NESSA

I've spent at least a quarter of my life daydreaming. And a whole quarter of my brain was used for storing those dreams.

Some of them were dreams of books I'd read, re-imaginings of characters, and what I'd wished they'd done. Or sometimes, the dream was what they had done, and I just wanted to relive it.

Some of the dreams were of me. I liked to imagine that I'd done something...cool.

Put like that, it sounded ironically dumb. But I didn't know how else to describe it. I wanted to accomplish something. And not just anything, but something that other people cared about. I'd dream about starring in a movie or writing my own bestseller. I'd dream about winning an Olympic gold medal or swimming the English Channel.

More irony for you.

Because I had no desire to act. I was a horrendous writer, too. A sixth grader could string together sentences more coherently than I could. And exercising—god, it was a form of pure evil.

I supposed I just liked imagining situations where I was better than I really was; it didn't really matter what that happened to be. Then maybe people would care. About me.

The other parts of my brain were occupied in ways that had been entirely unhelpful to me in college so far. Granted, I was only a few months into freshman year. But still, I doubted that would change.

My brain, the useless vessel, housed a smattering of lyrics I'd memorized. Mostly Bon Iver songs mixed in with jams I listened to on the bus in elementary school. And then there was the catalog of actors and actresses from all my favorite movies—badass action heroes (or heroines) and soft Nicholas Sparks romance leads alike.

The worst, though, was probably the list of hypothetical arguments that I'd never actually have. But I stored it all up there anyway. Just in case I ever met someone who wanted to debate whether the potato was the most versatile food that money could buy.

It was, by the way.

But in other words, my head was a mess.

The one thing that wasn't up in my noggin, though?

The name of the guy who currently stared at me—that football player who'd walked cockily up to Beau and me the other night after the game.

"Beau," I hissed, hitting his arm to get his attention. All of his concentration had been on his bubble tea as he swirled it around with his straw. He sucked the boba up slowly, trying to watch it while cross-eyed. Leave it to Beau to play with his food like a five-year-old.

"What?" He jerked upright, looking offended that I'd hit him that hard.

"He's staring at me."

Beau's eyebrows drew together. "Who's staring at you?"

"I don't know," I hissed again, wishing he'd keep his voice down.

"Nessie." The way he said that stupid little nickname made me feel chastised. I wrinkled my nose before Beau continued. "If you don't know, then how do you know he's staring at you."

I sighed heavily, exasperated. "What I mean is that I don't remember his name."

"Where is he?" Beau began whipping his head around dramatically, searching the student union cafeteria. The chatter of people around us should have masked Beau's eager voice, but it still seemed to carry across the recently renovated space. I cringed.

Without daring to look at football boy, I jerked my head in his direction. He'd been standing by the exit with a group of muscly bros in matching sweatsuits—his team, I was sure.

I couldn't remember this guy's name, but I remembered his striking eyes. Not that I chanced a look at them now. I could feel them, though, breaking through my defenses. I felt hot. Why did I feel hot? He was the one being a creep. I certainly had nothing to be embarrassed about.

"The football player?" Beau asked. "With the light brown hair and a bit of a swagger?"

"Yes, that one."

Beau leaned back into his chair with a pinched sigh. "Yeah," he said, drawing the word out beneath his breath. "Dude saw me looking, and he's definitely on his way over here."

"Oh my fucking god," I groaned. "I could kill you." Ducking my head, I stared at the ground in hopes that I might suddenly disappear into the pressed carpet. The last thing I wanted was to talk to football boy again. Being harassed by football players was something I was sensitive to. And I'd been relieved when he hadn't lingered the other night, quickly introducing himself before heading to the elevators and disappearing from sight.

Not that I'd watched him walk off, of course. Not that I distinctly remembered his confident swagger.

Beau's word, not mine.

Ugh, Beau. I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye. He always had a sly smile, and I always wanted to smack it off his face.

"I mean it," I muttered. "I hope you choke on your boba."

Beau snorted. "No, you don't. Girl, I'm like your only friend."

I opened my mouth to reply before snapping it shut. He had me there. Well, I had other friends. But they weren't here right now.

"Hey."

I saw his feet plant themselves next to the table before I actually registered his voice. He was wearing a pair of Nikes that were either brand new, or he took excellent care of them. Probably the latter. Football boy was likely the kind of guy who stayed up late to clean the scuffs off his sneakers. They were sparkling white.

Maybe I should stop staring at his feet.

I snapped my gaze up only to immediately regret it. Blinding. His smile was blinding—as white as his shoes. Everything about this guy was sharp, from his jawline to his eyes to the way he dressed. He didn't have on a sweatsuit like the rest of the team; he wore a pair of khaki chinos and a quarter zip pullover with the Oakland State football logo stitched into it.

