigod, his eyes. The blue was so intense it served as an emergency brake on everything in my life. The second I looked at him, everything else came to a screeching halt. I no longer noticed the huge crowd rushing around. The anxiety-causing flight was just a distant memory, and the two weeks I spent longing for his touch became something I would live through ten times over just to be in this moment with him again. His lips pulled into a smile and the charm that oozed from every pore in his body made me almost lightheaded. Romeo pulled his hands out of his pockets and straightened, motioning for me. I rushed across the space separating us, my bag slapping against my side as I, for once, gracefully maneuvered around the people in my path. His chuckle brushed over me when I was just steps away, and I threw myself at him with a little sigh of relief. My legs wrapped around his waist and his arms locked around my back. I burrowed my head into his shoulder and inhaled deep, taking in his distinctive scent. “Rim,” he murmured, his voice low. I pulled back and his lips were on mine instantly. The moment our lips touched, he stilled, his body and mouth pausing against mine. Before I could wonder why, he muttered a garbled curse against my mouth and then his lips began to move. He kissed me softly but fiercely. There was so much possession in the way he kissed me, in the way his arms locked around me that my heart stuttered. I parted my lips so his tongue could sweep inside, and when my tongue met his, desire, hot and heavy, unfurled within me. Someone chuckled as they walked by, and Romeo retreated slightly, still letting his mouth linger on mine before completely pulling away. He rested his forehead against mine and he smiled. “I really fucking missed you.” “Me too,” I whispered. -Romeo & Rimmel

the cotton fields and strawberry patches of a much harsher world whose tragedies and daily burdens had blunted her temperament and quelled her emotions. But its most immediate impact on this teenage girl was not the lack of a demure coquettishness that otherwise might have defined her had she grown up in better circumstances; it was the visible evidence of the hardship of her journey. This was not a pom-pom-waving homecoming queen or a varsity athlete who had toned her body in a local gym. My mother never complained, but it was her struggles that had visibly shaped her shoulders, grown her biceps, and crusted her palms—while in a less visible way narrowing her view of her own long-term horizons. Decades later, when I was in my forties, I suppressed a defensive anger as I watched my mother sit quietly in an expansive waterfront Florida living room while a well-bred woman her age described the supposedly difficult impact of the Great Depression on her family. As the woman told it, the crash on Wall Street and the failed economy had made it necessary for them to ship their car by rail from New York to Florida when they headed south for the winter. Who could predict, she reasoned, whether there would be food or gasoline if their driver had to refuel and dine in the remote and hostile environs of small-town Georgia? My mother merely smiled and nodded, as

What would be the natural thing? A man goes to college. He works as he wants to work, he plays as he wants to play, he exercises for the fun of the game, he makes friends where he wants to make them, he is held in by no fear of criticism above, for the class ahead of him has nothing to do with his standing in his own class. Everything he does has the one vital quality: it is spontaneous. That is the flame of youth itself. Now, what really exists?" "...I say our colleges to-day are business colleges—Yale more so, perhaps, because it is more sensitively American. Let's take up any side of our life here. Begin with athletics. What has become of the natural, spontaneous joy of contest? Instead you have one of the most perfectly organized business systems for achieving a required result—success. Football is driving, slavish work; there isn't one man in twenty who gets any real pleasure out of it. Professional baseball is not more rigorously disciplined and driven than our 'amateur' teams. Add the crew and the track. Play, the fun of the thing itself, doesn't exist; and why? Because we have made a business out of it all, and the college is scoured for material, just as drummers are sent out to bring in business. "Take another case. A man has a knack at the banjo or guitar, or has a good voice. What is the spontaneous thing? To meet with other kindred spirits in informal gatherings in one another's rooms or at the fence, according to the whim of the moment. Instead what happens? You have our university musical clubs, thoroughly professional organizations. If you are material, you must get out and begin to work for them—coach with a professional coach, make the Apollo clubs, and, working on, some day in junior year reach the varsity organization and go out on a professional tour. Again an organization conceived on business lines. "The same is true with the competition for our papers: the struggle for existence outside in a business world is not one whit more intense than the struggle to win out in the News or Lit competition. We are like a beef trust, with every by-product organized, down to the last possibility. You come to Yale—what is said to you? 'Be natural, be spontaneous, revel in a certain freedom, enjoy a leisure you'll never get again, browse around, give your imagination a chance, see every one, rub wits with every one, get to know yourself.' "Is that what's said? No. What are you told, instead? 'Here are twenty great machines that need new bolts and wheels. Get out and work. Work harder than the next man, who is going to try to outwork you. And, in order to succeed, work at only one thing. You don't count—everything for the college.' Regan says the colleges don't represent the nation; I say they don't even represent the individual.

It’s my turn next, and I realize then that I never turned in the name of my escort--because I hadn’t planned on being here. I glance around wildly for Ryder, but he’s nowhere to be seen, swallowed up by the sea of people in cocktail dresses and suits. Crap. I thought he realized that escorting me on court was part of the deal, once I’d agreed to go. I guess he’d figured it’d be easier on me, what with the whole Patrick thing, if I was alone onstage. But I don’t want to be alone. I want Ryder with me. By my side, supporting me. Always. I finally spot him in the crowd--it’s not too hard, since he’s a head taller than pretty much everyone else--and our eyes meet. My stomach drops to my feet--you know, that feeling you get on a roller coaster right after you crest that first hill and start plummeting toward the ground. Oh my God, this can’t be happening. I’ve fallen in love with Ryder Marsden, the boy I’m supposed to hate. And it has nothing to do with his confession, his declaration that he loves me. Sure, it might have forced me to examine my feelings faster than I would have on my own, but it was there all along, taking root, growing, blossoming. Heck, it’s a full-blown garden at this point. “Our senior maid is Miss Jemma Cafferty!” comes the principal’s voice. “Jemma is a varsity cheerleader, a member of the Wheelettes social sorority, the French Honor Club, the National Honor Society, and the Peer Mentors. She’s escorted tonight by…ahem, sorry. I’m afraid there’s no escort, so we’ll just--” “Ryder Marsden,” I call out as I make my way across the stage. “I’m escorted by Ryder Marsden.” The collective gasp that follows my announcement is like something out of the movies. I swear, it’s just like that scene in Gone with the Wind where Rhett offers one hundred and fifty dollars in gold to dance with Scarlett, and she walks through the scandalized bystanders to take her place beside Rhett for the Virginia reel. Only it’s the reverse. I’m standing here doing the scandalizing, and Ryder’s doing the walking. “Apparently, Jemma’s escort is Ryder Marsden,” the principal ad-libs into the microphone, looking a little frazzled. “Ryder is…um…the starting quarterback for the varsity football team, and, um…in the National Honor Society and…” She trails off helplessly. “A Peer Mentor,” he adds helpfully as he steps up beside me and takes my hand. The smile he flashes in my direction as Mrs. Crawford places the tiara on my head is dazzling--way more so than the tiara itself. My knees go a little weak, and I clutch him tightly as I wobble on my four-inch heels. But here’s the thing: If the crowd is whispering about me, I don’t hear it. I’m aware only of Ryder beside me, my hand resting in the crook of his arm as he leads me to our spot on the stage beside the junior maid and her escort, where we wait for Morgan to be crowned queen. Oh, there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow. I have no idea what we’re going to tell our parents. Right now I don’t even care. Just like Scarlett O’Hara, I’m going to enjoy myself tonight and worry about the rest later. After all, tomorrow is another…Well, you know how the saying goes.

