“He does,” my mom answers for me. “How crazy is that?”

  And there it is . . .

  The setup. The hook.

  And how coincidental that my mom got her hair done the other day. Wonder what they talked about for two hours.

  My guess is, how can we get our two kids together before they go back to school?

  Played again . . . by my mom.

  “Yeah, that’s so crazy,” I say through clenched teeth, giving my mom a look that she completely ignores.

  “Lincoln, why don’t you go play some games with Indie while I talk to Beth? I meant to ask her something private while I was getting my hair done and completely forgot.”

  “Why don’t you grab her number and call her instead of talking about the private thing in a public restaurant surrounded by arcade games and potato skins?” I try to give her my best I will murder you tonight look, but she’s unfazed.

  She tosses the game card at me and says, “This isn’t phone-conversation material. It’s face-to-face stuff.”

  “Isn’t it great that we have FaceTime now, so we can have face-to-face conversations without being in the same room?”

  “Beth has an Android.” Mom shoos me away with her hand. “Now go on.”

  Beth nearly scoots me off my seat and sets her purse and phone down—her iPhone—kicking me out, and without blinking an eye, starts gabbing with my mom.

  It’s really disturbing how fast my mom had me on my feet. The lies.

  So many effing lies.

  Awkwardly, Indie and I stand off to the side together, staring at our moms who’ve put up some kind of invisible shield to block them from the world around them.

  They laugh.

  They use their hands to talk.

  They ignore us completely.

  On a sigh, I turn to Indie and say, “Do you want to play air hockey?”

  She gives me a slow once-over, arms still crossed, and says, “Fine,” on a less than amused sigh.

  Great.

  “This is my last night with you before you go back to Brentwood. Do you really think I’d forfeit it to another woman?” Well played, Mom. Well played.

  This is going to be a fan-fucking-tastic night.

  Chapter Two

  INDIE

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt more hatred for a person than I do for my mom right now.

  Harsh, I know, but you must understand where I’m coming from. It’s been the summer from hell. I begged my parents to let me stay at Brentwood with my team. We were all going to get jobs, work at night, train during the day. We had it all planned out, but my mom demanded I come back home and spend one more summer with her and Dad.

  Guess what this summer has consisted of?

  My dad working on his computer wearing noise-cancelling headphones, writing top-secret computer programming he can’t talk about, and my mom working at her salon, coming home most days to tell me about this boy I have to meet.

  He has a 4.0 GPA, so he’s super smart.

  Okay, he might be shorter than you by two inches, but you don’t wear heels very often.

  Yes, he might smell like cheese, but look at your dad. He smells like cheese and I still married him.

  It’s been one guy after the other. Where she keeps finding them, I have no idea, but after she came home the other day saying she had someone really special to introduce me to, I told her enough was enough.

  I yelled at my mom.

  And I never yell at her.

  But I let loose. I asked her what her incessant need was to get me to meet a guy, and her answer? She said I have a stick up my ass and she wants me to loosen up.

  Endearing, right?

  You’re in college. Have fun.

  When was the last time you went on a date?

  Have you even been on any dates?

  Are you . . . still a virgin?

  Newsflash: I don’t tell my mom everything, can you tell?

  And there’s a reason.

  We live just outside of Kalamazoo in a small town. Population—tiny enough to know everyone’s business. And guess where the gossip mill hub is? The hair salon. Who has the megaphone up to their mouth, feeding all the gossipmongers? My mom.

  Carl over at the gas station knew I got my period before my dad knew.

  Marleen, who owns the coffee shop, congratulated me on my new bra size when I was a sophomore.

  And Madame Baker, my French teacher, pulled me aside after class one day to ask if my dad’s scrotum would be okay after he sat on a pen without realizing it.

  Nothing has been off the table when it comes to my mom and what she says to her clients.

  That’s why she has no idea that yes, I’ve lost my virginity. Yes, I’ve been on dates. And contrary to what she might think, no, there isn’t a stick up my ass.