"Oh, hey!" Beau said, saving us from awkward silence. "We met the other night, right? What's up... man?"

I winced as Beau fumbled on the last bit, clearly as clueless as I was about football boy's name. But then I rolled my eyes as I saw the look on Beau's face. His realization was genuine; he hadn't even made the connection that this was the same guy we met a few days ago until just now. Of course.

"It's Grayson," the guy said with a soft chuckle, saving us from having to ask again. Thank god. "And not much, just getting lunch with the team," he added before cocking his head to the side and focusing on Beau. "I'm not sure if I caught your name before?"

Alright, this was going well. Beau and football boy could just have their own little conversation, and I didn't even need to be involved—

"It's Beau. And this is Nessa."

Nevermind.

Grayson's gaze flicked to me. It was amused. Like he found me amusing. A tiny smirk played on his lips, and it lifted before he spoke. His voice was low and smooth. "Yeah, I remember."

My cheeks burned. But only because I was almost certain that this Grayson guy had just mocked me. Somehow he'd known that I'd forgotten his name, and he wanted to rub it in my face that he hadn't forgotten mine.

Well, he was a jerk.

And hot. In here. God, it was hot in here.

I shifted in my chair and pulled at the collar of my sweater, refusing to return his smartass smile.

"Listen," he said, his grin cocking even further to the side. "I never found out why you guys were cheering against us, and it's been bugging me. I'm curious."

"Oh?" The little syllable fell out of my mouth, sneaky and snarky. "Not used to encountering someone who isn't worshipping the ground you walk on?"

He laughed. It was annoying. I wasn't trying to be funny. "I mean, worshipping is going a little far," he said. "But yeah, typically people from Oakland cheer for Oakland."

I raised a brow. "Let's just say I have bad blood with someone on the team."

Grayson raised his brow to match mine. "Bad enough blood that you'd fork out hundreds to cheer against them? Playoff tickets aren't cheap."

Tell me you think you're hot shit without telling me you think you're hot shit, football boy.

"I guess," I replied, shrugging casually.

It was a lie. I usually wouldn't pay a dime to go watch football, but Beau Martin was rich as fuck. And we were bored. What better way to spend a night than booing Quinton Reid off the field for his last game?

Grayson narrowed his eyes. "Like an ex?"

"Of sorts."

Not my ex. But definitely an ex.

Grayson's eyes lifted to his teammates, scrutinizing their backs to try to figure out who I was talking about. But then he looked back down at us, clearing having drawn a blank.

"Wait, are you guys—"He flicked a finger between Beau and me, and I jumped on that.

"Yes." The word squeaked out as I grabbed onto Beau's arm.

But the action was a bit undermined by the fact that Beau simultaneously snorted and said, "No."

I glared at him, and his eyes grew wide.

Beau wasn't wrong; nothing was going on between us. We lived on the same floor in the dorms, and our first meeting consisted of Beau screaming down the hall about a party later that night. But then we started running into each other more and more. And it didn't take us long to realize we had a mutual interest: getting our roommates together.

And we did.

Well, I wasn't sure if they were together together yet, but they were definitely on their way.

But me and Beau? No way.

"Gray!"

Football boy whipped his head toward whoever had called his name. A grimace flashed across his face before he gave us a quick nod and stalked off, retreating just as fast as he had the other night. A guy with at least fifty pounds on Grayson clapped a hand on his back as he congregated with the team again. And then they all streamed out of the student union.

No one could convince me that sports teams weren't a kind of weird cult.

"Nesssssaaaaa."

I peered at Beau out of the corner of my eyes, unsure if I wanted to hear anything he had to say.

"What?"

"Dude is into you, and you're over here making him fumble."

"Guess he isn't as good of a player as he thought, then."

Beau shook his head. "Why you gotta be so frosty? Shit, screw Nessa. Your nickname should be Wendy."

"He fraternizes with the enemy, Beau."

"Wendy...Wednesday...I mean, it makes sense. Maybe we should dye your hair tonight."

"Beau."

He sighed. "They play on the same team. It doesn't mean they're besties."

"There's a reason we went to that game and cheered against the Oakland State football team. I'm not about to change my position now that one of them smiled at me."

Taking a sip of his bubble tea, Beau rolled his eyes while I crossed my arms over my chest. A gesture of finality. And knowing better than to hassle me further, Beau relented. The subject, dropped.

Not in my head, though.

Because I spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about football boy. Grayson.

Well, more specifically, I daydreamed about all the ways I could wipe that annoying smile off his face.

💗

thank you so much to everyone who has already checked out this book! i hope you enjoy!

xoxo amelie