I whip off my varsity jacket and help her into it, pulling the collar around her neck. My lips graze hers. I don’t give a fuck what happened with her and Donovan in the basement. She’s my rainbow.

But this pure genius was nowhere to be found when Jordan was young. He was not even the best athlete in his family—older brother Larry was. He was not the hardest worker; he actually had the reputation of being the laziest of his five siblings. In fact, after attending summer basketball camp, Jordan didn’t even make the varsity basketball squad in high school.

He claimed he was on the right track as far as the two kinds of economy people, land versus money. But not city people against us personally. It’s the ones in charge, like government or what have you. They were always on the side of the money-earning people, and down on the land people, due to various factors Tommy mentioned, monetize this, international banking that. The main one I could understand was that money-earning ones pay taxes. Whereas you can’t collect shit on what people grow and eat on the spot, or the work they swap with their neighbors. That’s like a percent of blood from a turnip. So, the ones in charge started cooking it into everybody’s brains to look down on the land people, saying we are an earlier stage of human, like junior varsity or cavemen. Weird-shaped heads. Tommy was watching TV these days, and seeing finally how this shit is everywhere you look. Dissing the country bumpkins, trying to bring us up to par, the long-termed war of trying to shame the land people into joining America. Meaning their version, city. TV being the slam book of all times, maybe everybody in the city was just going along with it, not really noticing the rudeness factors. Possibly to the extent of not getting why we are so fucking mad out here. It took a lot of emails of Tommy telling me how far back it went, this offensive to wedge people off their own holy ground and turn them into wage labor. Before the redneck miner wars, the coal land grabs, the timber land grabs. Whiskey Rebellion: an actual war. George Washington marched the US Army on our people for refusing to pay tax on corn liquor. Which they weren’t even selling for money, mainly just making for neighborly entertainment. How do you get tax money out of moonshine? Answer: You and what army. It goes a ways

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

Child molesters were adults—dirty old men who lured children into their cars with promises of candy and treats. They weren’t A-honor roll students who ran varsity track and went to mass every Sunday.

Attached to the front of his computer screen is a piece of paper bearing a quotation from Michael Jordan: “I failed over and over again in my life, and that is why I succeed.” Gayner likes to remind himself that Jordan didn’t make it onto his varsity basketball team as a sophomore at high school, but then harnessed his “superhuman” work ethic and “sheer willpower” to become one of the greatest players of all time. “You cannot control the outcome,” says Gayner. “You can only control the effort and the dedication and the giving of one hundred percent of yourself to the task at hand. And then whatever happens, happens.

No, but I know your name. You’re a legend at the varsity. James Douglas-Titmore said you once drank five bottles of champagne in an hour.

commandments that we are called to keep; and it is not God generically whom we are to imitate, but Jesus. The literal walking of Jesus and earth-given commandments also contrasts the Gnostic notion of a purely spiritual connection with a heavenly Jesus. 17. While word has a broader connotation than commandments, the terms are practically synonymous. 18. Calvin, quoted in Jason B. Hood, Imitating God in Christ: Recapturing a Biblical Pattern (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2013), 205. 19. Yarbrough, 1–3 John, 88. 20. Luther, “Lectures on the First

Good Lord!" he said, almost aloud, "in one whole year what have I done? I haven't made one single friend, known what one real man was doing or thinking, done anything I wanted to do, talked out what I wanted to talk, read what I wanted to read, or had time to make the friends I wanted to make. I've been nothing but material— varsity material— society material; I've lost all the imagination I had, and know less than when I came; and I'm the popular man—' the big man'— in the class! Great! Is it my fault or the fault of things up here?

Patryck Durham, hailing from Aurora, CO, is more than just an International Baccalaureate graduate; he's a dynamic individual. Achieving a 4.0 Honor Graduate Cord and excelling in activities like Varsity Lacrosse and DECA, Patryck is a team player with a good memory. His leadership in volunteer projects for Boy Scouts reflects his loyalty and sets the stage for success in the business world.

Now I was eyeing the navy-blue varsity jacket hanging off the back of his chair. It was like a flag, announcing who he was: Brett Wells, captain of the football team. Not that I knew anything about him other than the whispers I heard or the checks his parents liked to write. But part of me wondered if he was as nice as everyone said. Or if his relationship history really was nonexistent.

I’ve watched girls drop off varsity tennis teams, flunk out of school, and carve initials or tattoo cult figures onto their bodies—all to see if their dads will notice.

What if we run into them?” I ask. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror and she gives me a small shrug. “You know seeing you has to hurt them too.” She sets the iron down and runs her fingers through my hair. “Elle must be torn up about what she did.” I open my mouth to argue, but Rosie shakes her head. “She’s not a monster. She might be a terrible friend, but we both know somewhere in there she has a heart.” With Rosie and me being so near in age, she was almost as close to Elle as I was. Elle had even encouraged Rosie to try out for the junior varsity cheer squad, and would help her with the routines—something that the previous varsity cheer captain wouldn’t have dreamed of doing.

