“That’s not true,” Jerry counters, but I don’t think he truly believes himself.

  “So not only does he refer to me as the panini line girl, but he also thinks I’m some kind of idiot who thinks they know more than his coaches.”

  “You do know more than them.”

  I tilt my head to the side in exhaustion. “I don’t, Jerry. They’re the head coaches at Brentwood University for a reason. They’re the best.” Sighing, I glance toward Lake Michigan, easy as our campus is right next to it. “It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s not like our paths will cross again.”

  “You never know, you could run into him in the dining hall again.”

  “We are no longer eating at Lakeview, because we’re going to slum it at Lincoln dining hall to avoid any interaction with the baseball team.”

  “What?” His brows shoot up. “And miss out on the paninis? No fucking way.”

  “It’s the price you pay for embarrassing me.”

  He shakes his head, determination in the sharp back and forth. “Nope, not happening. Have fun eating by yourself at Lincoln. Jerry is getting himself some paninis.”

  Ridiculous.

  Then again, I don’t want to punish myself either, because their paninis are really freaking good. It’s not just the crunch of the bread and the delicious insides of the sandwich, but the sauces. Man, do they have the best sauces.

  I take a sip of my coffee and look him square in the eyes. “Fine, but for the next three nights you’re buying my dinner, and at the game on Saturday, you’re getting me a giant box of popcorn all for myself.”

  “You’re still going to go to the game?” A smile stretches across his face.

  “It’s not like he’ll see me, and I refuse to let Carson Stone stand in the way of my love of baseball.”

  Chuckling, he wraps his arm around me and says, “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

  “It means I’m talking to you, but you’re not yet forgiven. That will take some time.”

  “Fair enough.” If there’s one thing I learned from being the only girl in my family, it was this. Do not give boys an inch, because they will always take a mile. Jerry’s smart. He knows he’s not off my shit list yet.

  We start to walk toward our class, Jerry’s arm around my shoulder, the familiar weight of his body pressing against mine. We met freshman year at orientation. We were both wearing Chicago Bobcat shirts and hats, totally twinning. We joked about who wore it better and a friendship was formed. Shane and Jerry were friends in high school, and I was quickly pulled into their little group, for which I am still very thankful. I’d been mildly concerned that I’d get the normal brush-off from college girls that I had all through high school, so these boys saved me. Even if they are annoying at times.

  Never—and I mean never—have we had any romantic feelings toward each other. They’re like brothers to me, two more—as if I need any more in my life. They protect me, tease me, let me use them as sounding boards, and they’re the main reason I wasn’t a hermit the entire four years of college. They also push me out of my comfort zone, which was exactly what Jerry tried doing, and even though I need to appreciate his attempt to make me feel uncomfortable for a good reason, it can’t happen again.

  Pausing, I look at him and say, “Please don’t do that again. I know you were trying to be helpful, but in the long run, it was anything but helpful. Just embarrassing.”

  His face softens and he pulls me into a big hug, his strong arms wrapping around me, holding me tightly. “I’m sorry, Milly. My intention wasn’t to embarrass you. I guess I was excited. We’ve always talked about you working for Brentwood one day.”

  “Yeah, in a dreamland situation, not in real life. We both know it’s a boys’ club when it comes to men’s sports.”

  “And that’s where you’re selling yourself short. You need to have confidence in yourself and your knowledge and stop hiding behind the fact that you’re a woman.”

  “I’m not hiding behind my gender.”

  “It’s what you bring up every time we suggest you offer assistance. We practically had to drag you to the field to get you to coach with us. You offered to help with only female sports in the weight room until we convinced you, you can do both.” He tips my chin up. “If men can coach both genders, you sure as shit can too.”

  Slightly ashamed, I stare at the ground. I’ve never thought I’m incapable of coaching male sports, but there is a definite boys’ club mentality in baseball. And that’s the wall I’m not certain I’ll ever scale. That unwritten code that defines the roles in coaching have most definitely deemed baseball coaching as a male-only profession. But I do appreciate Jerry’s and Shane’s faith in me. “You’re one in a million, Jerry. Not many people think the same way you do.”

