She’ll never get it. I’m too tall, too fast, and she’s not really trying. She’s close to me, though. So close I can smell her and there’s that scent – the one I’ve been missing. Flowers and vanilla. My sweatshirt will smell like that when I get it back and I won’t wash the scent out. Not until I have to.

  “Butler!” she giggles.

  I give her my best puppy dog face, begging. “Come on, B. One pic. I promise I won’t post it.”

  She falls back on her heels. She’s giving in.

  Oh, the power of the puppy.

  “Fine,” she relents. “One pic. No posting.”

  “Deal.”

  I turn the camera to face us. She steps into my side, her arm wrapping around my waist. Her hair brushes my cheek as I lean down to get our faces closer, my arm draping over her shoulders. God, she’s soft. Her hair, her skin. Her smile on the screen as I snap the picture.

  She doesn’t ask to see it after. That’s confidence. Either she knows she looks good or she doesn’t care if she doesn’t.

  As I stow my phone, she asks, “Are we eating here?”

  “Uh, yeah. I thought so.”

  Her eyes are on me. She’s reading me closely. “You’re sure?”

  No. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. This is my last chance. This is my shot to take her somewhere else, anywhere else, and have a meal with her alone. That’s what I’ve wanted for weeks – to get her alone.

  Until Mey messed up my head with all that ‘Broken’ shit.

  I lied to Eustis. I’m not testing her with the team to see if she can hang. Who cares if she can? Also, of course she can! She’s tough and smart. She’ll run rings around these clowns. What I really want to know is what will she do when she’s sitting at a table full of talent?

  Eustis is going to the Draft in April. Togiai is a five-star. Meyerson and Hires are fours. All good looking guys, all packed with talent that will potentially take them to the NFL one day.

  What will she do?

  I pull the heavy wood door open, inviting her into the restaurant. “Let’s eat.”

  Her face is blank. It was luminous a minute ago, but now it’s nothing.

  “Yep,” she agrees evenly. “Let’s do it.”

  ***

  “Ohio’s quarterbacks were sacked only twelve times in eight games, even with shifting on the offensive line. They started three different players at right tackle last season. That’s insane to keep those numbers with that much change,” Brooklyn argues vehemently. “Think what they’ll do with a stable offense this year.”

  Togiai shakes his head in dismissal. “No. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s all that matters!”

  “No! Michigan made thirty-two sacks. Thirty-two! At least three per game. They tear open the pocket and bust through run blocks. Ohio can’t hide from that.” He tips his drink to her in a farewell salute. “Your Buckeyes are done for this year.”

  “Michigan hasn’t won against Ohio since 2011.”

  “They’re due.”

  “Fuck you,” she laughs.

  Togiai smiles. “Do you want to know what I think would happen if we played them?”

  “Oh, yes, please tell me. Until last year, Oregon hadn’t been in the conversation since 2014. Meanwhile, the Buckeyes have held a spot in the top ten consistently.”

  “Accept for when you didn’t,” Weiss reminds her. “You dropped out around 2011 or 2012, I think.”

  “Wasn’t 2011 when we went to the National Championship?” I ask as if I don’t know.

  “I think you’re right, Pupper.”

  “You lost,” Brooklyn reminds us viciously. “To Auburn.”

  “It was a hell of a game, though.”

  “A hell of a game that you lost. But that’s not your only National Championship loss.”

  Togiai hangs his head. “I knew this was coming.”

  “Who’d you lose to?” Brooklyn asks innocently.

  “You’re a bitch,” I chuckle.

  She smiles viciously. “In Texas, 2015, we killed you.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘killed’.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “I don’t know. A light maiming.”

  Brooklyn laughs, taking a triumphant bite of pizza. “That was our eighth National Championship victory. How many does Oregon have?”

  “Sixth,” Togiai corrects.

  She lowers her hand holding the pizza, her head cocked at him like she’s disappointed. “Really? We’re going to do this?”

  “Oh yeah. We’re doing it.”

  I sit forward on the table. “Wait. What is this?”

  “There’s debate on whether or not Ohio has won six championships or eight,” Brooklyn explains. “Haters say six.”

  “Diehard delusional fans say eight,” Togiai counters.

  “But how many has Oregon won? You haven’t answered me.”

  “None. But you haven’t won eight.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Quit padding your numbers.”

  “What’s the debate?” Meyerson demands.

  “Fifty or sixty years ago,” Togiai preaches, “there was no governing body handing out National Championship titles. There wasn’t a playoff game. Different groups gave the title with different criteria and some teams grabbed up titles left and right, whether they earned them or not.”

  “Ohio was not one of the big offenders,” Brooklyn points out.

  “They weren’t,” Togiai allows. “But there are two titles that are up for debate.”

  “1961 and 1970.”

  I smile at her knowledge. It’s in depth as shit.

  Togiai nods, accepting it as truth. “And if you had actually won your bowl game in ’70, I’d say you were National Champions that year. But you didn’t. You were named co-champions before the bowl season, then you lost your game. You lost the title.”

  “The title was awarded before the bowl season. Texas claims their title even though they lost their bowl game that year too.”