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Ready?” he asks as he locks the door. Before I can respond, I’m in his arms. The man freaking cradles me as he stalks off to his truck. “Billy.” “Rox.” He stares straight ahead, like this is an everyday occurrence. “You’re being weird.” “You’re pregnant. You’re literally growing a human. I don’t know—it makes me feel fucking protective of you.” “Thank you.” I grab his scruffy face, and he shoots me one of his flirty smiles. “Really.

Are we still fake-dating? Or is this… is this real? Because…” Say it. But he beats me to it. “Because this feels real.” “Yeah.” My voice wavers. “Don’t cry, biscuit.” He palms my face, and in the dim light coming from the streetlamp outside the window, I can make out his handsome face through the tears. “Forget all that fake-dating crap. You’re mine, and I’m yours. This is as real as it’s gonna get.” He takes a deep breath. “I know you said you didn’t think you could fall in love, but maybe you could give me a chance. Give us a chance. Because I’m ass-over-head crazy about you.” Hope blooms in my chest. Even though the room is dark, I’m filled with sunlight. “Are you saying… are you saying you love me?” I hold my breath as I wait for his reply. “I love you so fucking much, it freaks me out,” he says softly as he dries my tears. “I love you too.” In between kisses, I laugh. “I didn’t think I had it in me, but you’ve changed everything.” “Well, I could put it in you.” I snort and playfully smack his shoulder. “You horndog.” “Let’s put blame where it belongs. My dick is the horndog. It has a mind of its own. The rest of me is much more evolved.

Speaking of money, I can pay rent. I talked to the housing office yesterday, and they said I can use the funds allocated for the football house to pay you. I just need you to fill out a form.” I expect her to be happy about the news, but she frowns. “Maybe just give me half of that money and keep the rest.” “Why would I do that?” “Because like Billy said, this place is a mess, and you’re not getting any of the amenities you had at the football house.” Fucking Billy. “Think of it as both of us investing our money in something for the twins.” She thinks about that a moment. “Really?” “Yes, really.” Before I forget, I grab a notepad off the counter. “I’m going to get groceries later. Why don’t you jot down whatever you want me to get?” “I don’t need anything.” This woman is going to kill me. “What do you plan on eating this week?” She shrugs. “Ham and cheese on crackers. Some soup. Why?” “You need more than that. You’re gestating two babies, Magnolia. You can’t treat yourself like a starving college student.” “I just… I can’t pay you back right away.” Did I not just offer to pay her rent and she was trying to return half of it? She’s making me insane. “I don’t expect you to pay me anything. I want to get us groceries because we need them. I’m in training and burn a shit ton of calories. You’re pregnant and need to eat more than a damn Triscuit.” “Why are you raising your voice at me? I’m doing the best I can. Half the time I can’t eat anything because it comes right back up, so what’s the point? I’ll try to eat something later, okay?” She storms off and slams her bedroom door.

He watches me undress with hooded eyes. “Don’t distract me with those looks, mister.” “I can’t help that you’re hot as fuck.” He reaches down again and does something that makes him groan. “Even with this bump?” I turn sideways and show off my slight belly. “Definitely. Come here.” He reaches for me and leans up to kiss my stomach as I tangle my fingers through his hair. “Baby Bean, you need to sleep for the next two hours. And don’t listen to a thing I say to your mama. That’s not for your innocent little ears.” Oh my God, he’s adorable.

As I walk Sienna to her car, she squeals. “Holy crap, is that Rider Kingston?” Without my permission, my gaze slides across the street to the oversized man-child, who has the gall to be moving furniture shirtless while flexing his stupid abs. Judging by the other sweaty minions pouring out of the two-story, Rider’s getting new roommates too. My eye twitches again, and my focus snaps back to Sienna. “I thought you said you weren’t a fan of football.” “Oh, I’m not. I can’t sit through an entire game. But I am a fan of football players.” Her gaze turns ravenous as she scans my neighbor’s front lawn. Or, likely, the glistening eight-pack Rider’s put on display. “All that testosterone. Those bulging muscles. That deep, masculine grunting. Oh, yeah. Get me one of those!” She cackles, and Rider hears it. Of course he does. Shockingly, he deigns to speak to me. “Hey, Gabby,” he shouts. “How was your summer?” I’m not sure when he decided to stop ignoring me, but that’s better than pretending we’re friends, which we’ll never be. I close my eyes because I don’t need any reminders of his masculine beauty. And I definitely don’t need to see that sexy smirk, the one more powerful than his cannon that took the team to the playoffs last year. No, I’m not interested in the star quarterback. Not anymore.

When I turn, I find that Ben is still talking to Gabby down the street and clench my jaw. What the hell does he want with her? Blonde hair pops into my vision, and I barely have time to school my expression before Miranda leaps up, wrapping all of her tanned limbs around me like a koala bear. “Whoa.” I laugh half-heartedly. Guess I won’t be locking myself in my room for a nap. Grabbing Miranda’s bikini-clad ass with both of my hands, I hoist her over my shoulder, and she squeals so loudly, my ear rings. Everyone on my yard stops to stare. The guys take a long look at this girl’s rear, which wiggles against my shoulder. I don’t even have it in me to glare. Mira and I have always had fun, but we have an agreement—nothing serious. Ever. That’s why it works between us. Because I have never felt that pull toward her, and she never wants more. My eyes dart to Gabby across the street, still talking to fucking Ben.

Ooof.” “Dude, why’d you stop?” “Oh. Damnnn.” I turn around and stare at five zombie football players. Who are actually football players. See, Sienna. I totally could’ve been a teacher tonight! I squint at the guy in the back whose familiar scowl I recognize. “Ben?” He does that thing with his chin that’s supposed to pass for a greeting. I’m really tired of how my brother’s turned into a raging asshole. Our parents would be so disappointed by his lack of manners. “How’s it going, Gabs?” My heart drops at the sound of that voice. Rider Kingston. Of fucking course. Because being on a second date means I have to run into this man. My attention goes straight to those criminally beautiful gray eyes fringed with dark lashes. Even with zombie makeup, the man is ridiculously handsome. I want to punch him in his pretty face.