  “Then those are people you don’t want to work with.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder again. “You are something special, Milly, and it’s about time you start to recognize it.”

  * * *

  “When you said I was buying you dinner, I wasn’t expecting you to buy out the entire dining hall.” Jerry stares at my loaded tray that I plopped on the table.

  “I’m not dumb. I know how to take advantage of a situation when I need to.”

  “Did you need to get three bags of chips?”

  I quickly make work of opening one of the bags—sea salt and vinegar—and pop a chip in my mouth. “Yup.”

  Shane laughs while eating his chicken enchiladas. “I don’t know why you’d expect anything less from Milly. She’s savage when it comes to things like this. Remember sophomore year when she made me buy her drinks at the bar for a month? She was drunk, not because she wanted to be, but out of spite.”

  “I was so sick that entire month, but I needed to prove a point.”

  “Point made. I had to work extra hours at the sporting goods store to support your short stint of drinking like a frat boy.”

  “And aren’t you glad you learned your lesson?” I take a bite of my taco and then sip on my very large Sprite.

  “Yup, I’ll never cross you again. I feel bad for your brothers. I can only imagine the childhood they had growing up with you.”

  “I wasn’t easy on them, that’s for sure.”

  “So have you run into the god of baseball since?” Shane asks.

  I shake my head. “No, thank goodness.”

  “Isn’t it weird that we’ve been here for three and a half years and it took that long for you to actually interact with him? And twice in one week? What are the odds?”

  “Unfortunate ones,” I mutter.

  “Please,” Jerry scoffs. “You totally have a crush on him.”

  “What?” I sit up straight. “No, I don’t.”

  “You should have seen her, Shane. She was all goo-goo eyes when she stepped up next to him. She could not stop staring at his chest.”

  “That is not true,” I say—it was his eyes—“and did you not just learn your lesson, Jerry? I have no problem presenting you with the cold shoulder again.”

  “You can’t double down on hate in one week, plus you’re always teasing us about some of the girl athletes we crush on.”

  “That’s different,” I say, while lifting my taco to my mouth.

  “How so?”

  I bite down on the crunchy shell, chew, and then swallow before answering. “Because you actually have a shot at being with one of them. When have I ever been attractive to the male species? Have you ever seen me go on a date since we’ve known each other?”

  “It’s because you’re too guarded to let anyone in,” Jerry says.

  “And it wouldn’t hurt if you actually did something with your hair every once in a while,” Shane points out. “The low ponytail isn’t attracting anyone.”

  “Hey.” I swat at Shane. “You try having this long hair. It’s impossible to work with. Plus, I braid it.”

  “Yeah, you braid it or put it in a low ponytail. Have you ever thought about curling it?”

  I chuckle. “I don’t even own a curling iron. I wouldn’t know how to work one if I wanted to. But that’s beside the point. Shouldn’t I want to be with a guy who’s attracted to my personality, not my looks?”

  “Yes,” Jerry says, “but you also hide beneath these big clothes and massive amount of hair.”

  “It’s because I don’t know how else to be,” I admit before I can stop myself. I set my taco down and rest my forehead on my hands.

  “Milly.” Shane scoots closer and puts his arm around me. “It’s not a bad thing, being guarded, but you”—he pauses and then whispers—“uh . . . Carson Stone is staring at us.”

  “What?” I snap as my stomach flips in on itself. I glance up just in time to see Carson with a tray of food and eyes set on me, walking toward a table of baseball players. When we make eye contact, I quickly duck away again. “Oh God, why?”

  “He’s probably eyeing the feast you have in front of you made for seven grown men,” Jerry says, digging his grave just a little deeper.

  “Shut it, Jerry,” I hiss and then lean into Shane. “Is he still looking? Please tell me he’s not still looking.”