  Luckily, I’ve been at school for the past two weeks for intense mandatory conditioning, free of my mother, but Coach Wilson always gives us a few days off before school starts and my mom knows it. So she picked me up, and I’ve spent the last few days listening to her go on about my love life. Trust me, I can’t wait to get back to school where Coach will run us into the ground with suicides and ball drills.

  Thankfully, tomorrow we pack up and make the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Brentwood. Certain teams report to school early to start training, soccer is one of them . . . and baseball, another.

  Did you think I had no idea who this kid is, standing uncomfortably next to me?

  Ha, okay. He may not know who I am, but I sure as hell know who he is.

  I would have to be living under a rock to not to know who Lincoln Castle is.

  Not only is his face plastered all over campus, but he’s best friends with Hartley Dashel, quarterback for the football team. They throw epic parties at their house that’s split between football and baseball players, and they walk around campus as if they own every inch of it . . . which they practically do.

  So it’s not surprising that he doesn’t know who I am, because honestly, the women’s soccer team is a small blip on the Brentwood radar. Our paths don’t cross unless I have the crazy notion of going to one of their parties, which has happened once in the two years I’ve attended Brentwood and ended with me head deep in the toilet from drinking far too much from their famous jungle juice barrel.

  Need not repeat.

  But of course, my mom somehow does his mom’s hair and offered the ridiculous suggestion of getting us together. My mom hates Boondoggles; the arcade games are too loud for her, and she says it’s crawling with germs because nothing is ever wiped down. So when she suggested we come here, I had my suspicions.

  When we ran into one of her friends, suspicions increased.

  And when her friend had a son my age, yeah . . . it was a setup.

  “Do you want to play air hockey?” he asks.

  Do we even have an option at this point? Our moms have completely cut us off and even if we attempt to interrupt their conversation, I know we’ll be put in our place.

  Twenty years old and still unable to make my own decisions.

  On a sigh, I say, “Fine,” and turn toward the arcade.

  Lincoln falls in step with me and, being the outgoing, people-person that he is, says, “I’m Lincoln, in case you didn’t get that.”

  I glance in his direction and catch a charming smile, the type of smile that pulls the attention of everyone around us . . . even the men.

  “Indie,” I say, and leave it at that.

  “So, you play soccer at Brentwood?”

  “Yup.”

  “Cool, I play baseball.”

  “Yeah, I know who you are.”

  “Uh-oh. Why doesn’t that sound like a flattering ‘I know you,’ but more of an annoyed ‘I know you’?” He pulls on the back of his neck. “Did we . . . you know . . .”

  I pause and snort. “Seriously? You don’t remember the girls you’ve slept with?”

  “No. I mean . . . there have been occasional drunk nights.”

  I snort and shake my head. “Trust me, Lincoln Castle, if we’d fooled around, you’d remember.” I snatch the game card from his hand and walk over to the air hockey table where I swipe the card, turning the machine on.

  Air floats up from pinholes in the table, a cheap version of Jock Jams plays through the table speakers, as I grab my paddle and the puck.

  Looking shy and not like the confident guy I’ve seen around campus he says, “I feel like a dick that you know me and I don’t know you.”

  “I don’t know you personally. I just know of you. Kind of hard to go to Brentwood and not know every guy on the baseball team.”

  “Yeah.” He looks to the side and says, “We don’t see much of the women’s soccer team.”

  I grin at him and place the puck on the table. “It’s because we don’t tend to hang out with douchebags.” I cock back and hit the puck right down the middle, scoring a point before he’s even gripped his paddle correctly.

  He blinks at me and then down at the goal. “I wasn’t ready.”

  “Not my fault.” I shrug.

  He bends down, grabs the puck from his slot, and places it on the table. He pins it to the table as he looks me in the eyes. “We’re not douchebags.” Then he whacks the puck off the side, but I track it perfectly and return the shot, bouncing off a bank and into his goal.

