Volleyball night at Stanford was like fight night in Vegas, minus the glitter and plastic, light-up heels. The campus was packed, nowhere to park, barely anywhere to walk, so I entrusted my first baby—my cherry red, vintage Mustang—to a valet at a swanky hotel nearby. I gave the attendant a bill to ensure nothing happened to one of the few loves of my life and used this handy dandy mode of transportation, known as teleportation, to land just outside of the auditorium.

     I couldn’t have timed it better. I had the cover of twilight to shield me and I was ten minutes late, so other than the inebriated frat boys staggering into the auditorium, no one was around to witness my space bending gift.

     Jogging up to the doors, I narrowly missed the worst of the staggering frat boys folding over and heaving violently. Had I been two steps farther, my designer shoes would have been a lost cause, but no harm, no foul.

     “Keep up the good work, soldier,” I said, saluting as I weaved around him, making sure to give him a wide berth.

     My attempts at humor were lost on Drunk of the Night Award guy, as they had been more often than not here. I wasn’t sure if it was the California or the college student in them, but this place didn’t find my staggering humor as humorous as the whole world had before. Not a good thing for a guy who eats sarcasm for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

     “Ugggghh,” a voice that screamed its owner had her nose curled called out. “You’re him, aren’t you? She said you were a hottie-patottie. However, she failed to mention you were fully aware of that genetic superiority.”

     Hottie-patottie? Who talked like that? Unable to resist, I turned to find out.

     The girl tapping her fingers over crossed arms inspired a discreet lunge backwards and then another one when her eyes narrowed as she took a step in my direction. She looked like a thrift store had thrown up on her, had that emo, black cracked nail polish look that screamed femininity at its finest, and to top it off, a look in her eyes that was so neurotic I couldn’t tell if she wanted to kill me or just bite my head off after mating with me.

     I suppose eccentric was a nicer way of putting it.

     “I moonlight as a hottie-patottie, but by day I’m an ogre named Sven,” I said, fighting instinct and crossing the space between me and the bra-burning, man-hating president of the women’s lib movement.

     A tugging on one side of her mouth erupted. “You too? I thought I was the only one with the fairy tale curse. I’m a princess in pink by day and a black wearing bitch every night,” she said, rolling her eyes over princess or pink, I wasn’t sure. It was probably both. I could tell from ten seconds with this girl she’d never been a Cinderella wannabe.

     “And here I was under the impression that, in addition to genetic superiority, I also had fairy tale exclusivity going for me here at Stanford,” I tossed her way, shaking my head. “Damn it, anyways.”

     “Charming too,” she said, dropping her head back. “This is not a good thing.” She continued to carry on a conversation with herself for a few more seconds before dropping her head back into place and appraising me with those nutty eyes again.

     I was rarely uncomfortable around a woman, or at a loss for words, but this one had the gift. Not in the good way though, not in the way Emma had inspired it.

     “Julia,” she offered, softening some. “Julia Grey. I’m Emma’s roommate, and I come bearing the gift of a coveted ticket to society’s way of cementing women as sex objects bouncing, twirling, and on display in a scrap of lycra for the whole of the perverted male world.”

     Wow, this girl’s got issues. Anger, daddy, or boyfriend issues I wasn’t sure, but I guessed it was an impressive mix of all three.

     “Pat—”

     “I know who you are,” she said, cutting me off as she held out the ticket curled between her fingertips like it was painful to have skin to paper contact with it. “Emma said you would be the ‘adorable’ one dressed for a photo shoot ten minutes late.”

     “Emma said I was adorable?”

     “Maybe,” she said, chipping away at the remains of her black nail polish. “But if you ever repeat that I repeated that, I’ll use my jedi knight skills on you and light saber your fine little butt.”

     It was a funny thing to say and I normally would have laughed, but this girl was tipping the crazy scale just enough that I didn’t doubt she was serious. “My lips are sealed.”

     “Sure, they’re not,” she said, continuing her masochistic manicure.

     I never had any issues cutting to the point, so now was as good a time as any. “What’s the deal with Emma and Terminator?”