  “He just sat down—”

  “Oh thank God.” I relax.

  “But he’s still looking and he has a crease between his brow.” Shane snuggles in closer to me. “It looks like Mister I can’t hit a ball right now is jealous.”

  “Are you high?” I whisper, ducking my head again, as if that will make me invisible. “He is not jealous. I’m not even close to his type. He’s probably wondering why I’m showing my face around the dining hall again after our embarrassing interaction.”

  “Or he’s wondering why you’re sticking your face in Shane’s armpit,” Jerry points out.

  “You could be his type. You don’t know.”

  I laugh, shifting out of Shane’s armpit, because I might as well show a shred of self-respect. “Believe me, I’m not his type. I see the girls that hang around the locker room, looking for a stupid invitation inside. You know, the busty-bosomed ladies.”

  “You’re busty,” Shane says. “You just refuse to show it.”

  “No one needs to see my cleavage but me.” I keep my body turned so I don’t have a view of Carson, and I’m not tempted to look at him.

  “Have your boobs ever seen the light of day?” Jerry asks.

  “Has your penis?”

  “How is that the same?” he asks, chuckling as Shane tenses next to me.

  “They are the same thing. A penis is stuffed in your pants just like my—”

  “Carson, wow, what brings you over here?” Shane asks, as my eyes widen and my pulse skyrockets, pushing my body temperature to an all-time high.

  My breath catches in my throat from embarrassment and nerves as my fight-or-flight response kicks in. I hope to the Lord above Shane is just fucking with me, because if I turn to find Carson Stone standing at the side of our table just as I was talking about penises being stuffed in pants, I might just keel over from mortification.

  Shoulders tense, lungs seized, I pause for a heartbeat waiting for Carson’s voice to answer the question. Maybe Shane really is pranking me, and for the love of God, let that be true.

  “Thought I’d talk to Melanie here.”

  Oh God. It’s not. And he doesn’t even remember my name. Could this get any worse?

  “It’s Milly,” Shane says, deadpan.

  “Shit. I’m sorry, Milly. That’s what I thought you said in the weight room but then I thought maybe I heard you wrong since not a lot of people our age are named Milly.”

  Slowly turning toward him, I give him a brief wave, not even bothering to make eye contact. “My parents named me after my grandma.”

  “Ah, nice.”

  “Yup.” I stare at my smorgasbord of food and for once, hate my vengeful tactic. Tacos, three bags of chips, a Caesar salad with far too much dressing on it to consider it healthy, a side of fries with two small cups of ketchup, a cherry pie slice, and four cookies.

  I want to die.

  “So about today . . .”

  Gaining enough courage to look up, I stare at his nose, because I can’t actually look him in the eyes at this point. “No need to talk about it. Everything is on the up and up.” I give him a thumbs up, hopefully dismissing him.

  Apparently my brush-off has zero effect on him, because he doesn’t move.

  “I really would like—”

  “Seriously, it’s fine.” Sighing, I finally look him in the eyes and see those perfectly wicked pupils I’ve quickly realized could be debilitating to any woman who comes in contact with them. “Don’t sweat it. I’m actually”—I stretch my arms over my head and yawn—“man, I’m tired. I’m going back to my dorm.” I stand abruptly.

  He gives me a once-over—because clearly, no matter the woman, they can’t help themselves—making me fully aware of the sweats and an oversized shirt I’m wearing. AKA, frumpy city. I tug on the hem of my shirt and sling my backpack over one shoulder as I push my glasses up my nose. Awkwardly, I pick up a cookie and hold it out to him. “Want a cookie to go?”

  He stares at it and then looks back at me. “I’m . . .”

  I don’t know what possesses me to do what I do next.

  Maybe the nerves.

  Maybe the sheer embarrassment from every odd interaction I’ve had with this man.

  Maybe because I’m the most socially awkward human ever to walk the planet.

  But instead of allowing him to finish his sentence, I smash the white chocolate macadamia nut cookie in his mouth . . . corking him shut with a baked good.

