“Can I have a Coke?”

“Shit, honey, a Coke? I got all kinds of stuff back here. Don’t tell me you plan to pussy out tonight and not get hammered like the rest of us.” He pulls out a giant bottle of whiskey and waves it at me.

Pussy out? Nice. I resist the urge to tell him that this pussy isn’t impressed with his act. “No thanks. Just the Coke.”

He leans over the makeshift counter, a piece of lumber stretched across the space between one end of the opening into the kitchen and the other. “It’s not just a Coke, tiger.” Tiger? “It’s a statement piece that says I’m boring as fuck. You don’t want to start out on the wrong foot during the first big night of the year. We’ve got girlie drinks back here for people like you. Now what’s your poison?” He tips his head up looking massively satisfied with himself.

“So, you’re a wide out?” It’s time to put this guy in his place. He’s on the skinny side and a hair under six feet. He could be a defensive back, but there’s something about the way he leans forward that makes me think he’s waiting for the gun to go off or the quarterback to yell set hut.

His grin widens. “How'd you guess?”

It’s my party trick. Some girls can guess bra sizes. Some guys can do two story beer bongs. Me? I can guess what position you play.

“Your build.” I gesture. “They didn’t require you to get to a certain weight?”

His grin dies off. “Still working on it,” he answers stiffly.

She shoots. She scores. “Okay, I'll take my Coke. Thanks.”

“Get her a Coke, bro,” a deep voice from behind me orders.

“Oh sure, Knox.” The guy’s voice nearly cracks with awe that his team captain is standing there talking to him. He digs around in a tub of ice and shoves the red and white can into my hand.

As I leave the line, I tap the top of it, in case he gave it a good shake under the water.

“You crushed that kid. He’ll stand in front of his mirror tonight wondering how you didn’t see his big guns.”

“Maybe he should spend more time in the weight room and less time hassling girls about wanting a soda.”

“He’s young and suffering from the loss of status. In high school, no doubt, he was the big man on campus.” Masters knocks fists with someone, nods to another person, but doesn’t stop talking to me. “The transition is tough for some.”

A few people give me an appraising look that says what are you doing with Knox Masters. “Not for you, though.”

“I was fucking homesick the first semester. I missed my brother and my family. I had to remind myself why I was here, why I needed to go to practice every day.”

The bald honesty surprises me so much I stop walking.

“What?” he asks when he realizes I haven’t moved.

“I’m surprised you’d admit to that.”

“You think admitting to being homesick makes me weak?” He raises a surprised eyebrow. “Or are you surprised that I have feelings?”

Enough with the tears, you goddamned disgrace! I hear my father yelling at Jack. There’s no place for emotion in this game. Are you a winner or are you a fucking pussy like your sister?

“I thought stoicism is required to wear the jersey,” I say. I try to make it a joke but Masters’ knowing eyes tells me he sees right through my thin veneer. I look away.

On the back porch, a long line of people wait to get a beer. No one is getting drunk at this party, because the buzz will have worn off between beers.

Maybe Knox senses I’m about to bolt because he grabs my hand. “Come on.”

As he steers me past the crowd, around the keg and toward a dark corner where an overgrown tree appears to eat about half the porch, I start to panic. For a million reasons I don’t want to explore, I can’t stand with Knox Masters in a secluded corner.

I tug on his wrist. “I think I want to dance.”

He levels me with a look that says, Really? You’re pulling that bullshit?

“Then we’ll dance.”

I sigh. There’s no getting away from him.

“Knox! I just got in today!” A bubbly blonde with Hollywood looks saunters over. Her assets are on full display under a tight bandage tank top that plunges low in the front. She’s wearing denim panties—shorts so short and cut so high they look like underwear. It’s a popular look around here. Most of the girls are wearing a lot of fringe and denim. We could be at Coachella, minus the desert and the bands.

“Hey, Kitty.”

She places a hand on his chest, right above his heart and her perfectly manicured nails flex against his navy blue T-shirt. The urge to rip her hand away takes me by surprise. I want to snarl at her, that chest belongs to me. I engage in a momentary fantasy of pushing her five feet back and making a slashing motion across my throat.

Fortunately for both of them, Masters steps back.

Kitty’s gaze drops to our joined hands. A confused look crosses her face as if she’s never seen him hold a girl’s hand before. I know, I want to say, it’s weird for me, too. “Is this your…cousin?” she stammers out.

“No, this is my—”

Before he can finish the sentence, Hammer shows up and drapes an arm around both of us. “This is Jack Campbell’s sister, KittyKat. He’s our new tight end transfer. Good hands. She’s a friend of the team.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Kitty’s smile comes back. She holds out her hand. “I’m a friend of the team too.” She winks.

That’s fine as long as she stays away from Masters. Ellie, no, this is your way out. I get my wits together and reach for her. “Actually Kitty, Masters told me he wanted to dance.”

“He did?” she says, wide-eyed.

“Masters?” He frowns. “Is that how you think of me?”

I don’t have to answer that strange question because Hammer interjects with a look of surprise that matches Kitty’s. “You want to dance, man? Since when?”

Masters places his arm around my shoulders. “Ellie is making a joke.”

“It’s not a very good joke,” Kitty says uncertainly.

Masters nods solemnly. “Which is why I’m going to take her to this corner over here and give her some instruction on joke telling. You go dance with Hammer and show him the moves you learned over the summer.”

Kitty and Hammer both nod enthusiastically and disappear inside.

“I wasn’t making any jokes.”

“Trust me. My dancing is a bad joke. You don’t want to see it.”

He lets me go once we make it past the keg line and I wander to the back corner of the porch—away from the music, the crowd, the Kittys of campus. But I can’t seem to shake Masters so I climb up on the top railing and settle in for a night of people watching, which is better than being inside the muggy house watching a bunch of drunk guys play Madden on a big screen.

The back of the house juts up against a small green space shared by about six or seven other houses—the infamous Playground where the football team lives. When Jack got the invitation to move into one of the houses, we’d known then that the Western coaching staff had high hopes for him.

Knox leaps, one handed, onto the railing.

“How high can you box jump?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Like my moves, do you?” He flashes a smug-as-fuck smile and flexes his biceps. My body tightens in an instinctive response. At least I blame it on biology. It’s natural for me to be turned on by a big, strong guy. Generations of women have succumbed to the big brawny male. It’s why a specimen like Masters exists. “I can do just shy of five feet. Not as good as JJ Watts, but I’ll get there. So, why are we hiding back here?”

“I’m at a party with over a hundred people. I hardly think that qualifies as hiding.” Masters hasn’t shaved and the scruff around his chin only serves to make him look a hundred times hotter. I remind myself that hairy chins can mean hairy butts and hairy backs, but sadly, that does nothing to quell my biological response to him. I take a sip of my Coke to hide my agitation and hopefully cool myself off.