“Jasmine, I want to introduce you to Lincoln. Lincoln, this is Jasmine, a freshman on the soccer team. She has a crush on you, and I think you two would hit it off.”

  “Oh my God, Indie, what are you doing?” she asks, horrified.

  “Shh,” I whisper into her ear. “Be cool. I’m hooking you up.”

  Because he’s a nice guy, Lincoln waves. Albeit, unnaturally, but he still waves. “Hey Jasmine.” Then he peeks around Jasmine, who has two inches on me with her heels, and he says, “Can I have a word with you, Indie?”

  “Maybe later.” I push Jasmine closer to Lincoln. “You two get to know each other. I’m going to get a drink. Mingle.” I wiggle my fingers. “Talk to you later.”

  I spin on my heel, my pulse skyrocketing, and my face heating to lava levels as I try to locate the drinks.

  Kitchen. They’d be in the kitchen.

  Beer is not going to do it for me. I need to go for the classic jungle juice that the boys are known for. I take a red cup from the stack and fill it to the top from the giant water cooler on the kitchen island, manned by two freshmen baseball players. If anything, the guys are extra safe about spiking of drinks, especially when they mix it themselves.

  Drink in hand, I turn back around looking for someone, anyone to talk to.

  Brandon from the basketball team. Perfect. He’ll do. We’ve had a few general education classes together.

  “Hey Brandon,” I say, walking up to him.

  “Indie, hey, amazing fucking win today. Congrats.”

  “Thank you. Were you there?”

  “Hell yeah. Got hooked attending your games after opening day. They’re intense. I swear my ass cheeks clench every time the ball gets close to the goal.” I chuckle and he winces. “Too much information?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s good to know we can make your butt cheeks clench.”

  “Offense and defense,” he adds with a cheeky grin. “It’s not like basketball where you can turn around and quickly make up for that lost point. Getting the ball remotely close to the goal is a feat on its own, and then a goal. Hell, it makes sense why there’s such a celebration after each one. But hey, you guys didn’t take your shirts off like that Brandy girl in the Olympics.”

  “Yeah, not all soccer players rip their shirts off to celebrate.”

  “Shame, was kind of hoping for a show.” He chuckles and so do I.

  “How’s your season going? I haven’t been able to catch any games yet,” I say.

  “Our schedules make it hard to support each other, I get it. But it’s going pretty well. We got a transfer this year from Finland and holy shit, the guy is good. Tall, scary as shit, deep voice. He’s a monster in center, and he might bring us some of the attention the baseball team gets. Speaking of which . . .” Brandon nods behind me and I turn around just in time to see a very angry-looking Lincoln walking toward me.

  Uh-oh.

  Doesn’t seem like Jasmine sold herself well.

  “Indie, a word,” he says in a clipped tone.

  And because I’m stubborn—like Scarlett pointed out—I say, “Don’t be rude, Lincoln. I’m talking with Brandon.”

  Reading the room—or the friendship—Brandon clears his throat and says, “Uh, I actually should take a piss. I’ve been holding it for a bit. I’ll catch you later, Indie.”

  “Okay, sure. Bye, Brandon.”

  Not even before he’s out of earshot, Lincoln spins me around to face him and says, “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Nothing.” I’ve never seen Lincoln this angry before.

  “Bullshit, Indie. When did we start lying to each other?”

  “I’m not lying, I’m just . . . trying to make sure we have fun.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I came here to have fun with you. No one else.”

  I look to the side, trying to come up with something, anything to get the subject off me. “When was the last time you had sex?”

  “What?” he asks, leaning back as if I slapped him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Sex, Lincoln. It’s when you stick your dick—”

  “I know what sex is,” he says, taking a step forward, so I take a step back, running up against the wall next to the kitchen. Crap. Nowhere else to go. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “It’s a simple question, Lincoln. Why won’t you answer it?”

  “It’s not that I’m avoiding the question, Indie, but I’m just wondering where this is coming from.”