  When he looks up at me surprised, I smirk.

  “Did my mom bring me here so you could bust my balls?” He grabs the puck and sets it on the table. He whacks it up the middle this time, so I hit it back—barely missing the goal. It bounces off his paddle, right back at me, so I angle it better and score.

  “I think she brought you here hoping for a love connection.”

  Grumbling, he grabs the puck and says, “That’s going to blow up in her face.”

  “Are you telling me you’re not instantly in love?” I roll my eyes, and we volley the puck back and forth until I shoot it down the middle into his goal.

  “The only instant thing that’s happening right now is the blow to my pride.”

  “Can’t handle losing to a girl?” I raise a brow at him.

  He hits the puck and we go back and forth. He almost scores a few times, but then I double bank the puck and make it in. That was a little trickier.

  “Can’t handle losing. Doesn’t matter what sexual organ you carry in your pants.”

  We go back and forth a few more times, but once I hit seven goals, the table cheers, announces player one as the winner, and then turns off.

  Lincoln tosses his paddle on the table and then grips the sides, staring me down. “How are you at basketball?”

  “Want to find out?” I smirk.

  “You know, I’m kind of scared you’re going to annihilate me at that too, but I’m too tempted to find a weakness at this point.”

  I brush past him and head toward the basketball games. “It’s going to be difficult to find one.”

  “Are you always this cocky?” he asks, catching up to me.

  “Not cocky, Castle. Confident.” I wink and then slide the card through two machines, releasing the basketballs into the bin in front of us. “Want to play random?”

  “Sure.” We both push the button for random and the clock counts down from three until it beeps for us to go.

  In rapid-fire motion, we both shoot our basketballs. I don’t bother focusing on how he’s doing, even though I can hear his points dinging next to me. I focus on my basket, shooting ball after ball. I’m so in the zone that I lose track of time and when the buzzer sounds, I glance at my score of sixty-three and quickly look at his.

  Sixty-three.

  A tie.

  “Fuck, are you serious?” Lincoln laughs, and lets out a heavy breath. He leans against the machine and sizes me up. “Rematch?”

  “Obviously,” I answer, sliding the card through both slots again. “There is no tying in sports.”

  “At least we have that in common.”

  * * *

  “You crossed the line.”

  “I did not cross the line,” I counter.

  “Uh, I saw your toe cross the line.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “You’re fucking cheating,” he shoots back.

  I cross my arms over my chest and turn toward a sweaty Lincoln. “I do not cheat.”

  “Maybe not intentionally, but I was watching your foot, and it crossed the line. The rules we created on this napkin”—he waves our rules napkin in front of my face—“it clearly states if you cross the line you’re immediately disqualified.”

  “I know what the napkin says. I wrote it down.” I snatch the napkin from him. “But I didn’t cross the line.”

  “Shall we review the footage?” Lincoln asks, holding up his phone now.

  “You recorded me?”

  “Of course I did. After I saw your foot inching forward during the first round, I knew I had to keep an eye on you.”

  Not worried, I nod at his phone and say, “Sure, review the footage. It’s going to be really embarrassing when you’re wrong.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He makes a show of typing in his password and pulling up the video. At this point in the night, I honestly wouldn’t expect anything less from him. After nine rounds of basketball, he was the winner. I took him down in Skee-Ball, and now at the football tossing game, he’s held the high score for the last three rounds, putting me behind.

  When we reached the football game, Lincoln grew more serious than before, and he demanded we come up with rules to abide by, because according to him, I like to lean forward, bringing me closer to scoring. Can you tell the boy’s reaching? But I gave in to his demands and we wrote up a “contract,” one he apparently has memorized.

  Coming up next to me, Lincoln holds his phone, which has a crack right down the middle, and I can’t help but notice how big his hands are. Long fingers, wide palms, hands that can handle a ball . . . and a woman.

