“Oh, shit, really?” I laugh. “Sorry. Just texting Lincoln.”

  “Lincoln . . . Castle?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, casually.

  “Umm, am I delusional or were you totally hating on him before?”

  “I wasn’t hating on him, just . . . indifferent. But we’re cool now.”

  “Cool as in—”

  “As in friends.” I pull down my white workout shirt from the hanger with the Brentwood women’s soccer logo on it. I slip it over my head and pull my ponytail out the back.

  “Are you sure you’re just friends?”

  “Positive. Trust me, if I were to start something with someone, and we both know I won’t, but if I were, it would not be with Lincoln. There’s too much fanfare surrounding him. It would be far too much to handle.”

  “But he’s hot.”

  “He is,” I admit. “But too much, which reminds me. Rusty’s coming over tonight with Deacon, bringing pizza to celebrate.”

  “Deep-dish?” Scarlett asks, as she changes into her shorts.

  “No idea.”

  “If he’s a smart guy, he’ll bring deep-dish.”

  The locker room starts to fill with our teammates, and before we know it, we’re all walking out to the soccer practice fields, white shirts and green shorts flashing in a single line. Our cleats click against the concrete sidewalk until we reach the turf, where the field is set up for what is known in Brentwood as the most rigorous physical test amongst the teams. Some of the other coaches threaten their players with the women’s soccer yearly physical training test as punishment.

  Coach splits us into heats, so we’re not all going at the same time. We’re separated by class, the poor freshmen being the last to go. As a freshman, I’d wanted to go last, but the nerves that eat away at your stomach, doing strange things to your system where you feel like you’re going to pass out or vomit—or maybe even both at the same time—are horrendous.

  “Hope everyone is well hydrated and got plenty of sleep last night,” Coach Wilson says. She’s a badass, with her dark hair flowing out the back of her hat. She played professionally for a few years before she tore her ACL and had to quit. She has five championships under her belt as head coach at Brentwood and is a recruiting genius. When she sees a weakness, she knows exactly how to remedy it, or replace it. “As you all know, we’re starting with eight laps around the field, staggered starts. You have twelve minutes to complete eight laps. And that’s just your warm-up.”

  Her voice booms across the field.

  Surrounding us are other practice fields and teams—men’s soccer, lacrosse, softball—and they’re all practicing, probably thanking the high heavens that they’re not us right now.

  “After the twelve-minute challenge, we’ll go into strength. Forty pushups in a minute, sixty sit-ups. Then five-by-five-by-tens. This will measure how quick you are to change direction. You have five of these, and you must be under ten seconds each time. From there, we’ll move to thirty burpee pushups in a minute and then vertical jumps. There’s no requirement for vertical jumps, as this is just to see where you’re at and if you can improve.” She pauses and looks at the upperclassmen. “Everyone but freshmen better have improved from last year. If not, you’re giving us an extra mile after we’re done.” That was me last year. I made sure to improve my vertical this go-around. “And finally, we’ll end on your favorite, the one-o-five. Fifteen one-hundred-yard sprints. You have twenty-five seconds to make it downfield, thirty-five seconds to make it back to the starting point. Helpful hint to the freshmen? Stick with an upperclassman. They know the pace.” She claps her board and says, “Let’s get to work, ladies.”

  * * *

  Scarlett and I share a two-bedroom townhome. It has great living space, a cute kitchen, and is close to campus. Right now, as I lounge on the couch in nothing but a pair of clean underwear and matching Calvin Klein cotton bra, I could not be more grateful that it’s just me and Scarlett, that we’re not sharing with more girls.

  “Jesus Christ,” Scarlett says, flopping onto the couch, wearing an oversized T-shirt and no pants. Our wet hair dots the gray couch while we stare at the ceiling. “Why did that feel more brutal than before?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, gripping my forehead. “I honestly didn’t think we were going to make it at the end. I had a hard time keeping up with Sandra. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t think I would have beaten the yard sprints.”

  “Well, you did run eight laps in ten minutes, so you gassed yourself early.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I pulled a rookie move on the eight laps.”