This is fucking bullshit!” I slip my feet into my fluffy slippers, pull my robe closed, and march across the street. As I bang on the front door, it flings open. There are at least a half-dozen naked women traipsing across the room, gyrating on beefy athletes and doing God knows what. My eyes dart to the sound system, and since I’ve given into my inner psycho, I head straight to it and yank the plug out of the wall. The silence makes everyone look up, and I realize I’m staring at my brother, who looks horrified to see me. And then I realize why and turn away before I hurl. Because the girl down on her knees in front of him is obviously not praying. Jesus, I’m gonna need so much therapy one day. I clear my throat and address the crowd at large. “Some people have to work tomorrow, assholes. Can you keep it the fuck down? Stop terrorizing this neighborhood. The world does not revolve around you and your dumb football games!” I’m screeching. I can’t help it. I’m half-asleep and so hungry I’m nauseous. My eyelids flutter. God, I feel woozy. It’s almost like… Almost like… that time I passed out. Oh, shit. Am I going to pass out again? I can’t remember the last time I ate. Jason and I were supposed to get dinner, which turned into soggy nachos from the gas station, which I passed on. I blink. And blink again. Everything feels fuzzy, like it’s wrapped in film. I don’t even care that Jason is here, and he’s missing clothes. “Shit, Gabby. This isn’t what it looks like.” Ignoring him, I stumble to what I think is the front door, lean against it, and close my eyes. I want to tell Jason to leave me alone, except I’m afraid I’m going to drop to the floor if I let go of the doorframe. Then I hear the little cry. It sounds like a baby. And that’s when I know I must be losing my mind.

I’m okay. I usually try to forget all of that stuff, but with Poppy being in this situation, I felt I had to speak up, you know?” “You did the right thing,” Bree says. “Those dumbasses will thank you someday.” Rider coughs dramatically, and Bree smirks. “Yeah, you heard me right back there.” I glance behind me and see Rider’s lips tugging up. Bree nudges me. “How’d you end up doing so well in school given everything you went through? Going through foster care? Not having parents?” “I kept to myself mostly.” I shrug. “School and studying were always safe. Books don’t level you with a backhand to the face or a kick to the ribs.” When I see the horrified look on her face, I cringe. “Bree, I survived. A lot of other kids have it worse. Which is why I’m really glad we’re protecting Poppy.” She stops to hug me, and I smile. I’ve had so few hugs in my life, I forgot how good they feel. She sniffles and waves her hand at me. “Ignore me. I’m not crying.” Over her shoulder, I catch Rider’s fierce expression, but I don’t want his sympathy. I don’t need anybody’s sympathy.

Gabs, can we talk a second?” He clears his throat. Nothing good ever follows that statement. I brace myself for what’s sure to be an awkward conversation. “I just want to apologize for our… misunderstanding freshman year.” I’m silent for a moment, but the rush of anger that spikes my pulse has me responding before I think better of it. “You’d call it a misunderstanding, huh?” I roll my eyes. “Funny, I didn’t think I misunderstood anything, but if you want to mansplain it to me now, go for it.” Why make this easy for him? It’s always been difficult for me to make friends, but for some reason, Rider slipped through my defenses. I was assigned to tutor him in English. I remember meeting him in the library, and the shy smile he gave me. He was embarrassed to need help. It was the most endearing thing I’d ever seen, and I swear when he leveled me with those big gray eyes, the ground fell out beneath me. I’m a practical girl, but foster care made me cynical, and ending up with my aunt did nothing to help my outlook on life. But Rider was funny and sweet, not to mention ridiculously good-looking, and I went over faster than a felled log in a forest. This was before he was the golden boy of the football team. When he was just this guy Rider from some speck-of-dust small Texas town like me. Even though he rode the bench, I went to all of his games, and we’d grab pizza afterward and talk until late in the night. Although he didn’t outright say it, I knew he had a rough home life. He mentioned that his father was an ass. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and make it better. And I thought I meant something to him. That what we had was special. Until he became the starting quarterback.

He runs his hand through his hair. “It’s just that I needed to focus on football. I had all this pressure, and—” “And you wanted to sleep around and fuck all the pretty girls while you weren’t playing. I totally get it. And I was just some little virgin who couldn’t possibly comprehend your need to sow your wild oats. See? No misunderstanding at all.” “Jesus, Gabby, it wasn’t like that.

But when my ex opens the door, her somber expression and baggy sweats do not suggest we’re about to roll around naked. Nor does the toddler asleep on the bed behind her. I’m frozen as Janelle wraps her arms around me in a hug. “I’ve missed you,” she coos in a baby voice. I would not consider myself the paragon of virtue, but there’s no way I’m doing kinky shit with my ex while a kid sleeps a few feet away. I’ve never seen her baby before. When I found out Janelle’s new guy had knocked her up, I did my best to eradicate thoughts of her from my life. It was too painful to see her move on when she’d promised me that future. I only vaguely inquire about her through my cousin Bianca when I plan trips home so I can avoid my ex. As I take a good long look at the sleeping bundle, I stop breathing. Ernest has blond hair. And Janelle has light brown. My eyes are lasered on the kid, who has thick, black hair. Much like mine. Sweat breaks out on my body, and a giant lump forms in my throat. I cough. “What the fuck is going on?” Janelle wrings her hands, tears forming in her eyes. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Why I needed to do this in person. It’s long overdue.” But like all truly messed-up things in my life, I know the answer to my question before the words are out of her mouth. “She’s yours, Ben.” 3 BEN A suffocating, twisting blackness spreads through me as I stare at this woman I once loved.

