My eyes flare wide. How did I not know this?

It’s as if he reads my mind. “We never really talked about serious shit when we were together, did we?” He pauses. “Only three people at Waylon know that story: Dillon, Ryker, and now you.”

I shake my head. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful—for everyone. What happened to your parents?”

“My mom died—thrown from the car. My dad lingered on life support for several days until my uncle pulled the plug.” His mouth twists. “I was ten when it happened, old enough to know everyone in the whole town despised them. They’d both been in and out of jail for one thing or another.” A resigned look settles on his face. “My dad’s brother and his wife raised me.”

“Were they good to you?”

He reaches back, pulls out his wallet, and shows me a picture. “I was eleven here, I think, and had only been with them for a year. The girls were five, two, and one. They’re a mess.” His lips curve up as if he’s thinking of them in particular, and I suck in a breath, afraid he’ll turn that megawatt grin on me.

I stare down at the image he shows me.

It’s a family portrait with him as a skinny boy, tall for his age even then. He’s wearing a baggy blue dress shirt and high-water jeans that show the edge of white socks. Worn out sneakers are on his feet, but it’s his face that gets to me. No smile.

His uncle must be the man with his arms around a petite lady holding two babies in her lap while an older child hugs her leg. The little girls are sweet, their faces round and adorable—but Blaze stands apart from them, just a little. His eyes…they’re squinted with a faraway look, his face flat. His hands are clenched tight against his legs, as if he’s holding himself as still as possible.

I look up at him, my eyes skating over the chiseled face that looks like nothing could ever penetrate the surface. I could say, You look lonely, and if I’d been there, I’d have been your friend, but I don’t. He’s a proud person; I can tell by the hard, set planes of his face right now.

He doesn’t meet my gaze, just stares at the photo. “I know what you’re thinking when you look at it, that I didn’t fit in, and I didn’t, but my aunt and uncle weren’t unkind. They just didn’t expect me to be added to their new family, you know? Plus, they didn’t have much, and there I was…taking up space and eating their food.”

“I see.” He saw himself as a burden.

“The church we attended did one of those free portrait things for our directory. That’s why the background is so crappy. Don’t know why I keep it, but I can’t seem to throw it away. I miss the girls the most.”

I stare at it and chew on my bottom lip, searching for something to say. I recall all the pictures of me and my brothers around the house. There’s even a high school graduation picture of me in our guest bathroom across from the toilet, and no matter how many times I’ve begged Ma and Pop to take it down, insisting no one wants to see me while they poop, they refuse to take down my “shit picture”.

He tucks the photograph back in his wallet.

“Blaze, I—”

He grimaces. “Nah, don’t tell me you’re sorry about how I grew up. If anything, it’s given me my drive. Someday I’ll prove to them and everyone in Alma that I’m not just the product of two losers. I’m going to get out of Mississippi and be someone.”

“I believe you.” Unexpected emotion flies at me, clogging up my throat as I think about him never having a family like I did.

He gives me a look, his gaze drifting over my face for what seems like several seconds. “Thank you for those words.”

“I’ve always known you have the guts to shoot for the stars. It’s plain as day when you take the football field.”

“Didn’t know you came to that many games.”

I shrug. “You know Margo. She wants us there to cheer on the team, rah-rah-ree. I did my duty.”

“Yeah, of course.” A rare, vulnerable expression crosses his face, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

“‘All great and precious things are lonely,’” I murmur, the words slipping out. “John Steinbeck.”

His face stills, and he gives me a long, lingering look, the air between us thicker, intimate.

“Is that…is that a compliment from the girl who hates me? Are you saying I’m precious?”

Uh…

“You do hate me, right?” His eyes hold mine, those baby blues that make me weak, and even though I don’t want to feel desire for him anymore, it rears its head, my senses lighting up at his smell, at our close proximity—

I back away from him, my feet knowing instinctively that it’s time to go.

“Charisma?”

“I—I have to go.”

“Don’t. We’re talking.”

“I have to. Got to get those rice cakes before someone else does.”

“You don’t want to leave. I know you don’t.”

“You don’t know anything,” I say, my hands tight on my purse. He has no right to ask me to talk to him.

“I know you’ve got walls so thick no one can penetrate them.”

“Yeah, well, so do you, but Charisma Rossi doesn’t need walls. Charisma Rossi is tough as nails.”

“She’s also talking about herself in the third person.” He lets out a small laugh. “Damn, you’re funny.”

His laugh…it makes me sad, reminding me that I won’t be hearing it anymore. “See you around, Blaze.”

I turn my back, and each step feels as if I’m wading through thick mud. I can’t look back. I can’t…

“Charisma.”

His voice is soft, yet it carries to me. “What?” I say, though I keep walking.

“I’m not fucking her.”

The air goes out of me, and I feel lightheaded as I whip back around.

I don’t have to ask who he means.

“I haven’t been with anyone. Not one single girl.”

“So?” My voice is raspy. “Why do I care?”

He studies me, those crystal eyes glittering at every detail of my person. He works his way over my face, lingering for a long time on my lips.

“Maybe I’m wrong, maybe you don’t give a shit, but at least now you know.”

“Why tell me now?”

His eyes hold mine. “I don’t know. What do we have to lose?”

Only the rest of me.

Doesn’t he know I would have kept on with him for as long as he wanted? The worst thing of all is that even after he ended us, I might have taken him back if he’d tried.

How awful is that? To know a guy has power over you, to know he can tear down your defenses so much that you’d take any scrap you could get?

I wanted to be his.

“I’m not your type, remember?”

He never moves his gaze from me. “You were fire in my hands.”

My heart clenches. “Don’t say things like that. You don’t mean them!”

He inhales sharply at my raised voice, and I study his expression, seeing a hesitant look in his eyes as he watches me, as if he’s unsure, as if he wants to say more, but something holds him back—

And doesn’t that remind me.

Something will always hold a guy like him back from me. He’s out of my league. He’s got a big future in front of him, one that includes the NFL and supermodels. It may not be Dani today, but it’ll be another girl soon. Guys like him don’t go around without women all over them.

A horn blares in the distance and I flinch.

“I have to go,” I say quietly, reining in my emotion. He’s part of my past and that means moving on.

“Yeah.” He jams his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans.

My hands clench around my purse, and I pivot to head into the store. I think I can feel the heat of his stare. My body trembles, pissing me off, and I pick up my pace.

Don’t. Do not look back.

Because if I do, if I let myself talk to him, if I let him back into my world, all the ground I’ve gained over the past three months will crumble beneath my feet.

Remember how he shoved you out of his life without even an explanation?

Keep walking. One step in front of the other.

I have to. I have to. I have to.

9

First day of class, I arrive at Dr. Cartwright’s lecture hall early to get the best seat, which is center and front.

I’m working on setting up my workspace when I hear loud laughter from outside. The doors burst open, and in walk Dillon and Blaze, two peacocks entering a new courtyard. You can almost hear “We Are The Champions” blaring in the background as their theme music. Puffed up and preening, they walk down the center stairs of the lecture hall toward the front row. Everyone in the room goes silent, and I gape as some of the students sitting around me on the front row get up to make room for them.

FTS. I’m not moving.

I’ve been in classes with football guys, and they always do this. They should just walk up and piss on the chalkboard to mark their territory already.

Blaze walks forward, getting perilously close to where I am, and looks for a seat.

“Hey, Blaze. You can sit here,” says the pretty girl who was sitting next to me.

“Thanks. You’re the best. Coach loves for us to be at the front.”

“No biggie.” She pats his shoulder as she walks by, her eyes all over him. “Great game, by the way.”