My heart drums in my ears, and my mouth waters in that way that usually means I’m about to be sick. I don’t scream, even though it would be satisfying. Nor do I pick up the vase on the hallway table and test out how my Angry Birds skills translate to real-life target practice.

Instead, I calmly walk the length of the hallway and escape into an empty bedroom. I breeze past a few twin beds and head straight for the French doors that open up to a balcony on the far side of the room.

Emerging into the surprisingly cool evening air, I close the door behind me, sucking in a lungful of refreshing air.

Then I scream.

Not the shrieky, ear-shattering kind. Lower, more guttural. Like a battle cry.

Gripping the balcony railing, I stand up straighter, like I would if I were standing at the barre in my dance studio, and I let it all out.

Already I feel better.

A few seconds of precious silence passes, filled only by the faint echo of my scream. Then below me a voice calls out, “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’ve decided against going Greek.”

Down in the yard, highlighted by one of the floodlights affixed to the outside of the house, is another gorgeous guy wearing dark, worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a smirk that oscillates between infuriating and adorable. He’s got dark hair and a delectable touch of scruff along his jaw, and he looks entirely entertained by my mental breakdown.

And all I can think is . . . Dear God, not another one.

Chapter 3

Carson

It’s like she took the scream right out of my throat. I’ve been out here alone, alternating between convincing myself to leave and convincing myself to stay. And here comes this gorgeous girl with a lion’s roar.

She leans over the ledge, her eyes searching until she finds me sprawled at the base of one of the wide oak trees in the yard. I sit up a little straighter under her gaze.

Her pale skin shines a creamy white in the moonlight, and dark red hair frames a heart-shaped face with full, pouty lips. Her eyes narrow on me, or maybe she just squints. After a few seconds of studying me, she offers an unenthusiastic, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was the best thing I’ve seen all night.”

“You can’t have had a very exciting night, then.”

No. No, I hadn’t. I’d tagged along with some other teammates, thinking I needed to make an effort to get to know them off the field. I’d gotten to know them all right. And I was already tired of them. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to walk on to a team like this, it never was. People were nice enough, but none of them took me seriously.

Just a walk-on.

Most people see us as just players for the real athletes to practice against with no real chance of getting any substantial playing time for ourselves. A few are more accepting.

But fitting in isn’t worth spending an hour with those ass**les. They aren’t even drunk yet, so I can only imagine how much worse it will get.

I shrug off that frustration and tell the girl, “At least things are looking up now.”

She stiffens, shaking out her hair like a mane. The deep red shines, catching glints from the lights as she moves.

“Listen,” she says, “tonight is not the night to flirt with me.”

I should probably be annoyed by her brusque tone, but I find myself smiling instead.

“Who said I was flirting?”

She scoffs, her fingers curling tighter around the balcony banister.

“You were.”

I grin because, yeah . . . I was. She’s not cocky when she says it either, just matter-of-fact. I find it . . . fascinating.

“It’s not like I stood below the balcony reciting Romeo and Juliet.” Not like I could either. I never managed to finish that when we read it in high school English, and the movie version I watched with guns and gangs got me a big fat F on the exam. She makes a noise, and I can’t tell whether she’s scoffing at me again or laughing.

“Romeo was a tool.”

“Really?” I thought girls lived for that shit.

She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs, “He’s head-over-heels, mopey in love with Rosaline, and then in one night, he flip-flops and decides now he’s in love with Juliet. If he would have just thrown his whiny tool self at another girl, Juliet wouldn’t have died.”

“Well, I can promise I’m not going to suddenly declare my love for you. Satisfied?”

She shrugs, and I assume that’s the only answer I’ll get.

“So was it a Romeo who inspired that scream?”

“Nope. Just the regular kind of ass**le.”

She stumbles over the last word, her cheeks pinking prettily, and I get the feeling her blunt honesty doesn’t usually include swear words.

“Well, f**k that guy.” My suspicions are confirmed when her blush deepens, and she pulls that full bottom lip between her teeth. I try to connect this shy piece of her puzzle with the brazen girl who called me on my flirting without blinking.

“Uh . . . yeah,” she replies hesitantly.

I make a mental note to cuss as much as possible to keep that sweet flush on her face. “Don’t let that dick ruin your night.”

I should probably learn to take my own advice. I’m the one hiding in the backyard of a frat house.

“They will not ruin my night.”

They? There’s more than one? Damn.

I start to ask her name, but then someone inside the house shouts out, “Dallas?” and her head whips around in response.

“That him?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes and nods.

“Well then, Dallas. As I see it, you have two options. You can turn around and unleash another of those screams on him, which would be entertaining. Or . . .”

I trail off, debating whether or not to try again considering my crappy flirting record with this girl so far.

“Or what?”

“Or forget about the prick, and hang out with me. I’ll make my best effort not to be an ass**le.” She hesitates and I add, “Or a Romeo. Or a tool. Or whatever it is you’re sick of.”

There’s a third option that I don’t add, as appealing as it is. She could introduce me to the dick, and I could introduce him to my fist and work off some frustration. But that could get me in trouble with Coach, so while effective, it’s off the table.

I am fully prepared for her to say no and lump me in with whatever other guys have pissed her off tonight. Instead, she considers me. Her lips twist, somewhere between pursed and pouty.