Really don’t want Ramirez to beat the shit out of me, so I get it. That’s fine. But I’m starving, and I figure you are too. Cam and I want to take you and Rox out.” He holds out his hands. “Just as friends. I swear.” “Trust me, Jake won’t care.” It’s like we were never friends. My eyes sting, but I can’t be upset with him. I did this to myself. I was too chicken to tell him how I felt in high school, and I only compounded everything when I left NTU without talking to him first. “I don’t know about that.” Billy’s voice lowers. “Aww, hell, Chuck. Don’t cry.” I sniffle and blink several times. “I’m not crying. It’s allergies.” Jake stops playing with Asher to glance over at us, and my heart sinks at the cold expression on his face. There are icebergs in the Arctic warmer than the look he gives me. Billy makes that humming noise again before he slips his beefy arm over my shoulders. “Doesn’t care, huh? I might regret this later, but how ’bout we give him something to care about?” “What?” That’s when the doofus pulls me into his chest and kisses me out of the blue. There’s no tongue, thank God. Just the hard press of his bristly mouth against mine. It’s fine, I guess. When he pulls away, he smacks his lips. “You taste minty.” I sigh, and it’s not because he swept me off my feet. “That was my first kiss.” I don’t mention I was saving it for someone special. His eyes widen. “Like, ever?” “Yes, and now I need to go home and write about it in my diary,” I say sarcastically before I turn to pack my gear, a little upset my first kiss wasn’t more magical.

Did you do this on purpose? Did you know Jake would be here?” “Remember how I said Jake cares?” “Yes.” “If you could see his expression right now, you’d believe me, but don’t look now or you’ll ruin the moment. Keep staring into my eyes. Make me believe you like me.” “Don’t make this weird.” He studies me so intently, it makes me uncomfortable. “If you just had some confidence, Chuck, you’d be a stone-cold fox. You have gorgeous eyes. A beautiful face. A hot little body. A sassy personality that bites back when provoked. All good things. How’s that for weird?” My face heats, and I look away, another awkward chuckle leaving my lips. “Stop pretending you like me.” “I’m not pretending at all. I’d totally fuck you through your headboard if given the opportunity, but I get the feeling you’re into someone else.” Ugh. “Roxy told you?” “She didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. You don’t give me those sad puppy dog eyes. Ramirez is the lucky bastard, huh?” I brave a glance at his table. The blonde has her hand on Jake’s arm. He’s smiling at her, and she laughs.

It takes all of my strength to stay standing. I’ve won a lot of football games. Thrown the winning touchdown in my high school state championship. Just won a national college championship. But I’m not sure anything has felt as good as when Roxy, who’s still impaled on me, opens her sleepy eyes, takes my face in her small hands, and kisses me long and slow under the hot water. It’s in this moment I realize how much I’ve been lying to myself. About everything. Because this thing with Roxy? It’s anything but fake. Now I just need to prove to her I’m the kind of man she can count on.

Sensitive people, it seems, are the varsity athletes of empathy.

My mom must be loving this stupid show. If I had to guess, she thinks I deserve whatever public humiliation Dakota levels at me. Because without me, one of them had to step up and actually take care of Asher. Which, according to Jake, they blew off once he broke up with my sister. What’s that saying? Birds of a feather? My mom and Kota are both spoiled brats. It’s probably no surprise they’re super tight. They were always whispering, always keeping things from me. Always hoarding secrets I wasn’t privy to. Always making me feel like a third wheel in my own freaking family.

Dad lets out a sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Well, did you ask Billy to explain what’s going on?” “He said it’s not what I think it is. That he would never cheat on me. But he was so cagey and weird, and when I asked him to prove it by showing me the messages on his phone, he looked like a deer in headlights. It was like dating Ezra all over again.” I freeze when my father’s eyes snap to mine. Oh, shit. I slap my hand over my mouth and frantically shake my head. “No. Forget I said that last part.” He braces his arms on the table and looks down. We sit in silence for several minutes. “I wondered if Ezra was Marley’s father. She has his dark hair. And Billy punched him in the face. The better I got to know Billy, the more I realized he wasn’t just a loose cannon, that he must’ve had a good reason for doing that, but I didn’t want to believe the kid I treated like my own son would get you pregnant and then bail on you.” Finally, he looks at me. “I’m assuming you told Ezra the truth?” It’s a sad day when my father wonders whether I told the father of my baby I was pregnant. After how I behaved back then, I guess I deserve that doubt. “Of course.” “And he didn’t want to be involved?” “His response was basically, ‘Fuck no, I don’t want a baby.’” I take a deep breath. “Swear to me you won’t say anything. Because I promised Ezra I wouldn’t tell you the truth if he dropped the charges against Billy.

Laughing, I slide down Rider. I’m still pressed to his hard body when I look up. He thrusts a possessive hand into my hair, and three years of pent-up lust and longing rush over me as his mouth crashes into mine.

A few minutes later, we stumble into his bedroom. He kicks the door shut behind us and shoves me up against it. With a hand fisted in my hair and another on my rear, he kisses me like we’re on the eve of the apocalypse. Keeping time with the pounding of my heart, the floor vibrates with the beat from the music downstairs. I strain against him, trying to get closer. Needing to be closer. Wanting to feel him move through me.` This is what was missing in my other relationship. This unquenchable fire that feels like Rider and I could burn down the whole house with the electricity sparking between us. And tonight, I want to burn.

So do beautiful women dating pieces of shit like Cal Winston. I pinch the bridge of my nose, irritated I have to play another year of football with that asshole. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not mad at Sienna. How could I ever be mad at her? She’s like a damn sunflower, all cheery and gorgeous and perfect. I vaguely remember her from freshman year, but until she moved in with my sister, we never ran in the same circle of friends. In retrospect, I’m a dumbass for not making a point to get to know her because she’s fucking spectacular. She has thick, dark hair and light brown eyes. An off-the-charts smile. A tight little body. A great personality. Literally the stuff of my fantasies. It took everything in me not to tell her Winston was likely planning to fuck a horde of women the second she steps on an airplane tonight.

Weights clank in a backdrop beat to the rock music on the stereo. I should be thinking about this weekend’s game, but my thoughts keep straying to my outing last Sunday afternoon with Charlie. To the way her eyes danced when she got determined to skate. To the adorable way she clung to me when she needed help. To her cute little ass in those cutoffs. I close my eyes, hating how conflicted I feel. No one ever believes me when I say that Charlotte and I have always been just friends. Only that somehow feels wrong now. I’m not sure what’s changed on my end. Maybe it’s because we’re living together and I see her every day? Maybe it’s because dragging her out of that fire scared the fuck out of me? Or maybe it’s because she feels like my best friend again, and lately I’ve been wondering what it would be like if we were… more? And when I thought she was going to wipe out? My heart was in my throat as I sprinted to catch her. When I remember how she looked at me in the park, my whole body heats. Fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking about Charlie like this. Because going there with her right now seems like a really bad idea. I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved with anyone this year. There’s too much on the line.

