Chicks love that shit. They lap it up, hardly caring that he’s a dickhead. They only care that he’s good-looking, good in bed, and goes down on them—a fact he constantly brags about and one I sometimes hear acted out from my bedroom in the middle of the night.

Oh JB…Oh…Oh, don’t stop doing that…

There have been nights I’ve wanted to suffocate myself with a pillow to escape listening to his sexcapades.

It would be easy to have a few of my own, but I’m not that guy. I don’t do casual, and never have—not even in high school, or as a freshman in college when everything was new and exciting and girls were throwing themselves at me because I was on the wrestling team.

At this school, wrestling is a pretty huge fucking deal, and I’m in the middle of it.

My eyes scan the auditorium, the bleachers and seats, searching for someone I know isn’t there but looking anyway. Torturing myself like a fool.

Why would she come?

We’re not dating and she hates me.

Still, a part of me—the sick, eternal optimist within—thinks she might be curious enough to show up, knowing I would never spot her in a crowd this size.

I scan it, back and forth, up and down, before finally giving up.

Zeke Daniels is standing with the rest of the coaches, head bent, listening intently to one of the assistants, nodding. I can hardly believe he offered to help me—Zeke, who gives zero fucks about anything and anyone.

Well. Except his blonde, petite fiancé.

I’ve seen them together a few times with some preteen kid they haul around, though it’s not very often because Zeke and Violet have both graduated and moved on, doing whatever it is they do when he’s not here pitching in.

Giving back.

I hear his parents are loaded—have what some people call “fuck you” money—and he’s working for his dad now, though I’ve never asked him outright; it’s none of my business, and I would feel rude bringing it up.

As if he senses someone watching him, he looks up and our eyes meet, his head now tipping into a knowing nod.

You got this. Don’t fuck it up.

I win my match by the skin of my teeth, despite almost getting my ass handed to me straight out of the gate because my head wasn’t in it. An elbow to the teeth and a few faceplants to the mat brought me back to reality real quick.

I take a cold shower after Coach chews my ass out, shouting obscenities along with the countless mistakes I made that almost lost me the match, that lost the team points.

All because I was focused on a girl with eyes as blue as the sky.

“All right pissflap, here’s what we got.” Zeke stands next to my locker in the locker room, thumb scrolling along the screen as he looks down at his cell. “Violet said you’re going to need the roommate’s help to pull this off.”

Hannah?

Skylar’s pissed-off, combative roommate Hannah?

No doubt she’s heard the entire saga and has my picture—along with JB’s—on the back of her bedroom door with darts in both our foreheads. There is no fucking way that girl is going to help me win back her best friend. Hannah would rather stick a fork in her own eye before she’d deign to help me hook up with her precious roommate.

“Any other options?”

He checks his phone. “Violet says no.”

“You didn’t even ask!”

He shrugs. “She said what she said. I don’t have to ask her twice.”

A knot forms in my stomach that feels oddly like jealously. A relationship where there is no questioning the other person and their opinion is respected by default…

It’s called trust.

The irony is not lost on me.

I don’t know how, but Zeke produces a cell phone number, holding out his phone so I can save it into mine.

“What’s this?”

“The roommate’s number, you fuckwit.”

“Did you pull that out of your ass?”

“No. Violet got it for me.”

“How?”

“Are you going to question everything I say?”

“Yes?”

His sigh is long, and loud, and he tips his head back and gawks at the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Violet got it from Jameson—Oz Osborne’s girlfriend—and Jameson got it from a friend who has a friend who works at the movie theater with Hannah.”

“Are you being serious?”

“No. How the fuck would I know where Hannah works?” The perpetual dark cloud lingering over him darkens. “Violet went on Instagram and searched for Hannah then messaged her for her number. Jesus, it’s not hard to find people these days.”

Oh.

Right.

“Give the roommate a call, explain the situation, get her on your side. Easy.” He socks me in the bicep. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

He looks skeptical, side-eyeing me. “Do you though? I think you’re going to screw this up.”

“I said I’ve got it.”

“Want me to help?”

“Hell no!” The last thing I need is Zeke Daniels hanging around like the plague. Because where he goes, his best friend Oz goes, and where Oz goes, that idiot Rex Gunderson shows up—then before I know it, the whole wrestling team will know how I fucked up my dating life.

Besides, I don’t need JB knowing about any of this until I’m good and ready to tell him. No sense in pissing him off prematurely. There’s a chance this entire scheme is going to blow up in my face and nothing will come of it, so why get his panties in a twist?

“You know what chicks love? Kids. If you found yourself a kid, you’d have this in the bag.” He’s deep in thought, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

“You have spare kids lying around, smartass?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Shit, that’s right. He spent a few years volunteering with a mentor program. The lanky little boy he used to hate spending time with he now treats like a younger brother—one he totes around everywhere.

It’s so bizarre.

But so is seeing him with his girlfriend, a girl you’d never match him with in a million years. If there was a photo next to the definition of opposites in the dictionary, theirs would be next to it.

“You know what’s better than one kid?” He’s really warming to this kid idea. “Two kids. Maybe even a puppy.”

“No.” I raise my arms and pull on a clean t-shirt, presenting him with my back.

“Aren’t you taking a shower?”

I shoot him the stink-eye. “What are you now, my mother?”

“I’m just asking.”

Not to be disrespectful, but, “Why are you still standing here?” He can go now. The looks he’s shooting me and the fact that he’s invading my personal space are making me cagey. Paranoid.

Twitchy, even.

“You’re like a car wreck,” the bastard is saying. “I can’t peel my eyes away—I have to know what happens.” He leans against the metal lockers, crossing his ankles and arms. Cocky. “I’m invested.”

Invested? Jesus Christ with this guy. “I have it handled.”

“Ehhhh…” Zeke isn’t convinced.

I turn to face him, shucking the rest of my singlet, kicking it off and retrieving it from the ground. It will get tossed in the laundry in the corner of the locker room, cleaned, and returned for the next meet.