  The doorbell rings and I groan. “Ugh, that’s Rusty. What were we thinking telling him it’s okay to come over?”

  “We weren’t,” Scarlett says, reaching for her bike shorts and slipping them on.

  Too tired for even a shirt, I pull on a pair of black sweatpants, twist my hair up into a wet bun, and go to answer the door. When I open it, I’m greeted by a smiling Lincoln standing on the other side with a box of Frankie Donuts in his hands. His eyes immediately take me in and a sly smirk crosses his lips as he moves his gaze over every inch of my torso. Slowly.

  He bites on the corner of his lip and says, “Damn, Mayhem, you have abs.”

  I look at my stomach and then back at Lincoln. Maybe I should have taken two more seconds to put a shirt on. Already pink from sunburn, the heat of my cheeks intensifies from his compliment and blatant staring.

  A little self-conscious—not sure why, really—I reach out and lift his chin. “My eyes are up here, Castle.”

  “Yeah, but your abs are down there, and they’re carved,” he says with awe.

  I’m simply too tired to stand in my doorway and go back and forth with Lincoln. “Are those donuts for me?”

  “Depends”—he nods toward the inside of our townhome—“can I come in?”

  Calling over my shoulder, I say, “It’s Lincoln with donuts. Should I let him in?”

  “What kind of donuts?” Scarlett calls back.

  “Frankie Donuts.”

  “Good God, woman, of course, let him in.”

  I chuckle and prop the door open. As he walks in, his eyes roam my body once more, then he takes his shoes off. I shut the door behind him and together we join Scarlett on the couch. Lincoln sits next to me and pops open the box.

  The sweet smell of grease and calories permeate the air as I count a dozen donuts—half strawberry lemonade and half pistachio. This man might have just won a special place in my heart.

  “Before you can have a strawberry lemonade, you must at least have a bite—”

  He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence before I have a pistachio donut hanging out of my mouth.

  “Yoink,” Scarlett says, grabbing a pistachio as well. She holds it up to a shocked Lincoln and says, “Cheers, bro.”

  We both lean back against the couch and moan. It’s been a long few weeks of training and eating clean, so this donut is hitting all the right spots.

  Lincoln clears his throat. “Should I leave the box on the coffee table so you three can have some privacy?”

  “We don’t mind voyeurs,” Scarlett says. “Makes things more exciting when someone watches. Am I right?” She winks at Lincoln and from the look on his face, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t exactly know what to do with Scarlett yet.

  I nudge the box in his hands and ask, “Are you going to have one?”

  “Yeah, I was going to have a strawberry lemonade but now I’m worried if I don’t have a pistachio, they’ll all be gone.”

  “I would suggest you grab what you want sooner than later,” Scarlett says around a mouthful of donut. “You can never tell with us.”

  “Noted.” Lincoln snags a pistachio donut and takes a huge bite. “Fuck, these are amazing. Frankie cake donuts are good, but their yeast donuts have got to be the best in town. And I like that they don’t try to do all the fun flavors on a cake donut, that they use the yeast base too.”

  “It’s why it’s so popular,” I say, right before shoving the rest of the donut in my mouth. Cheeks puffed, I say around the dough, “I love yeast.”

  Lincoln snorts as Scarlett reaches past me and grabs a strawberry lemonade. “Come to Mama,” she says, right before taking an impressive bite.

  Mouth still full, I stand and ask Lincoln, “Want a drink?”

  “Yeah, whatever you have.”

  From the kitchen, I hear Scarlett mumbling something about sweet strawberries, and when I come back into the room and hand Lincoln a bottle of Powerade, I catch him staring at Scarlett, confusion laced in his brow.

  “She’s in her own world, let her be.”

  “Got it.” He uncaps his drink and I shamelessly watch his hand wrap around the bottle and bring it to his lips. The liquid flows down his throat, the muscles contract. It’s surprisingly erotic, and I have to look away because it feels wrong staring at his neck. Half the drink is gone when he sets the bottle on the coffee table. “So . . . from the way you’re both not crying in the corner right now, I’m going to guess your tests went great today?”

