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Oh perfect, the first time I see Josh since the break-up and I probably look like I got punched in the face. I moaned and tried to shake out my nerves.

I'd never actually been to one of these le-gendary parties. I'd heard about them, of course. Every year a few of the guys from the professional soccer team in LA, the LA Stars, rent a giant house together. It was a "work hard, play harder" situation. This year, when Josh had been signed to the professional team, he'd moved into the house— which is why I knew he'd be at the party.

The LA Stars were the top soccer team in the US. Last year, five of their team members competed for the US in the World Cup only to lose in the last few minutes to Portugal.

Needless to say, they were some of the top 27/890

athletes in the world, with sponsorships and frequent spots on the talk-show circuit.

When we stepped into the house, my vision was bombarded with a plethora of beautiful people. Groupies, celebrities, soccer stars. It was hard to see through all the dancing bodies, but at least the chances of seeing Josh were pretty slim.

"Don't go too crazy, girls. Remember that you're representing our team now," Tara warned before she and Sofie took off and left us in the entryway.

"This is crazy," Emily murmured. I looked over to see her gulping down the scene with quick darting glances. I guess it was a lot to process, especially since LA was already an over the top town to begin with.

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"Let's go find some ice for my cheek." I grabbed her hand and started tugging her through the crowd with Becca in tow.

It was hardly 10:00 P.M. and the party was already in full swing. People were mingling everywhere. Girls were wrapped around guys on the couches. Three tables were set up for beer pong in the living room and there was a mass of people crowded around them.

I waved to some girls I recognized from club teams. Some of them tried to get us to stop and talk, but I pointed to my cheek and told them I'd be back in a bit.

The entire house was a bachelor pad on crack. Open, modern, and filled with every piece of technology imaginable. It was a maze trying to get through the living room, but finally we maneuvered our way into an 29/890

expansive kitchen. It didn’t disappoint. With marble countertops and chic black appli-ances, it fit in perfectly with the rest of the house. The space was less crowded than the other rooms, but there were still at least fifty people between us and the freezer.

"Here, you just stand there and I'll get you some ice." Emily gently pushed me to the side against the kitchen counter so that she could prepare a little ice pack for me with a bunch of paper towels.

My feet were starting to hurt from my four inch heels, so I reached back to prop myself up onto the counter. I should have inspected the spot beforehand because as I hopped up I heard the telltale sound of alcohol bottles tipping over and crashing into the sink.

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"Oops!" I giggled, then covered my mouth with my hands.

"You're a liability," Becca joked, reaching behind me to right the tipped over bottles.

In my drunken state, I didn't seem to care. Sitting on the counter definitely beat standing up on my high heels, and from my vantage point I could see over the heads of everyone standing in the kitchen. The amount of plastic surgery in that room could have rivaled a Miss America dressing room.

Everywhere I looked I was greeted with fake boobs and nose jobs, but it was LA and these women had their jobs cut out for them if they intended on landing a professional athlete.

“Kinsley, scoot back, you’re about to fall off the counter,” Becca said, pulling me out 31/890

of my people-watching zone. I hadn’t realized I’d been swaying so heavily.

I scooted back a little bit so that more of my thighs pressed against the cold granite.

"Oh, here! I almost forgot," she said, reaching down to dig in her purse.

"What is it? What is it?" I clapped my hands together, feeling giddy from the alcohol and party atmosphere. "A vibrator?" I exclaimed loud enough for the few people around us to eye me with suspicious grins. I shot them all a confident smile.

"No, you hussy! It's a birthday crown.

It’s what I had to grab at the Rookie House earlier," she answered, retrieving a pink, sparkly princess crown out of her purse. It looked like a piece of a costume I'd had as a little girl and I instantly loved it.

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"Ooooh. It's beeuuooteefuulll," I drawled with wide eyes as she placed it on the top of my head.

Becca started laughing, making me laugh, and eventually I was clutching my stomach. My nineteenth birthday was definitely getting better. Laughing like an insane person sure beat eating cake alone.

"Here, this should help," Emily said, returning from the freezer and handing me a makeshift icepack with a bemused smile. I'd forgotten my cheek was even injured.

I took the pack and gave her a cheesy grin. "What would I do without you two?!"

"Well you're about to find out because I have to use the bathroom."

"I'll go with you," Becca said, turning toward Emily. "I should find the other 33/890

freshman girls and bring them in here.

They're probably wondering where we went."

"What?" I asked with puppy-dog-eyes.

"You're both leaving me?" I actually felt sad about it.

"Yes, just stay there and keep icing your face. We'll be right back!" Becca called as she and Emily disappeared through the crowd.

What the hell? Now I looked like a big loser sitting by myself with a princess crown and an ice pack. But I'd be damned if I took it off.

I was a birthday princess. I even gave a royal wave to anyone that walked by me.

"That crown looks good on you! Want to do a birthday shot?" A dark voice asked. I looked up to find a group of cute guys surrounding me. They looked a bit older and I knew the one speaking to me was on the LA 34/890

Stars team. If I wasn't drunk I could have told you his name, but I hardly remembered my name. Kinsley Bryant. Kinsley Bryant.

"Well, since my friends ditched me for the pisser, er… I mean the powder room… I might as well," I shrugged.

"That's a good attitude," the cute one said as he passed me a jell-o shot. I decided I’d call him Oliver until I remembered his actual name. He looked like an Oliver.

"Skim your finger around the rim so that you can loosen the jell-o from the plastic," he instructed, stepping closer to me.

I shot him an indignant look. "Do I look like an amateur?" I laughed, tipping back the jell-o in one smooth swoosh.

"Mmm, cherry." I smiled and the guys laughed.

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I would have paid more attention to them or asked for another shot, but the moment the words escaped my lips, I looked toward the doorway of the kitchen and my breath caught in my throat.

Liam Wilder.

Sex on steroids rolled in pastry crust.

Liam Wilder.

I didn't think he showed up to things like this. I thought he jaunted around on yachts and baptized babies all day. Babies that would one day grow up to be swimsuit models, thanks to his touch. No, he’s not a priest; he’s just a god in the soccer world. (And also in the real world.)

Jeez, he was good-looking up close. Tall, toned, sexy light brown hair, and a face that made you want to cry a little it was so 36/890

perfect. He was the star of the LA Stars and the resident bad boy of LA. Seriously. Every week there was news coverage of him leaving a bar with some model or actress. He was young, handsome, and could literally sleep with anyone he wanted. Could you blame the guy for taking advantage of it?