  “Neither of you should claim it.”

  “The bowl losses don’t negate the title.”

  “They should,” Weiss argues. “If you can’t win your bowl game, how can you take the title of National Champion?”

  “The bowl game was one game. The title was awarded in recognition of an entire season.”

  “That ended with a loss that should be considered when handing out trophies.”

  “Fine,” she laughs like none of it matters. “Call it six. I don’t care. That’s six more than you have.”

  “You wanna talk about the other OSU in your life?” I prod.

  “I want you to go fuck yourself.”

  “You heard the lady, Pupper,” Eustis laughs. “It’s just you and your hand tonight.”

  Brooklyn points at him. “What is that? Why do you all keep calling him that?”

  “They have head injuries,” I explain. “They can’t pronounce ‘Butler’.”

  “No. Seriously.”

  “It’s a nickname the guys in the apartment gave me because I kept staying with them instead of going to my dorm. I practically live on their couch.”

  “He’s our adopted puppy,” Weiss explains.

  Brooklyn smiles. “That’s kind of sweet.”

  “That’s me,” I lie. “Super sweet.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The guys go back to the apartment.

  I take a chance and say I’m going to sleep in my dorm tonight. I ask B if she’ll drive me home. The guys look at me like they know what I’m doing, but no one says shit because as much as they suck, they aren’t cockblockers.

  It’s not like I think I’m getting laid tonight. Odds are I’m not. I know that. But if you wanna win the game, you gotta shoot your shot. Even if you’re pretty sure you’re gonna miss.

  “This is you?” she asks.

  I glance out the window at my dorm like I’m seeing it for the first time; the way she’s seeing it. It’s four stories of windows and nondescript gray siding. It looks exactly like three other buildings on the block.

  “This is me.” I look at her sideways, trying to read her. She’s better at it than I am. A lot better. I’ve been trying to feel out what she’s thinking all night but I keep getting lost in the details. In her eyes, in her legs that are longer than I remember, and Dick is practically screaming in my ear to try to get with her.

  Kiss her! he shouts at me.

  Chill. Be patient.

  Fuck patient and fuck her mouth!

  Shut up.

  It’s so pretty! I bet she’s tight! Think about how tight she is!

  I will slam you in the car door if you don’t shut the hell up right now!

  “Butler,” Brooklyn says urgently.

  “Yeah?”

  “I, um—” She licks her lips anxiously. Her brow is carved in a deep V. “I need to use your bathroom real quick.”

  “Sure. I don’t have my own. It’s communal, but—”

  “I don’t care. I need to use it.”

  “Okay. Yeah. Come on in.”

  I lead her to the door. She’s right there next to me as I unlock it. Her skin glows in the light from the lobby, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She casts me a quick smile. It looks strained. “I’m fine. Yeah.”

  “I’m on the second floor.”

  “Is there a bathroom down here?”

  “Yeah, over there by the kitchen. They lock it sometimes though. When it’s late.”

  She’s not listening. She’s practically running for the door. Her body slams against it with a jolt when it doesn’t open for her.

  “Fuck,” she mutters, pushing it again for good measure.

  Still locked.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I apologize. “There’s one on the first floor if you need it that—”

  “The second is fine. Show me where.”

  “Okay.”

  I lead her up the stairs to the second floor because I get the impression she doesn’t want to stand around waiting for an elevator. Once she spots the bathroom sign, she immediately darts inside.

  The door bangs shut in my face.

  “I’m gonna head down to my room and wait,” I call to her. “Two-twenty-six.”

  “Yeah, whatever!”

  I consider telling her there’s a communal basket of feminine stuff under the sink for emergencies. I figure that’s what she’s dealing with. But the ‘whatever’ felt like a pretty clear ‘fuck off for now!’ so I head to my room without another word. I leave the door propped open so it’s easy for her to find me.

  Five minutes goes by with no sign of Brooklyn. I check my phone for messages, like I think she’d send me one from the toilet.

  There’s nothing.

  Five minutes later, I look out the window to see if her car is still in the parking lot. Maybe she left without saying goodbye.

  Nope. Still there.

  Five minutes after that, I start to worry. Fifteen minutes in the bathroom is a long time for anyone, even if they’re on their phone playing a game or something. And I doubt she’s sitting in there cruising her Facebook, killing time. She knows I’m waiting for her, and the longer she’s in there, the weirder it gets.

  In the hall, I pass a guy coming in with a pizza box balanced on one hand and a jug of Coke in the other. He nods to me, avoiding my eyes. His jacket shimmers like glitter from big puffy water drops. It must have started raining in the quarter of an hour Brooklyn has been in the bathroom.

  I knock on the outer door, listening to the sound echo inside the large room.

  No answer.

  I crack the door. “Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah?” she answers weakly.

  “Are you okay? It’s been a minute.”

  Or almost twenty.

  “No,” she moans. “I’m not okay.”

  “Are you decent?”

  “What?”

  “Whatever,” I mutter to myself. I call to her, “I’m coming in!”

  “Sure. Join the party.”

  The room is empty except for Brooklyn. On her back. On the floor.

