I felt like the biggest asshole in the world when Harper left my car after our disaster of a date, a feeling that started when I watched her sleep. The image of her in my bed popped back into my mind while I watched as she walked up to her dorm's entrance doors. Her lashes fell against her cheeks, where her makeup was smudged enough that her light freckles peeked through. Her shoulder relaxed under my armpit, two warm, soft breasts pressed against my right side, and smooth, even breaths fanned over my chest.

My fingers twitched until I brushed a few strands of her hair off of where they stuck to the side of her neck and chest. While snuggle was the last word found in my vocabulary, I wouldn't have minded if we'd fallen asleep with her pressed up against me. The fact I knew she would've hated that, especially after I'd physically manipulated her into answering a few questions, settled in a giant pile of guilt and self-loathing in the center of my chest.

As the double doors closed behind Harper, one of my hands lifted. I absently rubbed my palm over my chest because that awful feeling stayed lodged right there.

I shouldn't have done... that. This.

Fuck, my brain is mush.

Given my distracted thoughts, I was surprised I hadn't wrecked my car on the drive back. Thankfully the late Thursday night traffic was pretty light. Based on the dirty look I got from a dog walker, I might've driven on a sidewalk at some point.

Yes, I'd come, twice, and Harper came loudly and violently enough that the whole house applauded my efforts after I returned from dropping her off. But I brushed off the back slaps, fist bumps, and stud-related compliments, headed straight upstairs, and sank down into my bed.

My teeth and fists clenched tighter the more times our 'date' replayed through my mind. I lost count of how many mistakes I'd made, starting from how I shouldn't have slept with her but did anyway and edged her physically until her mind relented into a conversation.

Fuck, more like an interrogation.

And I must be one sick fuck because that was some of the hottest sex I'd ever had.

I squeezed my eyes closed until tiny bursts of white erupted in the blackness. While I wouldn't have labeled myself with a self-degradation kink, the fire behind Harper's 'I hate you,' matched by the bright aqua color that burned in her irises, aroused me to a level I rarely reached.

Past that, the idea she'd let me come twice and hadn't...

Yeah, can't say I've had that bother me before. Not even with Harper.

While I'd always reciprocated giving physical pleasure to that girl, it was always out of an appreciation for what she'd done to me. Every other time I'd coaxed her orgasms out was motivated by how good I'd physically felt from her. Tonight though, I felt borderline enraged at the idea she needed our agreement twice this week but sat silent. At that emotion, my middle finger flinched and I inadvertently flicked her clit.

I hadn't expected her reactions but fuck, they were amazing.

My cock swelled up from where it hung between my thighs at the memory of her body, flushed pink, sweaty, and unsatisfied while I caged it under mine. In a complete contrast from Harper's hate-spewed words, her spine curved until her heart-shaped ass lifted up like she silently begged for more.

Tingles spread down my fingertips as they threaded over her folds, hot, swollen, and soaked. On each lightly snapped contact from my finger, her hips bucked, full lips parted in not just groans but cries for relief, and the amount of arousal that came out of her was unbelievable.

The full salute raised between my legs was the only evidence I needed for how affected I was just by the mental recap. I ignored my erection, cupped my forehead in my hands, and rounded my back forwards until my elbows rested on my knees.

An hour later, I sat in the same position with two small skin dents in my quads. With a loud sigh, I laid down, fully awake and still completely angry with myself.

That's not how I should get her to talk about her feelings.

And Kieran... Fuck, where do I even start with that mess?

My eyes slid lazily closed on that thought. Unresolved, the piss-poor mood woke up with me Friday morning, stuck with me through my classes, our lighter practice, and into the evening. Still fucked up in my head with a cock that pressed me for another Harper encounter, I settled for a five-knuckle shuffle and released my frustrations onto my stomach.

