And the fact that I’m in Iowa and not at Clemson or Alabama or Notre Dame? He hates it, but choosing Iowa was the one thing I had control over. I felt comfortable here during the campus visits and clicked with the team members I met, and to me, that was more important than any championship.

I needed a place to feel at home, and Iowa was it.

“I’m not embarrassed to be a virgin. It’s a physical act that means nothin’, just like runnin’ sprints or doin’ a few push-ups.”

Charlie’s brows shoot up. “Now you’re just being stubborn. If you thought sex meant nothing, you’d have done it by now.”

True, I would have.

Maybe.

“Are you worried at this point you’ve let your virginity go so far that you’d be bad at it?”

“Please stop saying the word virgin. And no, I don’t think I’d be bad at it.” I snort. “Please, I fail at nothin’.”

“You don’t sound confident.” Charlie is smirking; it’s dark, but I catch it all the same as I let my hand withdraw from the top of hers.. “Besides, sex isn’t about failing or winning. It’s about…it’s…” Her voice trails off and her hands flail a little before settling back on her knees. “It’s just not like trying to win or lose a game.”

“How would you know? Are you a nympho?”

The look she gives me…

Shit. Why did I fuckin’ ask if she was a nympho?

“I’ve had sex with one person exactly three times,” she informs me, smoothing her palms down the front of her jeans. “It hurt the first time, was awkward the second, and unmemorable the third. I did it because I wanted to get it over with. He was a decent guy—we’d been going out about eight months, and he was…” She shrugs. “A kid. We both were.” Her feet are still dangling off the swing, barely reaching the ground, making her look like a kid right now. “Anyway. I’m not a nympho.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “Who even uses that word anymore?”

“You dated anyone since?”

It takes her a few moments to reply. “I’ve been on dates, if that’s what you mean.”

It’s not really what I meant. I’m curious to know if she’s casually banged anyone else—not that it’s any of my business, but I am inquisitive. About her, her habits, hobbies…bed partners.

“You into casual sex?”

“Jackson, I literally just told you I’ve had sex three times, with the same guy, three years ago.” Another eye roll goes in the books. “Thanks for being such an attentive listener.”

“Right. Sorry.” It’s just that… “Someone who looks like you should have a boyfriend or whatever. Or at least dudes throwin’ themselves at you to get your attention.”

“Someone who looks like me? You’re cute, but no guys throw themselves at me or try to get my attention. I could go stand inside in my underwear and still not get hit on.”

Another snort leaves my nose and I swear to fucking God, if I do it one more time, I’ll hate myself in the morning for acting like such a tool.

“Bull. Shit.”

I would notice her standing in the center of a room wearing a garbage bag. Or denim coveralls.

“It’s sweet that you think so, but the truth is, I’m more the girl next door guys tell their problems to and not the girl they want to chase down to ask out.”

Then those guys are fucking morons.

Except I don’t have it in me to argue with her just yet—not without sounding like a dolt. Or like I care.

Which I don’t. Charlie is nothing to me; nevertheless, she’s slowly becoming a friend—the kind of friend I could easily do without, the complicated kind of friend who could manipulate me into doing anything she wanted me to.

I cannot afford a friend like that.

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” She nudges me with her boney elbow, and I glance down at it. Then back up, into her eyes.

Shrouded but bright.

“Just tired,” I lie. “It’s been a long week.”

That part at least is true.

“I can imagine.” She looks over at me, yawns.

“Want me to walk you home?”

Charlie should say no. I’m too big, and too strong, and she barely knows me. Say no, Charlie. Be smart and tell me no. Go inside and get your friends and walk home with them.

“Sure.”

Dammit.

“Want to go now? I just hit a wall, and bed is sounding amazing right about meow.”

“Yeah…let’s get you home.” I stand, and the entire swing propels back from the loss of my weight—all two hundred and seventy-five pounds of me. It hits the railing behind it, Charlie swinging from the inertia.

“Oh shit!” She grunts, almost losing her balance and falling off. “Warn a girl before you go doing that.”

I take a moment then to give her a once-over; eyes graze over the long legs, the dainty hands once folded over her lap are now gripping the rusty metal chains to steady herself. Long blonde hair. Sassy, upturned mouth.

I imagine the freckles scattered across her nose. The tiny indentation in her right cheek that only pops out when she’s laughing.

Charlie hops up.

“You shouldn’t be letting me walk you home.”

They’re the first words out of my mouth when she joins me on the sidewalk in front of the baseball house, instinctively facing the direction we need to walk.

“No? Why is that—are you going to assault me?” A little laugh punctuates her question.

“You think that’s funny?” What is it with girls not taking this shit seriously?

“No, but I know you’re not going to.” She sounds as flippant as she looks, striding along the sidewalk by my side, not a care in the word.

“No, you don’t. You’re just assuming because I haven’t been a prick to you tonight that it’s safe to be alone with me. Didn’t you take that class freshman year where they tell you all this?”

Charlie stops on the sidewalk and grabs me by the upper arm, almost pulling my body toward her, forcing me to look down into her face.

“Holy crap, Jackson—you’re being serious.”

“I want you to remember this next time. Do not ever walk home with some dude you don’t even know. Got it?”

Her nod is slow. “Yes.”

“Repeat it.”

Charlie clears her throat and lowers her voice. Holds up her hand as if about to recite the pledge of allegiance. “I won’t ever wawk home with some dood eye don’t even know.”

Great. She’s being cheeky, mocking my accent. I feel my eyes narrow on her. “You little shit.”

“Sorry, I’m just surprised you’re so adamant about it. Do you know someone who’s been, you know…”

She can’t say the words to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to.

“No. Just hear about it.” It’s scary as fuck and more common than even she probably knows. As an athlete, I’m privy to news and conversations other students aren’t, mostly because so many things are kept under the radar, or skimmed over, or covered up—but the news always travels back to the source: the athletic department.