I bite my lip, blinking faster to ward off the tears. “Sorry. Adrenaline crash, I think.”

“I get it.” There’s humor in his tone. “I mean, you did kick someone’s ass tonight.”

“Barely.”

His free hand reaches for one of mine. He lightly caresses the inside of my palm with his thumb. “That was so badass of you, by the way. Defending Brenna like that.”

At least someone thinks so. “Thanks.”

He chuckles softly. “Though I’m pretty sure that catfight gave Mike enough spank-bank material for at least a year.”

I make a face. “Oh God, I hope not.”

Hunter’s callused fingers graze my palm before linking through mine. Holding his hand is both comforting and unsettling, but I don’t have the strength to pull away. I’m currently using most of my energy to try to make sense of everything Fitz said before his abrupt departure.

I drive him crazy.

He finds me exhausting.

He wants me, but he doesn’t want to want me.

“Blondie,” Hunter says roughly.

“Hmmm?” My mind continues to race, making it hard to concentrate. Or rather, making it harder to concentrate. My ADHD already gives me a handicap.

“Next Saturday,” he starts.

“What about it?”

“We don’t have a game.” He hesitates. “Do you want to go out that night? Grab some dinner?”

It’s my turn to hesitate. There’s no mistaking his intentions. He’s asking me on a date. And maybe if Fitz wasn’t in the picture, I’d—

Are you fucking kidding me right now! my inner Selena Gomez shrieks.

Wow. A rare F-bomb from her. Inner Selena is usually far more proper and composed. She doesn’t let the exasperating behavior of men affect her pure, elegant way of living her life.

But she’s absolutely right. I have one guy who doesn’t want to want me, and another one who’s proud to declare that he does—and I’m leaning toward the first one?

Why? Really. Why. Why is this even a choice? Hunter is gorgeous. He’s a great kisser. And he’s actually making an effort to be with me instead of running away every chance he gets.

I like Fitz, but he’s too confusing. He thinks I’m playing mind games? He’s gone from telling Garrett he’d never date me, to comforting me about my midterm and offering to help me, to confessing he’s attracted to me and then saying I’m too exhausting to be with.

Uh-huh. I’m exhausting.

I want a man with clear intentions. A man who makes an effort and is excited to spend time with me. A man who actually wants to want me.

If he has to fight himself to be with me, then chances are he’d never fight for me if it came down to it.

What woman would ever choose somebody like that?

I rest my head on Hunter’s shoulder and allow the warmth of his body to seep into my tired bones. I squeeze his hand and say, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

19

Summer

In the past, I’ve felt judged by my female friends. My circle in high school was super competitive, which inevitably led to trash-talking, backstabbing and outright in-your-face betrayal. Even with the girls I (more or less) trusted, I’d try not to share every aspect of my life. That’s probably just a good rule to live by, though. Always keep part of yourself hidden.

Fitz is very good at that, but he does it to the extreme. And me, I haven’t mastered it completely. I’ll still share certain personal details with my friends, like whether I kissed someone. Who I’m interested in. Whether I enjoyed or hated a date.

But admitting that I went from essentially giving one guy an over-the-pants hand job to agreeing to go out with another one? Um. No. If I’d confessed that to any of my high school friends or Brown sorority sisters, the slut rumors would already be traveling across campus. And don’t get me started on all the sub-tweets and social media bullshit I’d have to deal with.

Typically, I’d have no problem confiding in my mom, but this time I’m too embarrassed to confess what happened. How do I even phrase it? Hey Mom, I put my hand on a guy’s dick yesterday. Discuss.

But for the first time in my life, I think I actually found a friend with whom I’m comfortable providing all the dirty little details that other friends would pass judgment on. I have the utmost confidence that Brenna can be trusted and won’t try to make me feel bad about my actions in some catty, passive-aggressive way.

So, I don’t regret telling her everything.

I do, however, regret telling her while we’re sitting in public.

“You touched Fitzy’s dick?!” she shouts.

Awesome. I probably should’ve called her after it happened last night. But I needed to mull. And I was mulling this morning too. And this afternoon. It wasn’t until we arrived at the Briar arena tonight that I decided I need advice. Brenna and I don’t even ask each other to go to home games anymore. We just assume that we are. Tonight I get to meet some of her friends, though, which I’m excited about. We’re meeting them at Malone’s for drinks after the game, and she’s promised me they’re really cool chicks.

“Would you keep your voice down?” I order, looking around to make sure nobody is paying attention to us.

“How on earth did that happen?” she demands. “You left the bar to check if he was okay after the fight. Did that require grabbing his junk? Was it under the boxers?” She gasps. “Was there sucking?”

I choke on a wave of laughter. “Over the pants. And I told you, it was just touching. Maybe some rubbing.”

Her bottom lip sticks out. “So no bare dick?”

“No bare dick.”

“Pity. I bet his bare dick is phenomenal.”

The girls in front of us titter, alerting me to the fact that we’ve uttered the phrase “bare dick” one too many times. The braver of the two looks over her shoulder at us, and I give her a sheepish smile.

She smiles shyly in return. I think they’re both freshmen. They still have that air of innocence to them.

Beside me, Brenna lowers her voice. “How was it?”

“It was intense.”

“I meant size, Summer. How was the dick? Big? Small? Long? Thick? Happy? Sad?”

I bury my face in my lap, shaking with laughter. When I’ve calmed down, I ask, “How can a dick be sad?”

“Trust me, I’ve seen some sad sausage.” She waves a hand, flashing her red-painted nails. “Fine, we can discuss measurements later. What was intense about it?”

“I don’t know.” I gulp as I recall the naked passion glittering in his eyes. “It just was. But then it got annoying.”

She frowns. “How so?”

“He kept going on about how he wants me but doesn’t want to want me. It was…” I think it over. “Insulting,” I conclude.

“I’ll bet. You don’t want Mr. Resistance. You want a guy who shouts from the rooftops how lucky he is to have you.”

“Exactly.” I love that we’re on the same page about this. I feel like too many girls fail to remember one vital truth: we deserve someone who gives us one hundred percent. Half-assed effort isn’t effort. Half-assed love isn’t love. If a man isn’t all in, then we need to be all out.