This time, I lean in closer, letting myself marvel in this moment.

  * * *

  “Is it weird that we got the same thing?” Lincoln asks, looking at our steak salads.

  “It would be weird if we were sharing one between us.”

  He picks his fork up and points it at me. “You’re right about that. Fries is one thing; salad is another.”

  “Don’t forget coffee and donuts. We’ve done both.”

  “How could I forget? Should we start making a list of acceptable shareable foods between us?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” I say. “If we want to keep things fresh between us, we live on the edge. No list.”

  Lincoln playfully holds up his hands. “Oh damn, look out.”

  He makes me laugh . . . way too much. I crave his company now. He’s so playful and fun to be around. It’s easy to see why everyone likes him. As Deacon said, he’s a genuinely nice guy once he lets you into his circle. And I know now that he’s not intentionally a snob, either. He’s not even picky. He’s just . . . focused. Looking at the end goal. And I admire that. It seems we’re more alike than I thought.

  “So, about those lesson plans,” he says.

  “Yeah. I blame my one-track mind on the physical testing as to why we haven’t done any of it yet.”

  He pulls his binder from his backpack and sets it in front of me. “What’s this?” I ask, but he just nods for me to open it. When I do, I see lesson plans typed out with both our names at the top. “Uh, you did all of this without me? You looked just as surprised as me in class that we hadn’t done the draft.”

  “I was surprised, because I’d forgotten I’d put this together and hadn’t shown you.” I watch him shovel another impressive mouthful of his salad. The man enjoys his food. Mind you, this steak salad is one of my favorites too. “They’re plans from a previous teammate—”

  Slamming the folder shut, I shake my head and hand it back to him. “I don’t copy work.”

  “Neither do I,” he says, sounding insulted. “It’s an outline, a starting place, and we fill it all out to what we want to do. Jesus, Mayhem.”

  Instant guilt swarms me. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  He shrugs. “It’s cool. But contrary to what the basic student population believes about the baseball team, we’re stand-up guys who work our asses off in the classroom and on the field.”

  “I know.” I reach across the table and take his hand in mine to give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes soften and he squeezes my hand back. “It’s okay, Indie.”

  For a few brief moments, we stay like this, holding hands, staring at each other, an unspoken promise of respect passing between us. It’s an odd sensation, as if I’ve just discovered this undying loyalty deep inside my bones. I’m giving it to this man that I’ve only known for a few weeks, but a man I feel strongly about, someone who’d offer the same unspoken loyalty to me.

  “Hey, you guys. What’s going on?” Startled, I quickly look up to see Hartley and Deacon standing at the edge of our table. Deacon’s slightly behind Hartley, but I feel the blaze of his eyes on me.

  Lincoln leans back and pushes his hand through his hair. “Uh . . . hey there.”

  “What are you two doing?” Hartley’s face is all smiles while Deacon looks concerned. This overwhelming need to explain consumes me, and it bubbles up and out past my lips before I can stop it.

  “I insulted Lincoln. I was saying sorry.”

  Hartley laughs, pulls out a chair, and flips it around so he’s sitting in it backward but still facing us. “We all insult Lincoln. Don’t let him fool you. The boy has thicker skin than he lets on. He just likes to play the victim card for sympathy.”

  “Fuck you.” Lincoln chuckles as Deacon takes the seat next to me.

  “Best way to make it up to him? Rub his nipple.”

  “What?” My eyes widen, mouth dropping open as I look at Lincoln. He just shrugs and continues eating his salad. “He made me touch his nipple the first night I met him.”

  “Not surprised.” Hartley plucks a piece of steak from Lincoln’s salad and plops it in his mouth. “He loves getting his coins caressed. Especially when he’s drunk; the dude runs around with his shirt off, thrusting his chest at you.”

  “I’ve seen pictures,” Deacon chimes in. “And I hate to admit it, but Rusty showed me a video—”

  “Okay, okay,” Lincoln says, trying to tamp down Deacon with his hand. “No need to get into details.”