Charlotte tugs on my jersey. “Do you mind if I take some pics tonight?” she yells over the stereo system, which is blasting our classic rock warmup playlist. “’Course not. Do your thing.” She gives me one of those lingering smiles that makes me wonder if my mom is right. If Charlotte has had feelings for me since high school. I watch her walk away. She’s wearing some cutoffs that make her ass look amazing and her slender legs long. “Just friends, huh?” Billy elbows me hard. “Best rethink that.” “Why are you always pestering me?” He holds a hand over his heart. “You wound me, bro. I’m trying to be a good person. Which means I’m not making a move on your girl like I want to.” I don’t even bother arguing that she’s not my girl. Because Charlotte feels like she’s mine. Fuck it. I’m done debating this. I’m going after what I really want.

That’s when the blonde stands up and whips around, her ponytail flying. Stunned blue eyes meet mine. Eyes that look exactly like my son’s. And my ex’s. What the fuck? I open my mouth. Close it. It probably takes me a full minute before I can say anything. “Charlotte?” I’m so shocked, I almost drop Asher. “What the hell are you doing here?” She flinches like I’ve slapped her, and I’m suddenly so fucking mad at her for how she disappeared, I can barely breathe. How does your best friend of five years up and leave without a word? Why couldn’t she tell me what was going on? Leave me a message. Something. Anything. Even if it was to tell me to fuck off. When she doesn’t say anything, I turn to leave. I can’t do this.

As we walk through downtown Charming toward the diner, I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and study Rider out of my peripheral vision. He’s carrying Poppy in a front-facing body sling. She’s clapping and kicking and utterly excited to be on this outing. The two of them are quite a sight, and everyone we pass, women especially, takes their time perusing this sexy male specimen. I turn away, chiding myself for wanting to look. Technically, I should be able to stare at Rider unabashedly, especially after our conversation this morning and what we did to each other last night, but I’m a little leery of letting on exactly how much I like him. He can reassure me with words, but I still consider him a flight risk. Maybe less than he was freshman year, but I need more time to see if he means what he says. Being with Rider is like circling the sun, wondering how close I can get before I get burned.

When we’re done, he motions toward my plate. “Are you doing better with your hypoglycemia?” I pause. We’ve never discussed the details of what happened last May, but he must have overheard me talking to the paramedics that day. “Is that why you always try to feed me? First the pizza and now waffles.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “I don’t know. Maybe. Is that wrong?” “No, it’s sweet. But I’m doing better. I haven’t had any episodes since the night we found Poppy. That was the last time I felt dizzy. I went too long without eating. It was an accident, really.” “What happened?” “A bad date.” “That dick Jason didn’t feed you?” I laugh at Rider’s intensity. “Jason’s idea of dinner was nachos from that gas station, which I passed on. That’s how I ended up light-headed later. But unless you’re planning on taking me on a bad date, we should be good.” Rider gives me a wolfish grin. “I plan on doing a lot of things with you. Bad dates aren’t one of them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. Gabby. She’s sitting at the bar, slowly stirring her drink, looking like she’d rather be getting a root canal. Her thick black hair is down, and she’s wearing this shimmery little dress that hugs her curves. When she looks up, our eyes lock, and just for a second it’s hard to breathe. Damn. She’s beautiful. Despite the fact that we’re neighbors, I haven’t seen her much this semester. I swear, she’s hotter every time I see her, which seems impossible. But despite having some damn good reasons for creating space between us, I’m tempted to cross the bar to talk to her. Then he walks up to her, that scumbag I inadvertently introduced her to when I called for the ambulance last May. But what was I supposed to do? Let her lie there on the concrete, pale, passed out, and bleeding, and not do anything? How was I to know Jason would show up like a fucking white knight? Nothing that day went right. They told me I’d just missed her at the hospital when I tried to track her down and make sure she was okay, and when I went to her place, she slammed the door in my face. She doesn’t see him yet, but Jason leans in to whisper in her ear. She arches away, clearly uncomfortable, and I realize I’ve made a fist. He’d better not be fucking with her. If this is what she wants, cool. I don’t have to like it, but making the moves on a woman who’s not interested is another thing. It’s been at least a month since I saw him ask her out. Have they been dating all this time?

Ah. Our lovely neighbor.” He coughs dramatically. “That’s Ben’s sister. In case you need a reminder. Bro code and all.” “I’m not making a move on Gabby.” I’ll never make a move on her. Just being near her makes me want to toss her over my shoulder and carry her back to my place caveman-style. That’s reason enough to avoid her like the plague. My reaction to her has always been too strong, and I don’t need to test my control when I have too much on the line this year. I can face three-hundred-pound linemen and not bat an eye, but something about this woman makes me want to run before I do anything stupid. It’s baffling.

clear my throat. “So you like Greg?” “What’s it to you?” The chill in Maggie’s voice makes Siberia sound tropical. “Just making idle chitchat.” “No need. You can go back to ignoring me.” I face her. “When have I ever, in the history of you and me, ever ignored you?” She rolls her eyes. “Perhaps ‘ignore’ isn’t the right word. Maybe I should say you avoid me.” “I don’t avoid you.” “Sure. Let’s go with that.” The parents are now dancing with the bride and groom. We have a minute, so I grab Magnolia’s elbow and tug her into a nearby hall. “What’s your problem?” “My problem?” she hisses. “Didn’t you know? It’s always been you. You have some damn nerve, acting like you and Vanessa didn’t keep me up half the night. Pretending you didn’t know your room was right next door to mine.” I still, my feet rooted to the ground. “What are you talking about? Vanessa left last night.” She scoffs. “Someone was howling, ‘oh, Daddy, hit it harder’ on the other side of my wall. I seem to recall you had that room. In fact, I saw you open that door this morning, half-clothed, so don’t lie.” Oh, shit. I laugh, relieved as hell, now that I understand why her feathers are all ruffled. “Michael Oliver, don’t you dare laugh at me.” Her face is flushed, and she looks like she might deck me. She’s beautiful in her fury. Ready to bust me up if I’m not careful. Makes me want to kiss the hell out of her. I hold up both hands. “Just listen, okay?

