The backs and receivers, the linemen, both defensive and offensive, form their own close-knit groups. They can talk strategy and technique among themselves and often hang out together. Quarterbacks? I don’t hang out or commiserate with the backups. There’s only one QB who gets the job, while the others warm the bench and wait for a chance to take over.

I’m lucky in the fact that our team is close. Coach makes sure we are. But as I sit alone on the bus to Florida, surrounded by the deep rumble of my guys chatting it up, the gulf between them and me stretches wide. Which is f**king maudlin and stupid and annoys me. I have no reason to feel lonely. Any second now, Gray will be tossing his ass into the seat next to me to talk my ear off. And if not Gray, someone else will. I know this. Only it isn’t enough right now.

Outside my window, the landscape blurs by in streaks of brown grass, blue sky, and gray road. All I want to do is turn the bus around. I want it so badly that my stomach hurts.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over the afflicted area.

The seat next to me dips with a squeak. “You’re not my type, Baylor,” says Dex.

I push myself out of my slouch. “Good thing,” I quip, “you’d snap me like a twig.”

He chuckles. “You know it.”

Three hundred pounds of pure muscle and quick speed, he really could snap me in two. But he’s the least aggressive guy I know.

He offers me a stick of beef jerky out of the bag he’s demolishing, and I shake my head.

“What’s doin’, Battle?” His gray eyes scan my face as if he’s seeing under my skin. “You seem…subdued.”

Keen powers of observation and constant awareness of his surroundings are what make Dex an excellent center. But I’m not appreciating those skills now. I’m thinking of Anna, who kissed my bruises with a tenderness that made my heart flip over in my chest before she sucked my c**k until I lost my mind. Anna who, with her plain speaking and fierce declarations, gave me back a piece of my pride. Anna, who still won’t kiss me on the mouth or let me kiss hers.

I want to be with her so badly right now, to claim that mouth once and for all, it takes effort to respond with a calm voice. “As compared to who? Rolondo?” I glance at the man in question, who is currently showing off his new touchdown victory dance in the aisle. “Or maybe Lloyd?” I give a nod toward the massive defensive end sleeping in the seat across from us. A line of drool hangs from his lips, and Marshall—running back and all around knucklehead—is leaning over him, dangling a dirty shoelace before Lloyd’s nose. That won’t end well.

Dex snorts at the antics but isn’t deterred. He turns his attention back to me. “I mean subdued for you.”

During the games, it’s his job to watch over not only my ass but also every man on the field. He can read an impending blitz, call a play change if he senses a shift in defense. His instincts have been honed like a blade, which means he notices anomalies before, during, or after any game.

“Headache,” I say with a shrug. This is a major concession, because no one wants to admit to physical pain. But I prefer that over the truth, which will lead to endless hounding.

Dex takes a bite of jerky, his big teeth grinding down the toughened meat like it was a dinner roll. “So not chick problems, then?” His grin is knowing.

Fucking. Gray. Fucking blabber-mouthed, soon to be dead, pain in my ass Gray.

“Cuz I’ve heard you’ve got yourself a cute little redhead—”

“You guys are worse than girls, you know that?” I mutter then slouch against the window. “A bunch of gossiping girls.”

He just shrugs. “I ain’t the one staring all hangdog out the window. Like a love-struck girl. I thought we talked about this. Not smart, man. Especially for you.”

It’s all I can do not to fist my hands, show any sort of reaction. After the fiasco that was known as Jenny, I suppose getting involved is a stupid idea for me. Dex’s dig is unfair, however, seeing as after the breakup, I was so focused on kicking ass, we won the National Championship. Again. Unfortunately, thanks to Jenny’s bitter lies, Dex’s job of keeping me healthy on the field was that much harder at the time. I might as well have had a “Pummel Baylor” sign on my chest after the dirt she slung about me got out.

“You ask Battle about his new girl yet, big D?” Rolondo’s now hanging over my seat, his grin wide and f**king evil. He laughs, a low, easy chuckle, before giving my head a playful slap. “You think you’re hidin’ anything, man?”