Restless was an understatement of how shitty I slept Friday night but thankfully the whole house quieted down early. Our seven o'clock game start time on Saturday, combined with a four-hour direct flight, meant we arrived at the Coliseum early for the team bus ride to LAX. As captain, I woke up earlier, did a house bed check, and smacked ass after ass until my roommates dragged themselves up and got dressed.

After our bus ride to LAX and flight check-in, I assembled outside the outgoing flight's boarding area with the rest of the team at our LAX terminal. My earbuds were jammed firmly in place, silent but all of the guys' normal pregame chatter hummed into background noise. Slowly, I shelved my personal thoughts aside and mentally slotted myself into game mode.

Too much at stake for anything less from me.

The boarding wait, four hour flight into Salt Lake City's airport, then the ten-mile bus ride to the University all blurred outside my attention. I barely registered the fact Grant's gigantic frame and Griff's giraffe-like legs caged me into the middle seat both times.

Even the backdrop of the red and green mountains, with just the caps white with snow, blurred from my vision. My attention snapped to the game the moment Utah's dry, crisp, end of fall weather slapped me in the face off the bus. Like Colorado, the higher altitude here meant a thinner air but the warmer temperature was much appreciated.

Still nothing like Southern California.

Utah's stadium, even with a smaller fifty-two thousand capacity, felt like a sea of red seats pressed down on us with how narrow its sidelines were. My muscles relaxed and warmed like usual through the warmups, which unfortunately was the only field time Zach experienced tonight. While the team's trainers cleared him for practice all week, they'd made a last-minute decision yesterday afternoon that he traveled but sat out tonight's game.

Downgraded to basically bench cheerleader, Zach was understandably completely pissed off.

"Bullshit," he muttered next to me and flipped a ball in my direction. I snapped my fingers around the rough leather, set my stance, and pitched a short route that he hit perfectly.

With his head tucked down, the overhead lights highlighted the curls in his black hair. He jogged back, the ball secured under his right elbow before he flipped it back to me. With a slight grunt, I tossed it twenty yards to Evan as Zach complained, "I feel fine."

"You'll make it up in the next game." By the frown that still furrowed his eyebrows, Zach looked completely unconvinced by my words and I couldn't blame his reaction.

While I 'only' had the current season's pressure on my shoulders, Zach and a few other guys looked further into their futures. Since I'd redshirted my freshman year, I knew that, injuries aside, my ass led the Trojans for the season after this one. Like almost every guy on the team, we both held dreams of an NFL combine invite and subsequent draft.

Extra playing development aside, I'll never hear the end of it from Hightower if that cocky ass got drafted higher than me.

In the spirit of team effort, I was sympathetic towards my team's draft-hopeful seniors. But, in USC spirit, I approached tonight's game as I always did.

Doing whatever we need to do to win the fucking game.

The first year I played against Utah's Utes, their defense slaughtered us. Their red uniforms were practically painted on my receivers by the end of a game. I'd thrown an uncharacteristic two interceptions, gotten sacked three times, and we'd lost by one score. Their backfield was ridiculously talented, particularly their corners, and their defensive front outplayed our then-sophomore core of offensive linemen.

I don't even have to ask Adonis how he feels playing here.

Grant was from Ogden, Utah, so he took these games particularly personally. The small section of number eighty-four's fans greeted him with cheers as his large frame jogged over. Despite their small size, they were impossible to miss because all of his family members shaved their heads.

At first glance, they gave off a... different vibe with the skinned heads and enough black leather that suggested they were a biker gang. But one conversation with the Grant family revealed they'd shaved their heads in support of Adonis' mother as she battled against breast cancer.

He'd never told me but I suspected she was the reason why he was so quiet and reserved. He was no pushover though. After the embarrassment of our first game here, he might have possibly broken his locker door off afterwards.

Utah's star defensive core graduated last year, and probably now started as NFL rookies. Tonight we faced a much leaner, smaller set of cornerbacks and linebackers. Their skills, that we'd watched on film at least, still deserved respect but from the first opening pitch, I knew tonight's outcome would be different.