     She smiled the opposite of the happy kind. “You seem like a decent guy,” she began. “Wait, I take that back. I don’t know you enough to make that assertion, but I like looking at you. A lot.” To prove it, she took a full body inventory where we stood. A lesser man would have squirmed in his size elevens. “So it’s in my best interest to keep you alive and in one fine piece, so I’m going to offer you a piece of advice.” She looked me square in the eye. Even the green of her eyes was unusual, like it was radioactive. “Stay away from Emma.”

     Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. “You’re a fan of Ty’s,” I stated.

     “You mean chump-butt?” she said. “No way, Jose, but I am a fan of Emma’s, and you in her life is not a good thing while Ty’s—”

     “Still her boyfriend,” I interrupted.

     Her eyes drilled into mine harder. “Alive,” she finished.

     This girl was putting a serious damper on my Friday night. Enough with the mood stifling already. “Thanks for the tip, but I can handle myself against your stereotypical, college meathead.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure, you can’t.”

This conversation was going nowhere. Fast. “Thanks for the ticket. It was nice . . .”—what was the right word?—“chatting with you.”

She laughed one hard note that rocked her body. “Hey, Top Gun? One more pointer before you head in there,” she called out as I headed towards the gymnasium. “Since I doubt you’ll be flying the friendly skies in an F-14 while Kenny Loggins plays on a loop in the background anytime soon,”—she smirked at me, scanning me head to toe—“might want to loose the aviators. They’ll eat you alive if you go in there looking like a pretty boy version of Ice Man.”

I’m sure to her that was a way of showing her concern for someone she liked, but what she didn’t expect from me was that I loved me a little roshambo.

I kept the glasses firmly in place, grinning my response. “Aren’t you coming?” I asked as she stayed planted by the doors.

She did an exaggerated shudder. “No. I have a strict no mixing it with the jocks policy ever since a pack of them made my life hell in high school. Enjoy,” she said, kicking open the door behind her with her shiny purple military boot. “Try to stay alive. I’d like to undress you with my eyes at least a few thousand more times.”

     Objectification. If this is the way I made the women I did it on (with the purest of intentions, of course) feel, I was going to have to ease up.

     The crowd exploded to a roar suddenly, as I guessed the teams were making their appearance on the court. Which meant Emma was just a room away.

     Putting resolutions on hold, I jogged into the gymnasium, handing my ticket to the attendant while I craned my neck, searching for her. I couldn’t tell you if the ticket taker was male or female, I was so absorbed, but they did rattle off directions to my seat. Sounded like Emma had scored me a sweet ticket. Center court and a few rows back.

     I all but pranced down the bleachers, simultaneously searching for my seat and Emma. Since I was more interested in finding one over the other, when I found it, I put on the brakes.

     She’d found me at almost the same time I’d found her. She was sitting in a metal chair on the sidelines, her cheeks flushed and her hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She smiled. I beamed.

     Even when she turned her attention away to retie her shoes, I stood smitten like I’d just been injected with a potent poison of love potion. I was oblivious to everything and everyone. At least until a wad of paper aimed at my head neared its destination.

     I let my body do what it did, snatching the threat—small and insignificant as it was—from the air before it had a chance to serve its intended purpose of humiliating me in front of hundreds. The temptation to fire it back at the owner was overwhelming in so many ways, but a handful of spectators were already looking at me like I had mad ninja skills. If I unleashed my speed ball with dead on accuracy, the questions in their heads of what I’d just done might flicker over to conclusions I didn’t need them to draw. Especially now that I’d found a reason to stay firmly planted in the land of Mortals.  

     So instead, I finished my journey to my seat which, lucky for me, was right next to the paper wad’s owner.

“I think you lost something,” I said, like I was as happy I could reunite a couple pieces of trash back together as I would have been bringing a little boy’s lost puppy home.

     “Keep it,” Ty said, his eyes already in full glare mode. “As a reminder of the only thing I’ll ever lose to you.”