  I prop my chin on my hand and look between all three men. “No, please, let’s get into detail.”

  Deacon looks for permission but not Hartley, he jumps right in, stealing another piece of steak, this time getting a swat on the hand from Lincoln. “Lincoln once ran naked down the street with a red cup covering his junk.”

  “Dude, come on,” Lincoln says, giving me an apologetic look.

  “What? It’s true. It was one of your finer moments while wasted.”

  “And how many moments do you have in the drunk archive?” I ask. Lincoln moves his fork around his salad and barely lifts his eyes to smirk at me.

  My breath catches, and my heart stills from that one shameless look.

  “Enough,” he answers.

  “By far the best drunk on the team.”

  Deacon groans. “You’re the fun drunk, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Lincoln says, smirking, eyes still on me.

  “Figures.” Deacon rests his arm on the back of my chair, and I watch Lincoln’s eyes quickly flick to where his hand falls and then return to his salad. Connection broken. “I’m the annoying drunk who borders on one shot too many and spending the rest of the night in the bathroom.”

  Hartley takes Lincoln’s drink off his tray and manages a large gulp before Lincoln yanks it away. “That’s vital information to know if you’re living with us. You’re not a hamper puker, are you?”

  Deacon shakes his head. “Nah, even though I might be a lightweight, I know porcelain when I see it. I make it to a toilet every time.”

  “Wow, isn’t this a great conversation,” I say sarcastically while trying to eat my salad.

  “Hey, you wanted the details,” Lincoln points out.

  “I tend to forget men are disgusting.”

  “Oh bullshit,” Lincoln says. “I’ve heard some of the shit you girls talk about at parties. You’re nasty.”

  Chuckling, I ignore him and go back to my salad.

  “Are we still on for this weekend?” Hartley asks. “Everyone’s asking.”

  “On for what?” Deacon asks, looking between the guys.

  Lincoln finishes up his salad and then pushes it to the middle of the table. “Our house usually holds a party before the fall season starts. It’s a big bash. I honestly forgot about it until just now.”

  “I think we should talk about it with the rest of the guys tonight, but I’m game. We have to throw something and I’d rather it be now than later in the season since games are just around the corner,” Hartley says.

  “Yeah, I get that.” Lincoln pulls on the back of his neck. “I’m game if you guys are.”

  “I’m good with it,” Deacon says and then turns toward me. “You coming, Indie?”

  “Ah, Indie doesn’t go to parties, isn’t that right?” Lincoln asks me.

  “Not usually,” I answer, feeling a challenge in Lincoln’s gaze. “But I’ve been doing things a little differently this year, so maybe I will go.”

  “Bring your girls with you,” Hartley says. “We never get the women’s soccer team to do anything.”

  I smile and take a sip of my drink. “That’s because, like I told Lincoln when I first met him, we don’t typically hang out with douchebags.”

  Lincoln holds his arms out. “And yet, here you are, eating lunch surrounded by them.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Deacon says, pulling me into his side. “Stick with me. I don’t carry a douchebag bone in my body.”

  “He might be right,” Hartley says. “I haven’t detected any douchiness since he’s moved in.” Gripping Lincoln on the shoulder, he says, “Now this guy, on the other hand . . . shall we revisit his obsession with people touching his nipples?”

  “I think we covered it,” Lincoln says, looking slightly irritated. He looks at his phone and then shifts out of his chair. “I have to get to the training room. I’ll see you guys at the house.” He nods toward me. “I’ll email you the outline, Indie. See you around.”

  He’s out of his seat before I can even say bye, leaving me with Deacon and a retreating Hartley, who says over his shoulder, “I have class and want to get a good seat. This professor is so softly spoken, I can barely hear her, so I need to sit in front of the class to avoid failing. Catch you guys later.”

  And then there were two, which feels . . . odd. Yet with Lincoln, it was easy.

  Deacon moves to Lincoln’s seat, so he’s sitting across from me. “How’s your day been so far?”