"Different team, different game tonight," I reminded Grant with a shoulder slap as I lined up behind him for our opening drive. His only response was a low grunt, so I just gnashed my teeth so my mouthguard slipped into place, took my position, and reached out both hands.

"Oh-ninety-six!" I called out Utah's first test, a short inside slant route to Griff. After I locked eyes with him and he nodded slightly, I scanned the matchups, most of which looked one-sided in our favor.

"Oh-ninety-six!" My throat vibrated as I roared out with outstretched hands and, in one second, mentally prepped myself for the left slant pass. "Hut hut hike!"

Off the snap, I stepped back two, three steps, planted my feet in the turf, and drew my right arm back. With a crunch of my abs and slight twist in my torso, I heaved the ball in a quick snap forwards. It spiraled over the grunts and shoves at the line and landed one step ahead of Griff's route. He stumbled one step against the rookie corner who tugged his white USC shirt, and fell short.

Both tumbled after the incomplete pass, tripped over their own feet, and barrel-rolled a few times over the turf. Thankfully, as expected, two yellow flags and shrill whistles broke up the play. The closest Trojan in the are, Evan outstretched one if his hands and hauled up Griff, who brushed off his jersey. His efforts were worth the ten bonus yards though.

A few seconds later, the head ref cooled some of the crowd's initial excitement when he extended both of his arms at shoulder width and announced, "Pass interference, number sixty-four, Utah. Five yards from the spot of the penalty, automatic first down."

Around my mouthguard, my lips tugged into a wide grin.

Different team, different game all right.

The post-game uproar that echoed off Utah's visitor locker room walls showed I was right. Pride surged through me as much as adrenalin by the time I flopped down onto my locker seat. Our team was now up 3-0 after a grueling 31-21 win that looked on paper more lopsided than the actual game had been.

Utah's new corners were young, impatient, and inexperienced. My ego swelled up with how much I'd worked them over tonight. They were, however, as fast as fucking racehorses even while I stretched out the field until they gasped for breath. Evan and Griff drew enough fowls that our trainers looked over their shins and ankles for cleat cuts after their showers.

My bones ached from the three sacks I'd received tonight, two the courtesy of Utah's left tackle. On the third sack, his second, I felt every pound in his 325-pound frame. He flattened me like a turf pancake and squeezed the air out of my lungs. Thankfully, I'd held onto the ball but, two hours later, my body felt the pain.

"Don't tell me you're getting soft," Zach joked as I rounded my back, then twisted it a few times.

"No," I groaned as a loud crack erupted from between my shoulder blades. With small, circular moments, I stretched out what felt like bruised muscles.

From across the narrow aisle of lockers, Grant tipped his head down to his chest. While he only moved an inch, I still caught his reaction and assured him, "You kept that sob contained ninety percent of the time, trust me I'm grateful for that."

Grant's only response was a slight nod of his shaved, tattooed head, which he turned away from me as he dressed.

Since the game against Utah had a seven pm Mountain start time, or six pm our time, our return flight arrived back at LAX around midnight. While I would've enjoyed a round with Harper, a night owl by the late time on her post-game text, she left the only message I'd sent back to her unread.

HER: Good game. 👍

me: Thanks.
me: Don't tell me you're waiting up for me, firecracker.

My lips twitched at the possibility her words held double meaning, even the sexual context that still pissed me off. Now that my game focus dissolved, all those self-deprecation thoughts resurfaced like a bad aftertaste.

Even though I'd just seen Harper two nights ago, the way we'd parted now sat uncomfortably in the front of my consciousness. As my thumbs typed up a more serious response, my offer was interrupted when a hand slapped on my shoulder.

"I like her." Griff's wide grin greeted my raised eyes as he flopped down into the seat next to mine. His light brown eyes flashed with amusement right before I looked back at my screen. "You need someone who roasts that fat dump truck ass."