  I pick up a strawberry donut, break it in half and hand the other piece to him. Naturally he takes it and leans back on the sofa with me, but instead of facing toward the TV, he’s facing us. “I wouldn’t particularly say it went great, but we did pass.”

  “Barely,” Scarlett says. “The burpees ate me alive and Indie didn’t pace herself during the twelve-minute test.”

  “Gassed out at the end,” I admit, and take a bite of my donut. “I almost didn’t make the one-o-fives.”

  “Oh shit, really? I know how hard those are. Coach Disik makes us do them sometimes. They’re brutal. The worst is jogging back to the starting point.”

  “Yes,” I say, almost a little too loud. “The actual sprint you—”

  “Blackout during, but the jog back is—”

  “An impending doom of torture.” Lincoln and I both stare at each other. How odd. We’re finishing each other’s sentences now.

  Scarlett perks up from her donut coma and says, “That was weird.” She motions between the two of us. “That was weird.”

  “I’m not mad about it,” Lincoln says, smirking and raising both eyebrows.

  “Frankly, I am.” Scarlett leans over me, her boob pressing against my leg. “Scarlett.” She holds out her hand. “You know, since our friend here is rude and didn’t introduce me.”

  Lincoln reaches out and shakes her hand while introducing himself.

  “Oh, I know who you are. Indie hasn’t shut up about you.”

  “Is that so?” Lincoln asks, with such an annoying grin that I want to push his face away with one of the couch cushions.

  “No, it’s not so. I mentioned you for a second.” I push Scarlett off me and ask, “Are you wearing a bra? I felt the definition of your boob on my leg.”

  With her hand on the collar of her shirt, she lifts the fabric away from her body and peeks down. “Nope, I’m not.” She smiles and reaches for another donut. I honestly have no idea where she puts it all.

  “No bra, no shirt. I feel left out. Should I take my pants off?”

  “No,” I say, just as Scarlett whistles obnoxiously.

  “Oh yeah, take it off, big boy. Let’s see those undies.”

  Turning my head to the side so I’m just speaking to Lincoln, I say, “She soaked up too much sun today, so ignore anything that comes out of her mouth.”

  Lincoln stretches his hand over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against my wet hair. It’s a small touch, but causes a decent reaction from my body, as if he just pulled a string and all my insides shrunk.

  “I like what comes out of her mouth. Seems like she’s speaking the truth.”

  “And what truth would that be?”

  His fingers now press into my scalp, the light massage of his thick fingers making my eyes feel heavy, like I could go to sleep right here on the couch.

  “That you talk about me all the time.”

  “She does,” Scarlett says, before taking out her phone and starting a game of solitaire.

  “Do you?” he asks, his eyebrow lifting.

  “No.” But I smile, and it gives me away. “Not all the time.”

  “But enough.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you say?” he asks, his fingers reaching the back of my scalp. I lean in toward him, giving him better access.

  “How annoying you are.”

  He chuckles. “What else?”

  “Told her about our moms. By the way, has your mom asked about me? Because any time I talk to my mom on the phone, she’s always asking about you and whether I’ve seen you around campus, if we’ve hung out.”

  Lincoln smiles coyly. He’s so freaking cute in this moment: his messy hair, his soulful eyes that capture my full attention, the light scruff on his face making him seem older than his boyish grin suggests. “She has.”

  “Oh God, what did you say? Because whatever you said is going to get back to my mom and I’ve lied to her, telling her we don’t even have the same classes.”

  Lincoln looks to the side and winces. “Yeah, I told my mom we were partners in class.”

  “Oh my God, Lincoln,” I groan. “Now my mom is going to think something’s going on between us.”

  “Isn’t there something happening?” Scarlett asks, head still engrossed in her phone but clearly listening in.

  “We’re just friends,” Lincoln and I say at the same time.

  Turning away from Scarlett and facing Lincoln now, I lean the side of my body against the back of the couch and bring my knees to my chest. Lincoln’s hand, which is still resting on the back of the couch, reaches down and draws small circles on my shoulder. It feels nice, comforting, and it must comfort him too because he relaxes a little more into the couch.