  I run my tongue over my teeth, hoping there’s no leftover salad bits stuck in them while I use all the energy in my body not to look at Lincoln’s retreating back. “Pretty good,” I answer. “Nothing too thrilling besides all the nipple talk. You?”

  “Good. Hit the weight room earlier this morning and now getting ready to go to the library to study. Where are you headed to next?”

  “I have class in an hour and a half. I could probably go to the library with you if you don’t mind company.”

  “I’d like that.” Then he smiles, and even though his dimples poke through his cheeks—making him look extra adorable—I don’t feel the stirring of energy I feel with Lincoln. This feels like friendship.

  Whereas Lincoln? When he smirks, laughs, puts his arm around me or on the back of my chair, it twists my insides, makes my knees feel weak, and causes me to lose my breath at times. That feels terrifying.

  After we return the salad trays, we head down the stairs toward the library. Deacon bumps my shoulder and says, “You’re quiet.”

  “Yeah, just thinking.”

  “About Lincoln?” he asks, straightforward and upfront.

  There’s no use lying to Deacon, and it wouldn’t be fair to him, so I decide to tell him the truth. “Yeah, a little.”

  “Figured. I saw it in the way your eyes saddened when he left.”

  “They didn’t sadden.”

  Deacon lightly chuckles. “One thing I pride myself in is being observant. On the field, I watch all the guys, look for their tells, and that overlaps into real life. When Lincoln announced that he was taking off, I saw the drop in your eyes, the tiniest turn down of your lips. It’s okay, Indie. I get it.”

  I grip the folder Lincoln gave me tightly, pressing it into my chest, wishing I didn’t have these weird feelings flowing through me. I wish I could forget about them, let them go, and move on, but every time I even hear the mention of Lincoln’s name, my mind reacts in a way that sends a signal through my entire body, warming it up from the inside out.

  “It’s . . . complicated,” I reply, feeling so guilty that my stomach grows nauseous. “And it just came out of nowhere, Deacon. I don’t want you thinking—”

  “Hey.” He stops me and pulls me into a hug, his strong arms so similar to Rusty’s that they instantly comfort me. “It’s okay, I get it. I really do. I saw the way you kept looking at him the other night and I thought maybe there was something there but wasn’t too sure.”

  “There’s nothing there,” I say. “I mean, nothing of substance. We’re friends and I mean that.”

  He holds me out by my shoulders and studies me. “I see that, and it looks like a pure friendship.”

  I twist my lips to the side, wondering how Deacon became such a good guy. Their parents must be amazing people to raise two such empathetic and kind individuals.

  I sigh and say, “Well, it doesn’t matter either way, because we’re just not on the same path, so . . .” I shrug, unsure how to finish that sentence.

  “Maybe your paths will cross at some point. Come on.” He takes my hand in his and walks me toward the library. “Let’s get some studying done.” And right then I understand the pull I have with Deacon. He’s just like Rusty. With Rusty, I felt immediate friendship, like you would with a long-lost cousin. And it’s here with Deacon too. At least he knows where I stand . . . I think. But do I know?

  * * *

  Deacon: Thanks for the study sesh the other day, I got so much done.

  Indie: So you said.

  Deacon: Okay, I’m awkward and weird and don’t know how to talk to girls. But I was wondering if you wanted to go out for pizza or something? Strictly as friends.

  Indie: Strictly as friends, huh?

  Deacon: Yeah, figured I could at least get you to hook me up with one of the girls on your team, given you’re not interested.

  Indie: Who’s to say I’m not interested?

  Deacon: Both of us.

  Indie: LOL. Want me to bring Scarlett?

  Deacon: As a potential love interest?

  Indie: Problem number one: saying potential love interest. And Scarlett is not for you. I love her like a sister and I’m telling you right now, she’s too much for you to handle.

  Deacon: I can feel that. As long as she’s not taking off to masturbate in the restaurant bathroom, I’m cool.

  Indie: Can’t make any promises. Does six work? At Deluca’s?

  Deacon: Works for me. See you then.

  * * *

  “Are you using me as a shield?” Scarlett asks, blowing a bubble with the gum in her mouth.