     So we weren’t going to waste anytime picking up where we left off. “If there’s only one thing you’ll lose to me, how about I return this to you,” I said, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket, “and I’ll keep my eyes open for something else I’d rather take.” Sliding my glasses off, I let my eyes scan the room first before they fell on the prettiest back of a head I’d seen.

     Ty’s fists balled as he began to rise. Were we going to do this here? Right in the middle of hundreds of smashed together bodies? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have worn my nice jacket. The person sitting next to him clamped a hand over his shoulder and shoved him back down into his seat. It was a fellow meathead, who glowered at me at the same time he shook his head.

     “You’ve got some serious balls showing your face here,” Ty seethed, “and then disrespecting me in front of my boys.” He tilted his head to the side, where not one, but three similar looking, green eyed pit bulls sat glaring at me. Super, Emma’s brothers. I was scoring impressive points with all the people in her life.

     I gave them all my most unimpressed look before glancing back to the gym floor. “I’m not comfortable talking about my anatomical manhood with another man, but I hear there are a bunch of wonderful clubs and support groups where you can do just that.”

     Ty’s arm barely had time to flinch my direction before the guy next to him pinned it back.

     “Ty, enough,” he ordered. “He isn’t worth it. And Emma would be pissed.”

     “I don’t care,” Ty said, grinding his jaw.

     “You start a brawl in here, it could threaten your spot on the football team,” his friend said, sweeping in front of Ty and pushing him over into his former seat.

     “Patrick Hayward,” I said, extending my hand and acting like the meathead quartet didn’t loathe me. “And trust me, of all the potential dangers out there in the big bad world, I’m the last one you should be worrying about for your sister,”—he was ignoring me, so I glanced down to the court where my eyes targeted on a pair of bare, insanely hot legs—“especially when your sister’s running around in her underwear,” I said, well . . . I screeched.

     A surge of conflicting interests attacked me. In one corner I had virtue wanting to search for a blanket to cover her up in, and in the other corner I had hunger. The kind that still had me thinking about blankets, but disheveled with sheets and pillows on a bed.

     Imaginary face slap.

     “I know who you are, douchebag, and before I put you in a headlock for mentioning my little sister and underwear in the same sentence, I’m trying to figure out if you’re talking about her uniform or if you’re actually visualizing her in her underwear right now. Either way,” he said, making slow work of popping his knuckles, “it’s not looking good for you.”

     I watched her throw her windbreaker top over her head, revealing a numbered jersey. I couldn’t decide if I was more relieved or disappointed. “You’re telling me those black, next-to-non-existent boyshorts are part of her uniform?” It was too good to be true. Especially as I watched with unblinking interest as she loped onto the court to finish her warm-up with the rest of the team.

     “Is this your first volleyball game or something?”

     “Well, yeah. It kind of is,” I answered, incapable of anything more intelligent as I watched Emma. “But I can tell you I’m planning on making up for my lapse in attendance at women’s volleyball games by becoming Stanford’s most recent season ticket holder. How much do you think it would cost for a lifetime membership?” I laughed at my private joke, finding no company in it.

     “I bet they’ll strike you a great deal since your lifetime membership will expire in two minutes if you keep looking at my sister like that, Rapunzel.” His voice wasn’t quite murderous, but it was close enough to gather he was serious about facing a life sentence to end mine.

     “So, the nicknames are inspiring. True masterpieces,” I said, not sure if I was trying to diffuse or exacerbate the situation. “You boys have a study hour where you get together and come up with these labels that showcase your bigoted intelligence?”

     He grinned, just barely, but it still qualified. “No. It just comes naturally when someone like you tries to weasel his way into my sister’s, who’s too sweet and innocent for her own good, underwear.”

     Great. He said it, so immediately I was thinking it again. I didn’t want to think about her that way, like I had so many of the masses before her, she was better than that and better than me, but I didn’t exactly not want to think about her underwear either. It was the trickiest kind of situation to be in.

     Imaginary face slap.

     “So you’re all right with Ty doing much more with her underwear than thinking about them why? Because he’s your football buddy or something? Some sort of bros before hoes thing?”