“Seriously?” I snap at the both of them. “You all haven’t got anything better to do?”

“Yeah.” Rolondo’s grin is still in place, shining brighter than the diamond in his ear. “Doesn’t beat seeing you cringe in your seat. Damn, boy, you blushing?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and pray for a bus crash.

“He’s got it bad,” observes Diaz from behind me. Which is when I realize that they’re all f**king looking at me. The whole goddamn bus. I am going to kill Gray, who is conspicuously quiet in his seat at the front, trying to appear innocent as he flips through Sports Illustrated.

“Who is it, yo?” asks Marshall from across the way.

“I heard she’s the girl from that lacrosse team party about a month back,” Dex says. “The redhead wearing that killer black tank top.”

At this, all the guys who were there instantly nod in understanding. Hell, Anna’s top obviously made an impression.

Dex looks around at his now captive audience. “The way Baylor was watching her, you’d think she was the championship trophy.”

“Naw, Dex,” says Diaz. “You can’t eat no trophy. And Battle most definitely looked hungry.”

Snickers break out. Jesus, was everyone watching me make a fool of myself at that party?

Rolondo whistles low. “Must be one fine girl to get Battle worked up.”

“She looks like Christina Hendricks,” Dex adds helpfully.

Rolondo shakes his head. “Man, ain’t no one on campus got tits that big. Believe me, I’d know.”

“Watch your mouths,” I snap. I don’t care if I have to take down the whole bus. No one is discussing Anna that way. Even if Rolondo is technically correct, Anna is nowhere near that big… Shit. I officially hate these guys.

Rolondo holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean no disrespect.” Because if there is one golden rule among men, it’s that you do not talk smack about a guy’s girl or his mom. “I’m just sayin,’ you mention Christina Hendricks, and I’m thinking about one thing.”

“And I didn’t say anything about your girl’s ti—breasts,” Dex insists, flushing. “I said she kind of looked like the lady. As in has a noticeable resemblance. Facial resemblance.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose is clearly useless against this burgeoning headache.

“Yo, don’t you think she looks more like the Black Widow in The Avengers?”

A round of appreciative agreement rumbles through the bus.

“That movie was tight,” Simms interjects. “Remember when The Hulk smashed the shit out of Loki like he was some rag doll? Damn, I’d kill to do that on the field. Take some running back and bam, bam, bam!”

“Bet you sorry you ain’t green too.” Rolondo throws an empty Pringles can at the Hulk-loving defensive end, which he bats away with a scowl before retaliating with a half-full water bottle.

“Whatever she looks like, our boy Drew is whipped.” That from Marshall.

Bastards. All of them.

“Why don’t you just call her, man?” someone shouts from behind. Jenkins. I compile a mental list for revenge purposes.

“Oh, honey,” intones Thomson—another smart ass, “I miss you soo muuuch!”

When they start making kissing noises, I do the only thing I can. “Marshall’s girl gave him a pink teddy bear, and he carries it around in his bag,” I shout.

“Betraying bastard!” bellows poor Marshall. But it’s too late for him. He goes down in a tackle of guys as he tries to defend his backpack.

Chaos ensues until the assistant defensive teams coach stands up at the front of the bus and settles everyone down with the threat of extra drills. Yeah, I love these guys. I’m smug and satisfied until Dex leans in, speaking only to me. “If you’re really into this girl, lock that shit up. Lock it up tight and concentrate on your game.”

And like that, my bubble bursts. What the f**k am I doing with Anna?

HE’S NOT HERE. He’s at an away game. Florida. This is how far I’ve sunk. I know his schedule. And I’m sitting in my room at ten o’clock on a Saturday night instead of going out with Iris and George. I’d begged off, using a need-to-read excuse. I love curling up with a good book. Except tonight it was a lie. My eReader is off and sits on the end of my bed where I tossed it earlier in a huff of irritation. A girl can only read the same line so many times before giving up the ghost.