An hour later, I’m on my way home when I can’t fucking stand it any longer. I haven’t a clue what I’ll say to Magnolia if she picks up, but I want to try one last time. I pull over to the side of the road and, with my heart in my throat, dial her name. Four rings later, someone picks up. “Maggie, don’t hang up. Please hear me out.” A deep, masculine voice clears his throat. “Is this Michael?” “Who the fuck is this?” He snickers. “Just a friend. Listen, Imma do you a solid. This is not Maggie’s number.” I freeze and try to process his words. I double-check who I dialed, and sure enough, it’s Maggie’s contact info on the screen of my phone. “What do you mean? I’ve left her a million messages. Were they all going to you?” “Yup. And I gotta say, your night sounded hot as hell.” He lets out a whistle. “But I think your girl Maggie got her one-and-done and ghosted ya.” I’m going to be sick. “She didn’t give me her number.” “See? Case in point.” “No, that’s not what I mean. Her brother gave me her number. And I guess… I guess I punched it in wrong. Or I misheard. I don’t fucking know except it’s been weeks now. Jesus, if she wasn’t pissed at me before, she is now.

Tough cojones, brother. Listen, by any chance are you Michael Oliver, the running back on the team? You go by the nickname Olly?” I close my eyes and tilt my head back. Great. Just what I need now. For my dirty laundry to be aired out across town. “Who wants to know?” “Just a fan. I’m Samuel, by the way. I think we had bio together freshman year.” “Hey, man. How’s it going?” It takes every ounce of energy in my body to be friendly. “By the sound of it, better than you. Hey, we’re having a little shindig over here tonight. Wanna come over and toss back some beer?” Fuck it. “Yeah. Sure. Think you might want to help me figure out how to win back a girl who probably hates my guts by now?” A deep chuckle rumbles out of the phone. “I’m a plotting master. Get your ass over here, and we’ll figure it out.” 18 MAGGIE

The final result definitely has my attention. Even my dick sits up and takes notice of Sienna. She’s lean and toned everywhere. Sleek. Her breasts might be on the smaller side, but it fits her gorgeous body. She’s like a sculpture. A goddess. All I can think is that I’d like to take her sweet nipples in my mouth and lave them with my tongue. I can only hope she knows what Destiny said was bullshit. Because her body is perfection. Much like her sunny personality. Here’s the truth. A lot of women are beautiful, but it’s what’s on the inside that takes someone to the next level. There I go, sounding like some Hallmark shit.

I just want a bag of ice for my shoulder, three ibuprofen, my bed, and silence for the next eight to ten hours. I’m in my Jeep, halfway home, when I realize I still have to pick up Poppy. Fuck. I smack the steering wheel with my fist. Guilt instantly floods me for resenting my daughter. This is not who I want to be. Another layer of shame settles over me when I realize I have no idea where she is right now. I left the details of who would be taking care of her today with Gabby, and while I trust her, being an absentee parent sounds just as bad as a negligent one. Get your shit together, man. I pull over next to the curb and turn on my phone, which I always shut off before a game. Although with Poppy in my life now, I probably shouldn’t do that anymore

Her eyes meet mine. “What exactly do you want, Rider?” My throat feels tight. I take a breath. For some crazy reason, I feel like I’m trying to throw for a touchdown. “Just… I need us to be friends again. I miss you, Gabby, and I regret how I treated you. And with everything with Poppy, I’m being reminded of how amazing you are.” I shrug. “I miss our friendship. Don’t you?” My heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of my chest with that confession. “And that’s all you want?” she asks warily. “Friendship?” Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know. “That’s all I have time for right now.” Do I miss our friendship? Absolutely. Do I want to fuck her until I can’t walk anymore? Definitely. Can I handle anything beyond sex right now while I juggle all the other shit in my life? Probably not. So yeah, I guess I’d better keep my damn hands to myself. “And you’re not going to ghost me again?” she asks. The vulnerability in her voice kills me, and I reach for her hand again. “Because it sucked to open up to you about being in foster care only for you to disappear on me.” I close my eyes. Christ. No wonder she thinks I’m a douchebag. “I promise I won’t disappear again. You’re officially stuck with me now.

I’m already feeling vulnerable around him. Especially after our talk last night. Seeing him like this, first thing in the morning with that sleepy look in his eyes, makes me want to crawl into his lap and do naughty things. Poppy giggles and claps. I’m holding his baby. Right. “Wanna see your daddy? Hmm?” I kiss her on the forehead and lean over Rider, who sits up to take his daughter. “Hey, cutie pie.” He peppers her with kisses and she laughs. “I have to tell you guys that having a kid is so fu—freaking surreal.” As he snuggles her to his chest, his face turns up to me. “How’d she sleep?” “Great. She only woke up twice. I gave her a bottle and patted her butt, and she knocked out again.” “Sorry. You could’ve woken me to do that.

Honestly? I think when you find someone you really want to be with, you don’t need to have ‘the talk.’ If you find the right woman, it would kill you to hook up with anyone else.” She shrugs. “Maybe I want someone who is certain about me and doesn’t need to wait for that kind of conversation to commit to me. Because in his heart, he knows what he wants and goes for it.” God, she’s beautiful. I love this woman’s spirit. Suddenly, he spies me in the background. “What the fuck? Are you dating Kingston now?” He glances at me. “No offense, man. Great game yesterday, by the way. Killer second half.” Christ. This guy. Gabby shakes her head. “Who I’m dating is really none of your business, but he and I are neighbors.” He must see something in my eyes because his narrow. “How can you be with him and not me? He probably fucked a different girl every night last week.” Excuse me, dickhead. I fucked my hand every night last week, thank you very much.

Guess I should go.” He kisses Poppy on her forehead, and she makes a sound of contentment. She kisses him back but ends up slobbering all over his cheek until he laughs. “Be a good girl, okay? Don’t give Gabs trouble at naptime.” He’s standing so close, I get a good whiff of his shampoo or body wash. Whatever it is, it smells masculine and clean, and I’d like to rub my face against his chest. I don’t, obviously. “Kick Oklahoma’s ass.” I look up at him, and when our eyes connect, electricity runs through my limbs. My heart thumps hard in my chest. “Call me if you need anything,” he says. It isn’t until he speaks that I realize I’m staring at his lips. “We’ll be fine. Go.” Before I scale you like Mount Everest. Stepping away, I take a breath, and then another. When I shut the door behind him, I collapse back against it while Poppy clings to me. I look up to find Sienna staring at me. “Holy shit. I almost got pregnant watching you two just now. I’ll be right back. Gonna go take my birth control.” She’s convinced Rider and I are going to end up naked together. As tempting as that sounds, I’m not sure I could handle one of Rider’s drive-bys. If we have sex, I’ll get attached and get my heart broken all over again.