  “I didn’t say anything else. Just that we were paired together. When she squealed, I reassured her that nothing was going on, that it was simple coincidence.”

  “I’m sure she’s already told my mom and they’re coming up with some crazy ideas together.”

  “Most likely.” He sighs. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It’s fine.” I smile at him and then nudge him with my foot. “Thanks for bringing over donuts.”

  “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  “Yeah, they are,” I answer.

  And then we stare at each other, smiling like fools. His fingers trace over my shoulder, and my hands itch to touch him as well. Secretly, I wish Scarlett wasn’t right behind me playing solitaire, making little commentaries to herself about how the computer is not going to get her this time.

  “What do you—”

  Knock. Knock.

  “Pizza is here.” Scarlett jumps off the couch and tosses my shirt at me. “Put this on. No one wants to stare at your tits all night.”

  “I mean, I’m not objecting,” Lincoln says, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

  I put my shirt on just as I remember who is bringing the pizza. Oh hell . . .

  “Congrats on passing,” Rusty’s voice booms from the entryway. “Got some sun on those cheeks too, huh?” I look past Lincoln to see Rusty bend down and give Scarlett a hug. Behind him, I spot a bulkier guy, fit in all the right places with an almost identical face to Rusty’s. Instead of a beard, he has a five o’clock shadow.

  His blue eyes connect with mine and . . . okay, yeah, he’s . . . well, he’s hot. But then I knew what he’d look like because they’re identical twins. And perhaps because Rusty’s been with Chrissy for years, therefore unavailable, he’s been in the friend zone. Deacon is like seeing Rusty 2.0.

  “I thought that was your Jeep out front,” Rusty says, coming up to Lincoln. “What are you doing here, man?”

  Clearing his throat, Lincoln shifts awkwardly away from me and says, “Uh, just brought the girls some donuts. But I’ll, uh, I’ll get going.” He stands but doesn’t glance at me again as he starts toward the door.

  “Stay,” I shout, feeling awkward from the way the word sounded coming out of my mouth. “We have plenty of pizza, so you should stay.”

  “Yeah, man,” Rusty says. He’s constantly the nicest guy ever.

  Lincoln glances back at me, uncertainty in his features. I can see him wavering; confusion and acceptance pass through his eyes before he finally nods. “Okay, yeah, I can stay.”

  “Awesome.” Rusty claps and then brings his brother forward, while Scarlett sets the two boxes of pizza on the coffee table, shifting the donuts to the side. She sets a roll of paper towels on top, and that’s the extent of her hostessing. When Deacon steps forward and smiles at me, I feel a small piece of me melt inside. He’s hot, really freaking hot, and checks all my boxes when it comes to the opposite sex. “Indie, this is Deacon. Deacon, meet Indie Mayhem, the swiftest pair of cleats you’ll see on the soccer field.”

  “Hey,” Scarlett says, “I scored more goals than her last year.”

  “By one.” I roll my eyes. “And the reason you scored those goals was because of my assists, which I led the league in.”

  “No one asked for your stats,” Scarlett mumbles, while tipping open a box and grabbing a slice of pepperoni.

  Deacon holds his hand out and says, “Nice to meet you, Indie.” Oh, even his voice is nice. Deep, seductive. He’s a whole package of sex wrapped up into six-feet-plus of muscle and athleticism.

  I take his hand in mine. It’s large like the rest of him, but for some reason, my mind goes immediately to the size of Lincoln’s hands.

  “Uh, nice to meet you, Deacon.”

  Smiling, he leans in and whispers, “Sorry that my brother is being incredibly awkward.”

  We both look to where Rusty is standing, clasping his hands together, looking like a proud papa bear.

  “No worries, I’m used to his weirdness.” I gesture toward the pizza. “Grab a piece. I’m going to get some drinks for everyone.”

  “I’ll help you,” Lincoln says, before Deacon can offer.

  “Sure, yeah. Thanks,” I say.

  When we reach the kitchen, Lincoln moves in close and whispers, “So, Deacon, huh?”