Indie: Don’t. I just want to be alone. Have fun with Hutton. Tell Linc I’ll talk to him later.

  * * *

  My feet pound against the tread of the treadmill, sweat drips down my chest and off my face, and my mind is focused on the speed number in front of me. Nothing else.

  Double digits. I have to get to double digits.

  I move the dial up another notch.

  Nine point five.

  I stay there. My legs are flying, and my lungs are exhausting themselves as I cross the forty-minute mark.

  One more minute. Hit ten.

  I ramp up the treadmill to speed ten and feel the tension in my legs as they fly so fast that it doesn’t feel like I’m touching the tread. Just flying in place. My eyes focus on the countdown—thirty more seconds.

  My pulse skyrockets.

  My lungs search for air.

  My legs feel like noodles.

  Ten more seconds.

  Five, four, three, two, one . . .

  I slow the treadmill to a jog and then a walk, putting my hands on top of my head as I attempt to catch my breath.

  The burn’s a satisfying sensation.

  Until I look up to find Lincoln standing at the edge of the treadmill, a not-so happy look on his face.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, startled. I grip the handles of the treadmill. I slow it down to barely a walk and try to speak over my racing heart. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s been four days, Indie.”

  I move my hands back to over my head and look away. “Haven’t been counting.”

  He walks around to the buttons and stops the treadmill. “Brian said you’re running two-a-days in here, beating your body up. What the hell is going on?”

  “Training. You should know what that is, Lincoln.”

  He shakes his head and says, “No, you’re not pulling this bullshit on me.” He takes me by my arm and hustles me out of the training room and into a private corridor near the locker rooms. “Talk, now.”

  “For being fuck buddies, you’re being awfully possessive,” I say, knowing it’s not the right thing to say but also not appreciating his abrasiveness.

  “I’m being a concerned friend, Indie. Did you forget that part?”

  Ugh, I hate that he’s right.

  I lean against the wall and say, “Can we not do this here?”

  “This is the only way to get you.”

  “I mean, can I take a shower and then you come over?”

  “Are you . . . will you let me in?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay.” He lets out an exhausted breath. “I’ll bring food. That work?”

  “Yeah.” I push off the wall to walk by him but not before saying, “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “I hope all good.”

  I shrug. “We’ll see.”

  “Indie,” he calls after me as I walk away. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  * * *

  The door to my bedroom clicks shut and Lincoln stands in front of it, a small pizza in one hand, drinks in the other. I’ve been dreading this conversation ever since he pulled me off the treadmill. I’ve been dreading it because it still hurts to talk about what my mom told me.

  Stings actually.

  Burns.

  Like I’m being ripped apart.

  And I still haven’t heard from my dad.

  Without saying a word, Lincoln sets everything down on my desk and then sits in front of me on my bed. He tilts my chin up and says, “Listen right now. I’m here because I care about you. Because you’re my best friend. Because when I sense that you’re not in a good headspace, I want to make sure you’re going to be okay. Do you understand that?” I nod, tears already starting to well in my eyes. “I’m not here to be lied to, to be tossed around as if what we have doesn’t matter, and I’m sure as hell not here to be ignored. So, you’re going to tell me what happened between you and your mom and then we’re going to eat some pizza. Got it?”

  I nod and take a deep breath as the first wave of tears hits me. I wipe them away and then pull my knees into my chest.

  “I’m sorry about distancing myself. It’s been a tough pill to swallow, and I haven’t wanted to talk about it.” Even with Scarlett, despite her pushing.

  “I can understand that. But I’m here now and bottling it up isn’t going to help, so tell me what’s going on.”

  “Can I ask you something first?”

  “Anything,” he says, scooting farther on my bed and leaning against the wall while his long legs stretch out in front of me.

  “You and me, this is just fun, right? I want to make sure this isn’t going anywhere for you, that we’re just playing it cool.”

  His brow pinches together. “That’s what we talked about.”

  “Okay, because this can’t go anywhere for me. It has to stay the way it is. Friends. I’m not emotionally available for anything else.” And I never will be.

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “Just promise me, Linc,” I say, a tear spilling over my cheek. “Promise it will stay where it is. Relationships are fucked up. Marriage is a joke, something I don’t ever see myself participating in.”

  “Did something happen with your parents?”

  “Linc, promise me,” I say, needing to hear the words from his lips.

  He looks down at his hands and I see him swallow hard before he looks back up at me, an intensity in his eyes I’ve never seen. “Promise,” he chokes out.

  “Thank you.” Relief washes through me, and the tightening in my lungs starts to ease. I scoot back so my shoulder is touching his and we’re sitting side by side.

  His hand falls to my knee. “What happened, Indie?”

  “My parents are getting a divorce. And I know you probably saw that coming, but I don’t know, I thought their situation was a phase. But my dad got an apartment that my mom helped him pick out. He’s living with his girlfriend, and uh . . . my mom’s boyfriend is moving in.”

  “Shit, Indie. I’m—”

  “With his daughter.”

  Lincoln pauses and then says, “Oh.”