He’s wearing an old, dark gray t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest and strains at his biceps, tapering at his slender waist. His faded jeans mold to his muscular thighs. He’s sex on a stick. And I’m ready for a serving. Am I hungry? I cock an eyebrow at him. “Depends. What’s on the menu?” His gray eyes smolder as he stares at me. He takes my hand, pulls me against him, bites my ear gently and whispers, “Then let’s get an appetizer,” before he leads me back to the living room where music washes over us as we melt into the crowd. At first I’m confused. Did I not just blatantly hit on the man? Admittedly, I’ve never done that before, but I thought my message was pretty straightforward. But then he stops in the middle of the room and wraps me in his arms. Oh. He wants to dance. Speaking of missing clues… Like I’m a middle schooler at her first dance, my heart melts. Rider wants to dance. With me. Don’t catch all the feelings, Gabriela. Just enjoy tonight. My pulse ratchets up as I hold up a finger, chug the rest of my beer, and toss the empty cup into the large bin in the corner. I step up to him. His hands grip my waist. I stare at the wall of man in front of me. He laughs, his voice deep and sultry. “Are you going to touch me or are you waiting for an invitation?” For some reason, that makes me respond like a smartass. “Do I need an invitation?” He shakes his head. “Not at all. You can touch me anytime you want.

It’s dark enough that stars peek through the clouds and so cold I can see my breath, but this is the most settled I’ve felt in months. “Thank you, Billy. I feel better.” We turn so our knees are touching. “If you had dated me instead of Ezra, we could be doing this all the time. Actually, there’s a lot more we could be doing.” He shoots me a flirty smirk. I snort. “I’d hate to curtail your extra-curricular activities.” I love Billy, but his reputation is worse than Ezra’s. His nickname is Billy Bigcock. Can’t get much more obvious than that.

I change the channel before I hurl. After a few minutes, I settle back and watch Friends while I wait for Billy. But by the time he knocks on the door, I’m a hot mess. When I answer the door, his eyebrows furrow as he looks me over. Before I can say anything, he opens his arms and I rush into them. “What happened, my little biscuit?” he asks as he squeezes me in a tight hug. Tears burn my eyes, and I push my face into his chest. “I don’t know. One minute I was fine, and the next, this commercial came on about baby food. And the baby was hungry and started to cry, and…” “And that made you cry.” I nod against him as more tears flow down my face. “I know that sounds crazy, but now everything makes me cry. I want my hard shell back.

He pulls up to the medical complex, and I gather my bag. “Thanks for the ride. You can just drop me off. I’ll call an Uber home.” Ignoring me, he parks. I reach for the door handle, but he puts a hand on my elbow. “Can you give me a minute?” “I don’t know why I said all that crap. Just ignore me, okay? I’m hormonal and hungry. I can’t explain why else I feel possessive about you. I have no right to feel that way.” Finally, I brave a look at him. His blue eyes are dark and positively feral. I suck in a breath as he reaches for me and crashes my mouth to his.

Cam motions to me. “You have murder in your eyes, bro.” “Pretty much what I was fantasizing about just now, but I’m trying to avoid jail time before the draft.” Laughing, he nods. “Solid decision.” He lowers his voice. “How did Roxy’s appointment go?” Cam is the only one of our friends besides Charlotte and Jake who knows Rox is pregnant. A smile erupts on my face. “It was crazy. She had the nurse call me into her exam room at the end to see the ultrasound. I got to hear the heartbeat. It was just whirring away.” I hold my hand over my chest because that moment will go down as one of the coolest in my life. “She’s due in August.” “Girl or boy?” “Too early to tell. It looks like a bean, though.” I hold my fingers apart by a centimeter. “Like this big.” “Y’all gonna make it official or keep pretending you’re just friends?” “We’re definitely not ‘just friends,’ and I think she’s starting to figure it out.” He smacks me on the back. “Happy for you.” His eyes travel across the room to Ezra, but his voice lowers to a whisper. “You’re obviously a better candidate than that jackass.

Roxanne, I’m so disappointed in you. I don’t even have words,” Coach’s voice booms. Suddenly, I forget that I’m sleep-deprived, dizzy, and irritable. Did Rox finally tell him she’s knocked up? When she doesn’t say anything, it sounds like he bangs on the desk. “Who’s the damn father? I want a name.” I glance around, looking for that weasel dick Ezra, but he’s conveniently MIA. “I’m going to ask you again,” Coach bellows. “Who’s. The. Father?” Silence. “Roxanne, do you even know who the father is?” He did not fucking ask her that. Then I hear it. The weeping. I don’t make a conscious decision to go in there, but next thing I know, I’m standing in front of Coach, ready to remove his head from his body. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that.” I must have a death wish. Roxy has her face in her hands. Leaning down, I pull her into my arms. “It’ll be okay, biscuit. Stop crying.” She wraps her arms around my waist and sobs against my chest as I glare at her dad. Like an angry bull, his nostrils flare. “You.” That’s all he says. He’s doing some kind of deep breathing thing that makes me think he might keel over and die. Which would be bad. I might hate him sometimes, but I know he’s a good guy. Deep, deep down. “Coach, it’s not the end of the world. Women have babies every day.” “I should’ve known.” That Roxy would get pregnant? “Coach, you need to calm down before you say something you regr—” “You fucking did this.” Me? “You’re the one who made her cry.” He points at me. “You got my daughter pregnant.” I freeze. I don’t budge an inch. He thinks I did this? That I knocked up this gorgeous girl and let her come in here to give him the news by herself? What kind of asshole does he take me for? The biggest kind. Of course he thinks I’m the culprit. Not Ezra, who’s been cheating on his high school girlfriend for years and kisses Coach’s ass at every opportunity.