     “Watch your step,” he warned, his fists clenching in and out with such concentration I could see the tension releasing from them. “You don’t know jack crap about Emma or any of us. You got that?”

     Had I been Mortal, I knew I would have been signing my death certificate if I smarted him back, but I wanted to. I was tired of the macho act and we were still in pregame warm-up. But there was something honest, something relatable, about his hardcore protection of his sister.

     It reminded me of me. The way I would have been if Elisabeth—the youngest Hayward sibling who’d died with the rest of us, but hadn’t joined us in Immortality—had made it into her teenage years and boys came knocking on our front door for her. I would have murdered them where they stood, no question about it.

     Emma’s brother was giving me more leniency than I would have given to someone if I was in his shoes. I sighed, reminding myself why I wasn’t a proponent of empathy in times like these.

     “Hey, you’re right. I’m being a dick,” I offered, not adding on, but you’re being a bigger one. “Let’s just rewind to three minutes ago and start over. So, how ‘bout those Yankees?”

     This time, when I extended my hand, he shook it. “Dallas, and those Yankees suck.”

     I had to bite my cheek from saying something in defense of his insult to the titans of baseball and put us back at square nothing.

     “That’s my older brother Austin next to Ty, and the one on the end is Jackson. He graduated last year, but can’t miss a single game of his baby sister’s. Especially when Ty calls us and tells us some new rich boy’s trying to get into our sister’s pants.” The killer notes in his voice were gone, although I knew one misstep by moi would bring them back in heightened quantities.

     “I thought there were four older brothers who could squash me like a bug?”

     Dallas smirked. “Tex’s somewhere up there in the nose bleed section,” he said, tipping his head behind us. “He and I are twins, and he wasn’t happy about drawing the seat short straw since Emma gave his ticket to you.”

     Sounds like Tex and I were off to an even better start than I was with Emma’s other brothers. “Jackson? Austin? Tex? Dallas?” I listed. “What’s with all the city names?”

     Dallas huffed. “My parents thought they’d be all original and name us after the places we were conceived in.”

     “I’ve never heard of a city named Emma,” I said, shuffling through the memory bank.

     “Nah, Emma wasn’t named for a city,” Dallas said. “By the time she came along, dad had his four strapping boys and couldn’t have cared if mom drowned their premature daughter. Dad was something of a dick,” Dallas said, his fists clenching again. “That’s why I’m so good at detecting other ones.” He looked at me in about as pointed of a way as a person could.

     “Listen, I get Emma’s got a serious boyfriend and four older brothers serious about committing a first degree crime if someone like me tries to screw with her, but I can promise you I want nothing more than to be friends with her,”—yes, I knew lying was a sin, but so was lust, and I’d had my fair share of that my whole existence and I had yet to be struck down by lightning—“so you’ve got nothing to worry about with me. Scout’s honor.”

     “Brother, if I thought you were a boy scout, I wouldn’t have to worry about eagle scout nerdiness working its way into my sister’s fragile, often misguided, heart.” He shot me a sideways grin as the buzzer went off. “And just so you know where Ty stands with us, if he were thinking, touching, or trying to remove Emma’s underwear, we’d happily waterboard him to death, football teammate or not. It just so happens right now he stands with us against d-bags coming on to Emma. He’s with us until he’s against us, and if he’s ever against us, he’s as good as a Scarlett boys’ punching bag. And believe me, he knows it too,” Dallas said, watching with something that looked a lot like pride as Emma took her place on the court, adjusting her knee pads into place.

     Just then she looked up at the five of us staring at her with a mixture of emotions and beamed, waving before turning her attention to the opposing team as they prepared to serve.

Something that felt dangerous pitted into my stomach right then, something that felt a lot like it was all over. I’d found the girl. The girl. I still wasn’t sure if I even believed in it, but instinct didn’t give a fart about belief. It did what it wanted to.

     She had a boyfriend and four brothers who wouldn’t rest until I was worm fodder if I screwed this up. Why did I have to fall for the girl who was more heavily guarded than the pope?

     Ah, that’s it. I momentarily forgot the world has a vendetta against my happiness.