  “My mom came down here to tell me her happy news. That Dad and she were happy. Oh, and to ask me if Priscilla, that’s her name, could have my room. After they’d picked out her new comforter and the new color for the walls.”

  “Have, as in . . .”

  “As in, take it over. Mom’s packing up all my shit, painting the room pink, and gaining the perfect princess daughter she’s always wanted. Don’t worry though, I have you to support like the good little woman I am, so my mom thinks I’m taken care of.”

  “Wait, what?”

  I sigh in frustration. “It’s been a thing with me and my mom. She always thought soccer was something fun for me to do, has never taken it seriously, even when I signed my letter of intent, receiving a full-ride. She never got it. Always told me there’s more than soccer. She can’t see that I’m also getting a degree at Brentwood that will bring employment once I graduate . . . if I don’t go pro. She ignores that. As if I’ll never be able to be whole on my own or support myself. And I’m guessing that’s why she spent the whole summer trying to hook me up. Hook me up, when she’s the one who can’t even stay faithful in a committed relationship. A marriage. She’s such a . . . hypocrite.”

  “Indie, it takes two people for a marriage not to work.”

  “Are you defending her?” I snap, facing him.

  “No,” he recovers quickly. “No, I’m not. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Because I’m just as mad at my dad. He’s the one who checked out. He hasn’t even tried to have a solid relationship with me. At least my mom attempts to connect, even if it’s for a shitty reason.” A billowing heat rises in my chest as anger starts to crest. “What do they expect me to do? Come home for winter break and act like everything’s okay? My mom said I could split time between the two places, but where the fuck am I supposed to sleep? On the couch? When some girl I don’t even know takes my bed?” Another tear slips down my face. “They’re both starting new lives . . . without me.”

  “Indie,” he says on a sigh and tries to pull me onto his lap.

  “No. Okay, Lincoln? I don’t want to be comforted, I want . . .” My lip trembles and my mind freezes on me. I want an escape. I want out of my head. I don’t want to think anymore. I need to check out.

  I sit up on my knees and pull my shirt over my head, revealing my bare chest. Lincoln’s eyes go wide and when I reach for him to lie down, he puts his hand out, holding me in place.

  “Indie, I’m not going to have sex with you right now. Not when you’re so upset.”

  “I don’t need you to baby me, Lincoln. I need you to fuck me.”

  “And I’m not going to fuck you when you’re not in a good headspace. We don’t use each other like that.”

  Covering my breasts, I say, “Then just leave.” I point to the door, emotions bubbling up so fast that I can’t control the torrent of tears taking over.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, pulling me down on the bed with him, curling me into his chest. I resist it at first, but when he rubs my back soothingly, I melt into his side and cry.

  I cry hard.

  I finally let months of resentment pour out of me.

  And Lincoln holds me the entire time.

  Never moving.

  Only pulling me in tighter as sobs wrack my body.

  He kisses the top of my head when I finally calm down. “You matter. You realize that, Indie? You matter to a lot of people and the empty feelings you have right now, feeling like you’re being replaced, like you don’t matter . . . aren’t true. Do you hear me?” When I don’t say anything, he squeezes me tighter, his voice growing rough. “You fucking matter, Indie.”

  I nod, unable to stop the onslaught of tears.

  “You fucking matter,” he repeats.

  I don’t know how long we lie there until we both drift off to sleep, forgetting about the pizza and anything else that’s happening in the world. It’s just me and Lincoln.

  My rock.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LINCOLN

  JANUARY

  Buzzing and fucking horny as hell, I sprint up Indie’s staircase and throw her door open only to find her completely naked and spread out on her bed.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, tearing my shirt off and tossing it to the floor.

  She giggles and says, “Shut the door.”

  I kick it closed and then quickly strip down to nothing. I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out an accordion of condoms that nearly touch the floor. She laughs even harder.

  “Miss me?” she asks.

  “Like you can’t even believe,” I say, flinging myself on her bed and tackling her. My lips find hers, and I’m reminded why I’ve been so goddamn thirsty for this girl ever since Christmas Eve.

  Her mouth is magic.

  Her body is fire.

  And her touch is an addiction to me, something I crave every goddamn second of the day.

  After Indie told me what was going on with her shitty parents, things were awkward between us for a few days. I felt her pulling away, but I didn’t let that happen. I couldn’t, not when she was feeling so broken, not after she made me make that promise. Because that promise felt like the finale to what we were doing, and I didn’t like that at all. It didn’t feel good. Didn’t settle well. So, I kept pushing, making sure she didn’t hide in a hole and eventually, the gray clouds looming over her cleared, and I started to see my girl again. Well, a slightly more cynical Indie.

  She spent most of her winter break at school. Scarlett stayed with her until a few days before Christmas, and then she flew out to see her parents. I had to go home right after finals were over because it was my last Christmas before the draft, and my moms wanted time with me, something Indie understood completely. I was missing her like crazy during the break so when she showed up at my doorstep on Christmas Eve with her present, I was more than ecstatic.

  And her present . . . a mind-blowing blow job in my Jeep. I got home in a daze, pretty sure my moms knew exactly what had gone down.