  “A shield? What are you talking about?”

  “Deacon asks you out to pizza and you bring me along. It’s obvious you don’t want to be alone with him.”

  “I was alone with him the other day in the library.”

  We walk along the sidewalk, toward Deluca’s, which is a few blocks away from our house, one of the reasons I chose it. If I don’t have to drive somewhere, I try not to.

  “Okay, so why am I here? Isn’t this like a date or something?” Scarlett has an ice pack on her head. We came straight from practice where she crashed into a freshman today who wasn’t paying attention. They hit head on head, the crushing sound of their skulls a sickening sound that’s finally starting to fade out of my memory, thank God. When they got up, I could already see the welt forming on a very unhappy Scarlett, so I can understand the current attitude right now.

  “It’s not a date. We came to an understanding that we’re just going to be friends.”

  “Look at you.” Scarlett pats me on the back. “Friend-zoning every hot guy that comes within a five-foot radius of you. Hope you’re good with celibacy during the season. Lord knows, I’m not. Which reminds me, please tell me we’re going to Hartley’s house this weekend. I could really use a hookup at this point. The vibrator is not getting the job done.”

  “We can,” I say, even though I was already planning on it.

  “Thank God. I’m going to find myself a beefy football player to get it on with. Maybe Hutton.”

  “Scarlett, you’re better than that.”

  She taps her chin with her finger. “I’m really not. I have no problem going to the king of orgasms looking for a release. No problem at all.”

  When we arrive at Deluca’s I reach for the door and Scarlett pulls me to the side. “Just so I have everything straight. This isn’t a date, you’re not looking to date Deacon, and we’re here to try to find someone else to hook him up with?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And you’re paying for my pizza?”

  “Yes,” I say on a sigh.

  “Okay.” She motions to the door. “Then let’s go, I need to sit down and remove this ice.”

  We walk into the restaurant and immediately spot Deacon sitting in a booth in the back. It’s hard to miss him. What on earth did their parents feed those burly boys?

  “Ugh, you’re stupid,” Scarlett mutters as we walk toward him. “He’s so hot.”

  “Then why don’t you go out with him?” I ask through a smile as we approach.

  “You know I would eat him up and spit him out. He’s too nice.”

  It’s true. They would not mesh well together. Deacon seems to be the sensitive type—in tune with his feelings—so much so that it would not work with Scarlett. That’s probably why it wouldn’t work out with me and him either.

  We’re not big express-your-feelings-type people, which is why Scarlett and I are best friends. We don’t deal with drama, we let it roll off our shoulders, and we aren’t easily offended, unlike some of the girls on our team. It’s also why we’re in a townhome by ourselves so we don’t have to deal with the complicated feelings of everyone else.

  “Hey ladies,” Deacon says, standing from the booth and pulling us both into a hug.

  “Oh, you smell nice. Did you catch a whiff of that, Indie?”

  Yup, already regretting bringing her to this dinner.

  I look up at Deacon and say, “Good job cleaning yourself.”

  He laughs a good hearty laugh. “Thank you. Scrubbed all the deep parts of my body.”

  “Cleanliness is key when it comes to landing a girl.” Scarlett takes a seat and lowers her ice. “Trust me, the dirty guys are talked about often in the locker rooms.”

  “Whoa, what happened to your head?”

  Scarlett pours herself some water from the pitcher on the table. “Freshman casualty. She was trying to prove herself and ran into me when not paying attention. Classic story of a rookie show-off. But lucky for her, my knee also crashed into her crotch and she was taken off the field telling everyone I broke her privates. I got off easy.”

  “And here I thought only guys had it rough when it came to the crotch.”

  I shake my head. “No, trust me, it hurts for a girl too.”

  “Good to know.” He fidgets with his drink and looks toward the kitchen. “I ordered a large cheese pizza, I hope that’s okay.”

  Scarlett takes one of the complimentary breadsticks and crunches down on it. “Love cheese. Thanks.” Chewing, she looks between the two of us and then groans. “If this is going to be awkward, I’m leaving.