  I rush to her side, looking for signs of blood. “Did you fall?”

  “No.” Her eyes are watery and vague. They’re focused on the ceiling above her. “I laid down here.”

  “On the bathroom floor? It’s gross.”

  “It’s surprisingly clean. Kudos to your janitorial staff.”

  I sit back on my heels. “What happened?”

  Brooklyn rolls her head toward me. She looks exhausted and miserable. “I’m sick.”

  “With what? Like a flu?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  She winces. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “I’m not judging.”

  “I’m allergic to gluten.”

  “Gluten is bread and stuff, right?”

  “Anything wheat, yeah.”

  “So the pizza you ate tonight…”

  “Packed full of gluten.”

  “Does that mean you’re throwing up? Or do you need one of those pens? I have one.”

  “An Epi? No. That’s for like bee stings and strawberries.”

  “And peanuts.”

  “Are you allergic to peanuts?”

  “Yeah. Deathly.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she says like it’s some kind of pleasant surprise.

  “I didn’t know you were allergic to wheat.”

  “Look at us sharing our greatest weaknesses. On the floor. In a bathroom.” She looks around like she just realized where we are. “God, this is us, isn’t it? All of our time together is going to be spent in bathrooms.”

  “It could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “We could not be together at all.”

  “That was sweet,” she sighs. “Now stop it. Save it for a time when I’m not in agony.”

  “What does gluten do to you?”

  “Uh, bloating? Headache. Joint pain.” She closes her eyes. Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her when she says, “Diarrhea.”

  I slip off my heels onto my ass. “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  I look around the room like there’s something here that could help me. That can help her. It’s just a big bathroom though. White tile walls, four shower stalls on the far wall hidden behind green curtains. A row of green stall doors. Four sinks with small cabinets below.

  I start to search them, looking for anything that could help with an upset stomach. There are a lot of tampons in brightly colored sleeves. Some ibuprofen. Midol. Aleve.

  “I found Tums,” I offer. “Would that help?”

  “Not really.”

  “What would?”

  “To go back in time and not eat pizza,” she jokes morosely. “That would be a start.”

  “Why’d you eat it if you knew you were allergic?”

  “Because I love pizza. I haven’t had it in over a year. Not since I found out about the allergy, but then tonight we were in the restaurant and I guess I figured one or two slices couldn’t hurt.”

  “You had three.”

  Brooklyn glares at me. “First, don’t count my food. Second, I friggin’ know I ate three slices. I feel it in every inch of my lower intestine, okay?”

  I raise my hands in surrender. “Sorry. Not the time. I get it.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she replies, her voice cooling. “It just that it hurts and I’m pissed at myself. I forgot how much it sucks. I got careless. Your friends were there and if I ordered a salad like I should have they’d see me picking at rabbit food and I got self-conscious. I didn’t want to be that girl who goes to a nice restaurant on her first date with a guy and gets a salad, but that was literally the only thing I saw on the menu that wouldn’t destroy me.”

  I pause, a purple bottle of Summer’s Eve douche in my hand. “That was our first date?”

  “So is this. How do you think it’s going so far?”

  “I’m having fun. How about you?”

  “Time of my fucking life,” she mumbles, her eyes closing. Her hand is on her stomach like she’s trying to protect it. Or calm it.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “This is my fault. I screwed up.”

  “In what way?”

  It’s not lost on me that she isn’t arguing. She doesn’t console me and say there’s nothing to be sorry for. She wants me to clarify exactly what I think I did wrong, which means there might be more than I realize.

  “For dinner,” I explain. “With the team. That was a lot of pressure. I should have warned you or taken you somewhere else.”

  “Why did you want to eat with them?”

  “Because we’re tight. We do everything together.”

  “Why else?”

  Shit. She knows I’m lying.

  “I wanted to see if you could handle hanging out with them. They can be a lot but they’re my family and—”

  “No. That’s not what you were testing.” Her eyes open, staring straight into mine like two accusing fingers. “You wanted to see if Broken could be around a number one round Draft pick and keep her legs together. That’s what you were worried about. Not if I could ‘hang’.”

  I lower my eyes to the floor because I can’t hold contact with hers anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, and I mean it. Even if it sounds pathetic.

  Brooklyn sighs. “I don’t even want to know where you heard the rumors, but whatever you think you know, you’re probably wrong. And even if you’re not, I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “You’re right. You don’t.”

  “I came down because I was excited to see you. I liked you—”

  “No, come on,” I interrupt. I scoot across the floor until I’m staring down into her eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t past tense me. I fucked up, I know. I do that sometimes, but I’m not a total douchebag.”

  “Just a minor one?”

  “Amateur. Seriously. I wouldn’t even make it to sectionals.”

  “The douchebag sectionals?”

  “Followed by nationals. Followed by the Olympics.”

  “Wow. You can’t even get to Tokyo?”

  “Don’t walk,” I tell her seriously. “Not yet.”

  Brooklyn’s eyes search mine. She sees something, everything, and suddenly she’s frowning but also softening. She’s unhappy with me but she found something worth sticking around for.