"Sure you want to sit here," I teased him without a look up. "The food and beverage cart won't serve this aisle first."

"Always prepared," he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out two Snickers' bars. His fingers made quick work as they removed one of the wrappers with the deft skill of a wily raccoon that rummaged through trash. The faint smell of peanuts and chocolate hit my nose as he commented between bites, "With how pissy you've been, you need these more than I do."

"I'm not pissy." I leaned back away from the candy bar he shoved near my mouth.

"Worse than my sister on PMS," Evan quipped up from his seat on the other side of Griff.

This is why I usually sit in the aisle.

In my distracted thoughts, I'd also closed myself into the worst seat for a 6ft4, 210-pound football player, the window seat in the middle of the plane. And now I was squished into the already smaller headspace with these two idiots.

"You have a sister?" My eyebrows raised over Griff's second inhaled candy bar and met Evan's gaze. "How come we've never met her?"

"Half-sister, wants nothing to do with me." His shoulders lifted up slightly. "Ironic, since she's a social media oversharer with ten million followers."

Both my and Griff's heads swiveled in Evan's direction. "Who?"

"Nope. Not gonna happen." Evan's eyes glared at us out of the corners and a protective tone slipped into his voice. "Forget I said anything."

The guy who sleeps at least one different girl a night has a defensive sister vibe. Priceless.

Yes, I was painfully aware of the character flaw that Harper had thrown in my face Thursday night.

She might be right about me being a hypocrite.

Still, I couldn't resist giving Evan shit, "Like Drake couldn't find her."

"Drake follows her," he huffed back. "Along with hundreds of other girls, so good luck."

He does?

Drake's quiet, reserved nature screamed the opposite of social media influencer. My social media presence only went as far as football. I pushed out team-related announcements, articles, upcoming game schedules, and thank-you follow-ups to fans after the game.

And that's more than enough.

"Can't blame her for ignoring your existence," Griff shifted his side commentary to Evan. "I barely tolerate you living across the hall."

"You never hear any complaints." Evan leaned back with a smirk and pulled out his phone. "Speaking of which... excuse me, lining up tonight's company."

Fuck, how has this guy never gotten an std?

"I never hear any silence," Griff threw back with a lazy grin, then rolled his head in my direction. "And thanks to you, Harrison, my ceiling screamed last night."

"She did scream," I mumbled to myself as my mouth twitched again, but not into a smile. While there was a line between pain and pleasure, I wasn't usually that rough with a girl. The idea that my irritation with Harper's emotional detachment encouraged me to be physically rougher bothered me.

Fuck it was hot though. She obviously enjoyed it.

Again, my brain flooded with the image of Harper on my bed, down on all fours, her back arched, ass rounded, and whole pussy area pink, swollen, and soaking wet. She was so worked up that her arousal glistened the skin in between her thighs before I sunk into her from behind. The slight swelling between my legs revealed my cock's opinion, but I just shifted in my seat and made more room.

Patience wasn't a word anyone associated me with and while Harper at least hadn't protested our post-sex shower, we still circled the same fucked-up communication drain like a bad hair clog.

I still haven't apologized and we still haven't talked about... us.

And she's right, I'm also a hypocrite when it comes to her opening up but not me.

With that thought in mind, I deleted my, 'Can I see you tonight?' message and tucked my phone into my suit pocket. Under the normal post-game fog that dragged my body into sluggishness, my eyes slipped closed. The hum of the airplane, combined with the soft vibrations, lulled me into a restless sleep haunted by one single thought.

I don't even know what the fuck 'us' is anymore.

Fortunately, I knew just the person to ask during our normally scheduled Sunday evening phone conversations.

Unfortunately, all thoughts that involved my sister evaporated at the sight of the blonde in my bedroom when I arrived back that night. Tension drew my eyebrows together and I frowned the longer I took in her because of one simple, obvious fact.

She wasn't Harper.