I’m so restless my legs twitch, which only adds to my annoyance when my bare legs slide over the comforter and little zings of feeling run along my sensitized skin. Thoughts of the things Drew has done to me on this very bed invade my mind and make me flop back with a groan. Shit.

Shoving my face into a pillow doesn’t help. Nothing does.

I should do something, something physical, go for a walk—because I hate running—or try those core-strengthening DVDs that Iris is addicted to. A thousand sit-ups sounds about right. I’m rummaging for a sport bra when my phone dings. And my whole body freezes. But not my heart. That pounds with want and glee. Stupid heart.

I walk with admirable calm and leisure to my bedside table where my phone lies. The message, with its little green symbol shines up at me on the dark screen. Drew.

A grin splits my face. My hand shakes only a little when I slide the screen and read.

Baylor: Hey. You there?

Should I answer? Maybe I shouldn’t be “there” because I know what he means. Not, am I by my phone. What person on this campus doesn’t have a phone on hand at all times? He means am I free to talk? Am I sitting around on a Saturday night pining for… I pause. If he’s asking then he too must be free. Right?

I nibble the corner of my lip as I answer.

Me: I’m here

It only takes him a second to reply.

Baylor: What are you up to?

And then:

Baylor: I’m in my hotel room.

Like he needs me to know that he isn’t just checking on my whereabouts, but that he wants to chat. I am absolutely not grinning as I settle down on my bed and get comfortable.

Me: I’m in my room too.

Baylor: On the bed?

Me: Beats sitting on the floor.

Baylor: I love that bed. ;)

I snort. The pig. I’m never ha**ng s*x with him on this bed again. Maybe his bed. Let him have the haunted memories.

Me: Pig.

Baylor: I’m a guy. Porcine thoughts are indicative of our sex.

Only Drew would use a word like “porcine” and “indicative” in a text. And I’m the ass**le who thought he was some meathead jock.

Me: Knowing is half the battle. Why aren’t you out?

There. I asked. And it nearly killed me. It kills me more when he takes a few seconds before answering.

Baylor: Didn’t want to go out.

Me: Why not?

Stop. Stop now, you masochistic cow!

My phone remains still, accusatory. You had to ask, it seems to say to me. I jump when it dings again.

Baylor: Tired of it. Going out. The scene. The guys want to party.

He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t need to. No one on his team really drinks, which means there’s only one party option available. My stomach does an ugly, green slide into jealousy when I think of all the girls that would be hanging all over him were he out tonight. But he’s not. He’s texting with me. He sends another.

Baylor: And you’re not here.

My throat closes. Honest to God closes. I can’t swallow. I stare at the phone lying limp in my clammy hand. An insidious voice in my head shouts Danger, I’d Turn Back If I Were You! This is too close to a relationship. I don’t want one. Not with him.

The worst part is, I’m lying to myself. He isn’t the arrogant jerk I thought he was. I want him. Constantly. I want to talk to him. A few texts and my whole night is brighter, the color and textures of my room richer, deeper. I can smell my body lotion, grapefruit and vanilla, when it had been a muted muddle before. And I can taste the sourness of fear in my mouth. It sharpens when my phone rings in my hand.

Drew.

He’s onto me. He knows I’m about to freak. My heartbeat is a relentless, thud, thud, thud that I’m certain he hears when I slowly slide the bar and answer. “Break a finger over there or something?”

“I decided I wanted to hear your voice instead,” he says with a little laugh.

Because he isn’t in front of me, because I’m not distracted by his golden glow, his voice has that much more power over me. It sinks through dense flesh and slides along bone, nestling deep into that hard pumping organ that used to be my heart. It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. A queasy sensation snakes through me.

“And I hate texting,” he continues. He’s unsure. I can hear it in the way he tries to force a light, joking tone. And because I know this is hard for him, the guy for whom everything comes easy, I clear my throat and dive in.

“It’s impersonal,” I add.

There’s a real smile in his voice now. “Yeah. Most people don’t get that.”