  Err . . .

  I stare at him in shock, eyes wide, lip trembling as he stands there, mouth full of cookie and a look of utter disbelief on his face.

  Oh sweet Jesus, I hope he’s not allergic to nuts.

  “Milly,” Shane whispers, no doubt out of pure shock.

  Pretty sure I just blackballed us from ever talking to another baseball player for the rest of our time at Brentwood.

  Laughing nervously, I adjust my glasses and say, “Good cookie, right? Yeah, delicious. Got to love the subtle hint of nuts. Hawaii in your mouth, am I right?” No answer. “Okay, then. I’ll . . . uh”—I thumb behind me—“I’ll be seeing you boys.” Because I can’t seem to control myself or anything I do, I salute Carson, bow my head, and make way back to my dorm, my cheeks burning in complete . . . there is no word adequate. Shame? Mortification? Distress? Misery?

  I did not just shove a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie in Carson Stone’s mouth . . .

  Oh God, but I did.

  * * *

  Complete darkness, only the subtle sounds of the other dorm rooms around me, just what I need right now. Being an RA is really paying off at the moment, because I don’t need to talk to anyone or look at anyone—well, unless one of the students need something, but I put up a sign on my door that said only if it’s an emergency. My floor is cool, they know I need a minute.

  And boy, do I need a minute.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I shoved a cookie in another human’s mouth to stop them from talking, without even thinking, arm propelled straight forward ending in a slam dunk into Carson Stone’s mouth.

  Since I haven’t seen any sort of breaking news report of one of Brentwood baseball’s finest athletes going into anaphylactic shock, I’m going to assume he’s good with the nuts.

  Thank God for small miracles.

  I’m never this awkward, this uneasy around guys, because I’ve always been one of them. I’ve never had a hard time hanging out with the opposite sex or striking up conversation, but there’s something about Carson, or the baseball team at Brentwood in general, that has my panties in a twist, making me say and do stupid things.

  Carson seems to be getting the brunt of it.

  Thank God I work with the golf team, because Lord knows if I was in the weight room with the entire baseball team, I would be shoving weights up who-knows-what all over the place.

  The training staff would ask me to leave, my services no longer needed.

  I press my hand against my forehead and stare at the dark ceiling, wondering how I’ll ever recover from this.

  One thing’s for sure, I’m not eating at Lakeview anymore, even if it’s the closest dining hall to my dorm. Even if they have the best view. Even if their paninis are extraordinary combinations of bread, sauces, and meats. Nope, can’t go back. Hyde Park it is and their lackluster choices for college cuisine.

  My phone buzzes next to me. I’m actually surprised it’s taken this long. It’s been at least two hours. Although . . . what if they were talking this entire time, trying to do damage control for my blunder?

  Panic explodes within me, and I quickly pick up my phone to see a text from Shane in the group text I share with him and Jerry.

  I swipe open my phone and squint while reading it. Please don’t let it be bad.

  Shane: So . . . you shoved a cookie down Carson Stone’s mouth. That was fun.

  Groaning, I quickly type him back just as Jerry responds.

  Jerry: I don’t think I know who was more shocked, you or him.

  Milly: Please tell me he walked away the minute I left.

  Shane: Well, he chewed for a few seconds, because you did shove a cookie down his throat without his consent. At least agree to a safe word next time, Milly.

  Jerry: I offered him your Sprite to wash it down, but he declined, and guess what? I listened to him instead of thrusting the beverage into his mouth.

  Milly: Please, spare me the jokes. I’m already on the verge of jumping off a cliff. Did he say anything?

  Shane: Once again, his mouth was full, but I did tell him that you have an involuntary tick that causes you to shove unwanted food in people’s faces and awkwardly salute for no reason.

  Milly: You did not.

  Jerry: He did.

  Milly: Shane! Why would you do that?”

  Shane: Why would you force-feed Carson Stone a cookie?