  “You know, if you can’t answer it then there is no point—”

  “Since before I met you,” he says, his hand falling against the wall, right above my head, his other hand gripping my waist, pinning me in place. “I haven’t had sex since the summer. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “I . . . I . . .” His intense brown eyes bore down on me, his eyebrows sharp and menacing. I can taste his irritation on the tip of my tongue with how close he is, and I’m conscious that Scarlett was right. This was a mistake.

  “When was the last time you had sex?” he asks, his voice coming out hoarse.

  “I don’t remember,” I answer honestly.

  “Okay, so now that that’s out of the way, where the fuck is this coming from?”

  When I look away, he grips my chin and forces me to look at him. Letting out a short breath that seems to keep stopping in my throat, I say, “Jasmine’s a nice girl.”

  “Jesus fuck,” he shouts, pushing off the wall and turning away from me. The people around us all stop and watch Lincoln as he pierces both hands through his hair, while I stand there nervously, trying to figure out how to stop these unfamiliar feelings from pumping through my veins, making me want to throw up and flee.

  The tension in his shoulders is palpable. His anger straining all the way to the tips of his fingers that are digging into his hair.

  No matter what, this conversation is not going to end well, so instead of pushing it any further, I decide to end it and walk away.

  The only exit is past him, so I take a deep breath and maneuver around him quickly. I make it through but his voice booms through the loft, calling out to me. I don’t stop. I keep going all the way to the stairs that lead to the first floor, taking them two at a time and just as I reach the street, I hear the pounding of Lincoln’s feet behind me.

  My place isn’t that far away, a few blocks, so I walk it, thankful that I’m wearing cute blue Keds rather than heels like every other girl in the loft.

  “Indie, stop,” he calls out.

  I don’t. I keep walking, picking up my pace, but it’s no match for Lincoln’s long stride. Before I know it, he’s standing in front of me, looking distraught and irritated.

  “Fucking stop,” he says, catching his breath.

  “Lincoln, please let me by.”

  “Not until you talk to me. Jesus, Indie, what the fuck happened in between hugging me in the stands and the party? Does it have to do with going out to dinner with your mom?”

  “Nothing happened,” I shout, so sick of being asked twenty questions. “Nothing happened.”

  “Then why the fuck are you trying to hook me up with your teammate?”

  “Because—”

  “Because why?” he shouts.

  Anger and fear come together at a crossroads in my brain. Fear of admitting that I want Lincoln—more than just as a friend—and anger that my mom pushed me to this point. Everything was fine between us. Everything was comfortable. Now, because of my stupid head, things are muddled . . . and they don’t feel right.

  “Because don’t you want to fuck someone? Don’t you want to stop babysitting me and maybe . . . I don’t know, go back to having sex?”

  “What in the actual fuck,” he says, gripping his hair. “Why do you care so much about my damn sex life?”

  “You were a sexual person before I came along. I don’t want to be cramping your style.”

  “You’re serious?” he asks, a crinkle in his brow.

  “Yes,” I answer, even though I honestly have no idea what I’m saying.

  “Unbelievable,” he says with annoyance and then pushes past me, his shoulder bumping into mine. But he doesn’t make it but three steps before he’s turning around, his voice rising. “Did it ever occur to you that I like the way things are? That I don’t need some random pussy to make me happy? That my life is actually pretty chill exactly as it is?”

  Yes?

  No?

  I want to believe him. And before seeing my mom today, I probably would have. But she’s right. I knew who Lincoln Castle was before I met him. He wasn’t a manwhore, chasing a different girl every night. But look at him! Women want him. He’s not oblivious to that. And due to the amount of time he’s spent with me, he hasn’t had much time to hook up. God, he’s even suggested that I make it hard for him, and surely, like any other red-blooded male, he’s needed to deal with that. Wouldn’t he resent me for that? Won’t he tire of spending time with me soon anyway? And then what? And then he’ll go back to how it was for him.

