Flipping and rolling: that’s how it looks to me.

“Damn!” Lana shouts. “Holy shit, look at him!”

Rhett has Ohio on the mat in less than a minute, pinned by the neck in a chokehold or whatever they call it, the rest of his body a brick wall of force intended to keep his opponent down.

The ref counts the match.

One.

Two.

Three.

Rhett stands, sweating, the referee holding up his arm, declaring him the winner. His roommate runs to him with a white towel and a water bottle as his coach slaps him on the ass—his firm, tight ass, the muscles constricting with every step he takes to the sideline.

I find him easily afterward; he’s alone in the hall, black duffle slung over his left shoulder. Head bent, tired. Lonely?

Watching him approach, I recline against the cinderblock wall of the basement tunnel that leads to the locker rooms, hands flattened against the cold partition behind me.

I’m wearing a tight black Iowa wrestling t-shirt I bought especially for the occasion, skinny jeans, and black half boots. My red hair falls in a straight curtain, and I feel my cheeks flush as he gets closer.

“Hey.” He looks up when I greet him, disbelief in his eyes at the sight of me. Pleasure.

He’s pleased.

“Hey. You came.” His white teeth wink at me. “And you waited for me.”

“Of course.” My heart begins a steady beat inside my chest. “You’re amazing. That was incredible, Rhett.” I blurt out the words, not nearly as eloquent as they sounded in my head while I waited for him to emerge.

“Thanks.” His brown eyes drag up and down my body, penetrating. Unless my imagination is playing a cruel trick on me, Rhett is throwing heat he’s never thrown my way before. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Did you see me in the stands?”

Affirmative. “I knew just where to look, and that hair of yours is hard to miss.” He moves in closer, fingers flexing at his sides. Open, closed. “Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

His voice is low. Intense.

“I am?” My heart races. Nerve endings practically tingle with anticipation.

“Yeah.” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “I am so full of adrenaline right now.”

I glance down at his hands. “Looks like it.”

“I could run ten miles.”

I’ve heard of these adrenaline highs, the rush athletes have after a game, the blood still raging through their strong, fit bodies. I’ve heard stories from other girls about sex marathons after a game. Sex for hours and hours.

I can see the tension in his eyes, the high color in his cheeks and face and neck.

He’s turned on.

Rhett approaches. Drops his duffle to the ground and stands in front of me, chest heaving up and down inside his tight compression shirt. Pecs firm. Nipples hard.

I want to run my palms up his torso.

“Je vais t’embrasser.” His mouth is moving, speaking words I don’t understand, inching closer.

I nod. “Okay.”

Those rough, callused hands cup my jaw, thumbs stroking my smooth skin.

“Je suis content que te es ici, Laurel.” His lips brush the skin beneath my ear. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

He’s so gentle. So tender.

My eyes slide closed and I bite my lip, bite back a moan.

“Putain, tu es jolie,” he murmurs into my ear. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

“Merci.” It’s the only other French word I know, and it slips out on a whisper as I tilt my neck so he can plant a kiss there. His warm hands slide to the back of my neck, lips dragging along my jawline. To the corner of my mouth.

I part my lips as his full mouth glides over mine, the tips of our tongues meeting. Rhett tastes like spearmint toothpaste, hard work, and good decisions. A sure thing.

Commitment.

It doesn’t take long for us to get carried away, and soon, we’re making out in the empty tunnel as if our lives depend on it. Rhett has me pinned to the wall, years of repressed sexual energy and adrenaline bubbling over, and before I know it, his chaffed hand is sliding down my spine.

Across my waist. Up the front of my shirt, thumb brushing along the undersides of my breasts.

My capable hands rake up his chest, around his neck. Tangle into the hair that could use a trim.

It’s all so fucking good.

I’m pinned to the wall, his pelvis—his hard dick—pressed into the apex of my thighs, and I do the only thing I’m capable of doing at the moment: I moan.

We’re just getting to the good stuff when the sound of my moan mingles with the sound of voices echoing out of the locker room door. We’re not alone.

“Shit.” Rhett breaks contact, muttering. Lips hit my temple, land a kiss along the collar of my shirt. “Come with me. Let’s get the fuck out here.”

I nod. I’d follow him anywhere.

I grasp his hand as he swipes his bag from the ground, the two of us breaking into a light jog in the hall, desperate to get to his car.

Desperate to be alone.

I’m being pulled behind him, his hand clutching mine as he guides me down the tunnel toward the exit that leads to the parking lot.

“We’ll come back and get your car later.”

This side of him thrills me, the bossy, in-control side—the side that only took minutes to pin a two-hundred-pound man onto a blue wrestling mat.

I let him lead me down the hall, out the door, to the dark parking lot.

“Where are you parked?” My eyes do a quick scan for his Jeep, the only car parked at the far end…

“It’s right over—” He stops in his tracks. “What the fuck? What. The. Fuck.”

He drops my hand, pointing to the Jeep at the far side, wrapped in…

I hate asking out loud, but, “Is that plastic wrap?”

He stalks in the direction of his car, grinding out an angry, “Yes.”

The Jeep is indeed tightly wrapped in plastic, a clear coat of something sticky beneath it, like someone smeared Vaseline then swathed the Jeep with an industrial-size roll of saran wrap.

“I can’t go home. It will just end up in a fight.” His hands go behind his head, pacing. “Those fuckin’ assholes.”

“Who would have done this? We weren’t inside long enough for someone to have done it while you were in the locker room, were we?”

“No. Someone else could have easily done it, but I doubt it.” He picks at the plastic, peeling back a layer. Shoulders slouch, defeated. “Fuck. This is going to take all night to get clean.”

I lay a gentle hand on his firm tricep. “Come with me now and I promise we’ll come back in the morning and figure this out together.”

“Yeah.” He hefts his bag. Nods. “All right.”

I take his hand, tugging him toward my car, my father’s late-model SUV. I used to hate it because it’s so big, but man, I can fit so much shit in the back.

Once, in high school, I had twelve of my friends piled in. Not safe, I know, but…we were stupid back then, and irresponsible.

It’s big, safe, and outdated—and it’s all mine.

“This is your car?”

“Yes.” I laugh, hitting the locks. “Hop in.”

His large body hits the seat, collapsing into it. Buckles himself in. Sags, head hitting the headrest.

Poor guy.

I pat his thigh.

Start the ignition, pull out of the parking lot with Rhett beside me, staring out into the dark night.

I feel so bad. “Where should we go?”

I’m not ready to take us home.

“Anywhere.” He turns his head to look at me. “Somewhere quiet.”

I rack my brain for possibilities, the only spot that’s coming to mind a lookout point off campus, high in some bluffs. It’s secluded and remote and no one will bother us there.

Slowly, I wind my SUV up the narrow road toward the highest point in the county, just a two-mile ride out of town. The road twists up and around, a short ten-minute drive.

It’s a popular spot, high in the hills, the sight panoramic, crossing twenty miles into the distance—and when it’s dark, nothing beats the span of glowing city lights below. Nothing.