“What’s this for?” I asked, my hands not knowing where to go. On her tight ass? No, that was wrong. I curled my arms around her waist and inhaled. She just—fuck—felt so good. And it wasn’t about sex—no, it was more, as if we shared a human connection that meant something I couldn’t wrap my head around.

She squeezed my shoulder. “This is for giving me your car key, silly. And I’m glad you won your game this weekend.”

I eased away from her hug with reluctance, feeling off balance, wanting to touch her again.

We stepped down into a seventies style darkened room with wood paneling on the bottom and an upper wall that had been stripped of wallpaper. It was small but clean. Bright, colorful pillows and velvet throws were spread across an old pink Victorian-looking couch with a curved wooden back. Live plants sat under the front window and framed pictures lined the old mantle above the fireplace. I walked over to them for a closer look. Most were of her and an older woman with blond hair. One caught my eye—

What was that? My heart flip-flopped in my chest.

I felt her gaze on me from behind. Yeah, she knew exactly what I was seeing.

I turned around and held out the frame. “Not a football fan, huh? You’d rather play chess, you said. Looks to me like you’re having a pretty good time at the bowl game last year—in Phoenix. Long way to go for a non-fan.” I pointed down at the pic. “This is you, right, with your face painted like a tiger and wearing our team colors? And is this a huge number one foam finger you’re holding up? Why, yes. I think it is.” I held it up high to the light, inspecting it as if it were a diamond. I burst out laughing. “This is classic. Tate is going to freak when I tell him.”

She grimaced, her face flushing. “That trip was for Mimi.”

I nodded. She’d mentioned her a few times in passing.

“Anyway,” she continued. “I scored the tickets from someone who couldn’t go at the last minute. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Really?” I said, my voice dripping in disbelief. I walked closer to her, my lids low. “You can’t shit a shitter, Sunny.”

She fiddled with her shirt, not meeting my eyes.

I smirked. “Your face gives too much away. You love football. I bet you know my stats. I bet you’ve been following me my entire career—”

“Fine. Just shut up already,” she snapped, bopping me on the arm with a sharp knuckle. “I like watching you play, okay, fine. I know you should have run a screen in the second half of yesterday’s game when that lineman came after you. I know that in the first quarter you tended to throw too soon, but by the third quarter you had the kinks worked out . . . but it’s not like I’m some crazy groupie. I don’t stalk you or wear your jersey or pick your locks or even care if I see you on campus. I like the game. I always have. I like the crunch of bodies and the rush I get when the quarterback throws the ball or runs it in for a touchdown. What’s the big deal? Can’t I be a regular fan?”

Deep satisfaction settled in my bones. “You can be whatever you want.” Yeah, I wanted to push her against the wall and kiss her.

“Do you like all sports or just football?” I arched a brow.

She sent me an annoyed look and mumbled something.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

She huffed at me, her chest rising. “You’re not going to ever let this go are you?”

“Nope.”

A defeated sigh came from her. “Football . . . football is my favorite.”

“Am I your favorite player at Leland?” God, I was enjoying this.

Her fingers toyed with the neckline around her tank.

“Well?”

“Hmmm, Tate’s fun to watch and rarely drops a pass . . .”

“Watch it.”

She shrugged. “He’s definitely going to be a top five draft pick—but yes, you’re my favorite player. Don’t get a big head over it either.”

I sat down and leaned my head back on the couch and a chuckle came out. My fake girlfriend loved football—and she wasn’t a psycho!

“What?” she snapped, still fuming, probably from my smug expression.

I patted the seat next to me and grinned. “Come on, get your notes, darlin’. I’m gonna help you study.”

Sunny

THE NEXT DAY THAT I didn’t have class with Max, I came outside and took in the Land Cruiser he’d parked on my side of the street the night before.

The carpooling plan was for us to ride together on the days we had A&P, and on the days we didn’t I got the car and Max rode his Harley. When he needed to get to and from the field house, he’d catch a ride with Tate. The arrangement seemed easy—but underneath the surface lingered the feeling that nothing is ever what it seems.

I crawled in the luxury vehicle and basked in the smell of spicy alpha male and leather. I popped the glove compartment open and nosed around, but all I found were documents, rural road maps of North Carolina, and a bottle of Bleu De Chanel. Yes. I cracked it open and inhaled, seductive images of Max front and center in my head: him at his door wearing a cocky smile . . . his piercing eyes and sexy hair that made me want to put on some Marvin Gaye and get it on—okay, stop already. I ran my hands over the supple seats. Is it bad that I wanted to roll around and sniff everywhere he’d been?

Get to class.

I cranked the car, shouting in glee when I felt the power under my feet.