  “I was just—”

  “Just what, Indie? Letting your mom get in your head? What did she tell you? Did she express my mom’s concerns, is that what she told you?” I open my mouth to answer him, but what do I say? He nods slowly, his neck straining with anger. “I see. So your mom tells you that my mom was concerned about you leading me on, right?”

  “I’m not,” I say, wanting to state that for the record.

  “Yeah, I’m reading that loud and clear, Indie. You’re not leading me on. You’re fucking pushing me away.” He shakes his head and says, “I’ll see you around.”

  “Wait, Lincoln, let’s talk about this,” I say out of desperation, realizing how fucked up my head is and how I should have just stayed home rather than prove a stupid point.

  “Nah, I’m good. Maybe I’ll go look for some pussy like you desperately want me to.”

  Hands shoved into his pockets, he walks away, and all I can think as I take in his retreating back is how astronomically stupid I am.

  * * *

  The worst thing about having your friend in a class with you . . . is facing them when you’re fighting.

  Normally, my Sunday after a home game has been spent lounging all day in Lincoln’s bed, taking naps, eating takeout, watching movies, and playing games. It’s become a ritual. And then we wake up early the next morning and train.

  Well, there was no Sunday ritual. I spent all Sunday in my own bed, crying on and off and ignoring every text from Scarlett after I didn’t let her into my room.

  For our Monday training session this morning, I showed up and waited outside the stadium, hoping he’d come, but he didn’t.

  He was a no-show, and that hurt more than anything because I know how dedicated he is to obtaining his goal. He must really hate me.

  Which leads me to class. It’s a fifty-fifty chance that he doesn’t show up and I’m leaning more toward he’s going to be a no-show. So when I see him come through the classroom door, I’m surprised.

  I’m even more surprised when he bypasses our usual row and goes up front to sit with Rusty, who gives him a high five.

  Ouch.

  “Told you not to fucking try to hook him up,” Scarlett says, taking a seat next to me. She normally sits with Rusty, because of needing to focus on what the professor is saying, but she must see how pathetic I look and spared me the embarrassment of sitting by myself.

  “Can you not, right now?” I ask.

  “Listen, I gave you your space yesterday, but we leave for Thanksgiving break soon. Do you really want to go back home, knowing he’s only twenty minutes away, but not be able to see him?”

  I didn’t even think about that.

  Fuck.

  I bury my head in my hands and Scarlett rubs my back as I hold back the threatening tears. Not in class. Not here. Not where he can see me.

  Leaning in close, Scarlett says, “If you’re this upset about what happened Saturday night, doesn’t that tell you something?”

  Sarcastically I say, “Yeah, never open my mouth about anything.”

  “I’m serious, Indie. You need to figure out your priorities, because there are people who want to be a part of your life, who really care about you. But you push them away. I think it’s time to start letting them in.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, my throat growing so tight that it’s painful. “I can’t talk about it anymore.”

  “Okay, I understand.” She rubs my back and when the professor walks in, I try to focus on anything but Lincoln sitting in front of me.

  But it’s useless, because I stare at him, noticing how his broad shoulders fill out his hoodie, for the entire class. How his hat sits perfectly backwards on his head, how he shifts from side to side every so often, getting comfortable. I miss the brush of his shoulder against mine. By the time class is over, I’m a complete mess on the verge of a breakdown but, desperate to talk to him, I quickly pack up and book it out of the class to wait for him. When he appears, my breath catches as nerves rip through me, causing my legs to shake.

  He starts to walk past me when I call out to him, “Lincoln, wait.”

  He stops and so does Rusty. Not turning to look at me, Lincoln says, “Go on, I’ll catch you later, man.”

  “Okay.” Rusty glances at me, gives me a sad smile, and then walks away, leaving me alone with Lincoln.

  When he turns around, he says, “What, Indie? Are you looking to see if I fucked a girl this weekend?”

  My lip trembles, and the realization that he could have had sex makes me so physically ill, I can’t spit out my words.