  Indie spent Christmas with her mom, slept on the couch like she thought she would, then went to her dad’s—didn’t use the indoor pool—and then drove back to school. I hated knowing that she was there alone, but she said she was good. She trained and worked on her footwork.

  When I got back to campus today, I was nervous to see where her head was at but when she told me to get my ass over to her apartment, I went.

  And finding her on her bed, a smile on her face, the happy Indie I’ve grown to know shining back at me? I’ve never felt more relieved in my life.

  “God, you taste good,” I say, moving my lips down her neck to her collarbone.

  “Condom now,” she mutters.

  I tear one off the sleeve and then quickly sheath myself. Then she’s up on all fours, sticking her ass in the air.

  “Christ,” I mutter, gripping her hips and moving behind her. “Are you ready, babe?”

  I move my fingers over her arousal and feel how slick she is. Oh fuck, she’s ready.

  “Yes, Lincoln. Please,” she begs.

  I position my cock at her entrance and push forward, slamming into her. We both let out a loud groan as I fill her up.

  “Is Scarlett here?” I ask, pained.

  “No. Scream all you want.”

  I chuckle and start moving in and out of her, using her hips as a guide.

  “God, I missed this,” I say. “The way your pussy clenches around my cock so perfectly. So good, Indie.”

  I thrust harder and am already feeling the tickle of my orgasm up the backs of my legs.

  Indie moves her hand between her legs, and even though I like to do the work for her, if this is what she needs—she’s that ready—fuck, she can get do whatever she wants. I love that about her.

  “How does that feel?” I ask her.

  “Amazing. Oh my God, so good.” Her hands fall to the bed where she braces herself. “Oh Jesus, Linc, I’m almost there. Right there.”

  “Me too,” I say, my heavy breath making it hard to talk. Shit, this was fast. Faster than expected.

  I lean over her back and grab one of her tits as I continue to slam into her. With skillful fingers, I roll her nipple and pinch it, extracting a sharp hiss from her and causing her pussy to contract around my cock.

  “Fuck, yes,” I grunt, doing it again and again until she’s panting and crying out my name, her orgasm ripping through her as mine tightens and sends me into another world.

  I’m still behind her, my cock twitching inside her.

  “Too good,” I mumble. “Way too fucking good.”

  She chuckles and then collapses to the bed. I take care of my condom and then climb back on her bed where I bring her on top of my chest so I can look at her. Face red, eyes sated, she looks freshly fucked, and it’s the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.

  I push a few stray hairs behind her ear and say, “Glad to have your boy toy back?”

  She laughs out loud, and then brings her hand to my crotch where she gives it a squeeze. I shudder under her, not prepared, and also fucking sensitive.

  “I would say so.” She places both of her hands on my chest and stares down at me. “Did your moms cry saying goodbye?”

  “They always do,” I answer, feeling weird talking about my parents when I know things are rocky for Indie. But she seems unfazed and honestly, I don’t know if I should be relieved or worried.

  Sadness can be a tricky thing. You can think someone is completely okay on the outside, but on the inside, they’re lonelier than ever. I’m nervous that Indie might be headed in that direction.

  But from the fresh look in her eyes right now, I can probably think otherwise.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask her, rubbing her back.

  “Good.” She smiles. “I’ve been volunteering at the public library in the children’s section all break.”

  “Really? How come you didn’t tell me?”

  She shrugs. “I’m telling you now.”

  “Okay,” I say, hesitantly. “What did you do?”

  “Everything from putting away books, checking out, setting up different displays, and my favorite was story and craft time. It felt like I was preparing my own classroom. Great experience and I really enjoyed working with the kids, even if some of them had snot hanging out of their nose.”

  “Ew, really?” I ask.

  “Oh Lincoln, so much snot. And you could tell the parents with one kid against the parents with multiple kids.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brimming with joy—something I haven’t seen from her in a while—she says, “One-kid parents have all these devices with them. Like special tissues called Boogie Wipes, specific for kids’ runny noses. They take one out, wipe the nose, and then everyone is sanitized.”

  “And what about the other parents?”

  Her smile grows wider. “Multiple-kid parents are the ones who see the snot dripping, call the kid over—while holding another kid in their arms like a sack of dog food—and then wipe the snotty kid’s nose with their own clothing. They shove them back into play so they can deal with the sack of potatoes.”

  A laugh bubbles out of me. “Seriously?”

  I nod. “Also, one-kid parents have their hair done, look presentable and like dignified members of society.” She shakes her head, growing serious. “Multiple-kid parents, they’re . . .” She clutches her heart. “They’re sprung from the depths of hell, raggedy monsters, stomping around the earth, repeating the same thing over and over again—don’t touch that, don’t touch that, don’t touch that—while Cheerios cling to their hair and a toddler’s finger is shoved up their nose.”

  I laugh even louder. “So what I’m hearing from you is that you’re never going to be a multiple-kid parent.”

  “Or a parent at all.” She shakes her head. “I like kids, but after this break I realized one thing: it’s nice to give them back to their rightful owners. Plus, kids mean marriage, and I think we both know I’m never getting married.”