  “This might be embarrassing for you, so I want you to prepare yourself.”

  I clear my throat and lean in closer, ignoring the masculine and earthy scent of his cologne. “Just play the damn thing.”

  He chuckles and presses play. The video lights up with arcade sounds, but you don’t see anything but my feet. We both lean in closer, watching carefully, and just as the video starts to come to an end, clear as day, my foot passes over the line.

  “Son of a—”

  “Ah-ha!” Lincoln shouts. “I fucking told you.” He raises his hand over my head and points down at me, calling out to anyone who wants to listen. “Cheater, we have a cheat—” He stops and looks around. “Hey, where did our moms go?”

  I turn and spot the table they had commandeered. It’s vacant. “Uh, they can’t possibly be playing games. My mom hates them.”

  Lincoln looks around, his brow creasing in concern. He checks his pockets and says, “Well, my mom couldn’t have gone far, I have the keys to the car.”

  “Let me text my mom,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket.

  Indie: Where are you?

  I press send and almost immediately, my phone starts to ring.

  “Hey Mom, where are you?”

  Lincoln leans in, as if he’s trying to listen in on the conversation.

  “Hey honey. Laura started to get a headache from the loud arcade games, so I took her home. We didn’t want to bother you two since you were having so much fun.”

  “You left?” I ask, as Lincoln’s eyes grow wide.

  “Well, yes, for Laura. Headaches can be a real cause of pain, Indie.”

  “That’s great, Mom, but how do you expect me to get home?”

  “Laura told me Lincoln is quite a responsible driver. I have the utmost confidence that he’ll be able to handle my girl. When you two are finished, have him drive you home. Okay, got to go. Love you.”

  “You can’t be”—the phone goes dead—“serious,” I finish, lowering my phone and then looking at the ceiling in frustration.

  Honestly, I’m not surprised. My mom has gone to great lengths before to get what she wants, but this? Leaving me at a restaurant? Now that’s a new level for her.

  “So, your mom left?” Lincoln asks.

  I pocket my phone and say, “Both our moms left.”

  “Wait, my mom left too?”

  I nod, lips pressed together, only to form a pop when I say, “Yup.” I point at him. “Your mom is the reason they left so early. Apparently, she’s been hit with a headache.”

  Lincoln rolls his eyes and takes a seat on the football arcade game. He picks up one of the footballs I never got a chance to throw. “Yeah, I’m sure she’s really aching right now.” His head drops as he shakes it and laughs. “Monday can’t come soon enough.”

  “Tell me about it. I wanted to stay in Chicago this summer, but my mom wouldn’t have it. She needed ‘one more summer with her girl’ as she put it. More like one more summer meddling in my life.”

  “From the way tonight turned out, I’m going to assume you’ve had a similar summer to mine. Constantly being tricked into going out with someone?”

  “Yup.” I lean against the arcade game as well, and our shoulders touch. “The worst date of them all was with the kid who works at the ice cream stand. Apparently, my mom thought he was my age. Turns out, he’s seventeen.”

  “Oh shit.” Lincoln laughs, still tossing the football. My gaze travels to his forearm and hand. I watch as they flex and retract with every catch and throw. Wow, he really does have great hands. “So, what you’re telling me is that I’m not the worst date you’ve had this summer?”

  “I wouldn’t qualify this as a date.”

  “No?” He turns to face me. “What would we have to do to make this a date?”

  His charming smile releases a wave of butterflies in my stomach, a feeling I don’t think I’ve ever felt when a guy has looked at me.

  I’ve spent so much time training to be the best, to earn a full-ride scholarship from Brentwood, the premiere college in the country for sports, that I’ve never put any effort into dating, or men for that matter. They’ve just been a means to an end for me. When I’ve needed the adrenaline release, a moment to escape my busy schedule, I’ve hooked up. Some repeats, some one-night stands, but nothing of any substance, nothing that’s even remotely given me butterflies.