  He grips the straps of his backpack and rocks back on his heels. “I didn’t. Thought about it, just to appease you, but I didn’t.”

  The smallest amount of tension leaves my shoulders, but not enough to make me feel better.

  “That’s”—I swallow hard—“that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

  He pulls out his phone and looks at the time. “You have about five minutes. I have to meet with my coach.”

  God, he’s so mad. There’s normally a sparkle in his eyes when we’re together. A smile tilting his lips, a lightness about him that makes it so easy to joke around with him. But when he’s like this, angry, irritated . . . hurt, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen this kind of anger in him. What do I say? How do I fix this? Because, fuck, I need to fix this. I can’t lose him. I can’t lose my best friend.

  “I’m sorry about Saturday. I wasn’t—”

  “You know, on second thought, I really don’t have time for this.” He takes a step back and my heart sinks into a cold darkness as my veins freeze over. Scratching the side of his cheek, he says, “Brandon did ask if you were okay. I gave him your number, you know, in case you want to fuck him. What are friends for, right, Indie?”

  “Lincoln.”

  He takes another step back. “I thought I knew what you wanted, but I guess I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things, but the stunt you pulled on Saturday, instead of coming to talk to me, it was fucked up.”

  “I know and that’s why I’m trying to apologize.”

  “A little too late, Indie.” Another step away. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Lincoln, please,” I call out, but he’s already too far away.

  Tears stream down my face, but I quickly wipe them away as I walk in the opposite direction, toward the events center . . . where I plan on running on the treadmill until my legs can’t take anymore. What have I done? What the fuck have I done?

  Chapter Fourteen

  LINCOLN

  “So I gave you all of yesterday to sulk, but today is another day and the sulking is done,” Mom says, coming up to me with some of her homemade cookies. She sets the plate in front of me and then sits next to me on the couch.

  “It’s nine in the morning. Too early for cookies.”

  “It’s never too early for cookies,” she says. “Especially when you’re on break.” She leans over, picks up a cookie, and hands it to me.

  On a sigh, I take a bite and lean my head against the couch.

  “Are you going to tell me what put you in this mood?”

  “I don’t know. Are you going to gossip about it to your hairstylist?”

  She winces and instant regret flashes over her face. “Does this have to do with Indie?”

  “What do you think, Mom?”

  “Laura, where are all the cookies?” Mama calls from the kitchen.

  “In here,” Mom says. Then, for some reason, she says to me, “When you’re gone, we eat cookies at all hours of the day.”

  “Especially when you have to look at hairy balls slapping against a rather loose vagina,” Mama says, bringing a plate over and putting two cookies on it for herself.

  “I thought you were done with the porn site,” I say, thankful for the reprieve.

  Mama smiles, as if she won the jackpot. “Scored another one. It was all rather exciting when they contacted us.”

  There’s something seriously wrong with my moms.

  “Congratulations, I guess.”

  Mama pauses and studies me for a few breaths, and then she takes a seat across from us. “He has a crinkle in his brow, Laura.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Why is there a crinkle in our baby boy’s brow? There shouldn’t be a crinkle. It’s Thanksgiving break. I’m making crockpot chicken, like you love, and extra loaves of cranberry nut bread so you can take them back to school with you. There should be joy in the house. Lots and lots of joy. No crinkles.”

  “Michelle, he’s upset at Indie.”

  “I’m upset at you and Indie,” I correct her, flopping back on the couch.

  Mama holds her hand up and stands. “This is on you, Laura. I told you not to meddle. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go stare at large cocks.”

  I’m completely unfazed at this point.

  When Mama leaves, Mom turns toward me and takes my hand in hers. “What happened?”

  Not that I really want to talk about this with my mom, since she’s the one who said too much to Indie’s mom in the first place, but it’s also eating away at me. I feel like I don’t have a choice if I want to enjoy Thanksgiving and not sulk during the few days that I’m here.