I don’t want to be here. I should want to be here, but I don’t. And that pisses me off. This is what I’ve wanted since I got my acceptance letter to UCLA—to be at a loud, crazy theater party on a Saturday night, surrounded by people who spontaneously burst into show tunes while standing around concocting imaginary rap battles between Shakespeare and Arthur Miller. And yet, now that I’m here, all I can think about is how much I’d rather be lying naked with Tyler Caldwell. Well, actually underneath Tyler Caldwell, to be more exact.

Gah! I’m pathetic. Clingy and gross and pathetic! How have I become this smitten this fast? I absolutely hate clingy, pathetic, obsessed girls, and now I’m one of them! I need to stop this right now. I need to be present and in the moment and stop yearning to be with someone right now I’ll be seeing a mere two days from now. Get a grip, Zooey!

Thankfully, I haven’t been sexed up and smitten like this nonstop for the past few days. To the contrary, I’ve been so busy with my classes and meeting new people and exploring campus, I’ve hardly thought about Tyler at all. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve thought about Tyler a ton, but it’s been manageable. Within the zone of reasonableness.

But all that reasonableness flew out the window this afternoon the minute I saw Tyler playing football. I saw him on that field on TV, decked out in his pads and helmet and tight little pants, terrorizing Texas A&M’s running backs and receivers like a freaking warlord, and all hell broke loose inside me. An obsession was born.

Frankly, it’s not my fault I’m feeling this way. I was raised on football. It’s in my blood. And Tyler was magnificent today. He was graceful. Fast. Savage. Powerful. A panther stalking his prey. A freight train on the tackle. Not to mention a bit of a thug at times, too. Which was hot as all get-out. When anyone disrespected or offensively interfered with Tyler—or, God forbid, blocked him in his back—he wasn’t restrained about communicating his displeasure. He bumped the offender’s chest with his. Chewed his opponent out like the dude had just murdered a puppy. At one point, when an opposing player got in Tyler’s face right after administering a questionable block on him, Tyler lurched at the guy so fiercely, Tyler’s teammates had to physically hold him back. Of course, Tyler quickly pulled himself together after that incident and got his head back in the game. But it was too late for me. I’d seen the raw, primal side of Tyler—the forest fire raging inside him—and I liked what I saw. Indeed, I liked it a lot.

Seeing Tyler play football for the first time made me feel exactly the way I did when my grandparents took me to see Wicked for the first time in New York. My very soul burst into flames of desire. And so, I shot off a text to Tyler, right then and there while sitting on Dimitri’s couch, even though I knew Tyler wouldn’t see my message until hours later:

Watching you play football is making this eager beaver’s beaver extremely wet. Can’t wait to see you on Monday. Get ready because I’m going to attack you.

A friend of mine from the theater department says something to me, drawing my attention away from my thoughts of Tyler and back to the party.

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“I’m going to the kitchen for a beer. You want anything?”

“A water would be great,” I reply. “Thanks.”

As my friend departs, I pull out my phone and check to see if Tyler’s replied to my naughty message yet. But, nope. The only texts between Tyler and me are the unanswered trio from me to him from throughout the day. My text from this morning, wishing Tyler luck in the game, my sext about my extremely wet beaver sent to Tyler during the game, and a third text sent from me to Tyler right after the game, congratulating him on the team’s win and his forced fumble.

Crap. I shouldn’t have sent Tyler three unanswered texts in a row. If that doesn’t scream “clingy,” then I don’t know what does. Shoot. I should have continued to play it cool with Tyler, the way I did when he dropped me off the other night. I should have wished him luck in the game, the thing he specifically asked me to do, and left it at that. Rookie mistake, Zooey!

“Hey, aren’t you in my History of Theater class?” a male voice asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. The figure standing before me is a cute guy from my class. David, I think his name is.

“Yeah. Hi. I’m Zooey.”

“Dylan.”

David. Dylan. Close enough.

“Are you a theater major?” I ask. “Or just getting your arts requirement out of the way?”

“Theater major,” he says.

I quickly assess him. He’s cute. Fit. Not a guy I’d peg for a theater major at all. He looks like a classic California surfer dude.

“So have you picked your topic for the research paper yet?” Dylan asks.

“I think so.” I tell him my idea for the paper. In return, he tells me about his research topic, and I feign listening. Honestly, I don’t care. I can’t stop thinking about how I came on too strong with Tyler today. What if Tyler feels smothered and decides he doesn’t want to continue with my miseducation for the full five weeks? Oh, man, just the thought makes me feel panicky.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket like a hot potato as Dylan continues talking. It’s a text from Tyler.

Your beaver still wet for me, eager beaver?

My heartrate spikes.

Yes.

I’m too excited to manage anything wittier than that.

I just landed in LA. Where are you?

“Excuse me,” I blurt to Dylan, cutting him off midsentence. I hold up my phone by way of explanation. “I’ve got to…” But I don’t bother finishing my sentence. I sprint around a corner into a hallway, my chest heaving with excitement, and tap out a quick reply.

At a theater party.

Address?

Why? You want to hang out with a bunch of theater majors?

No. I want to pick you up wherever you are and bring you back to my house and fuck your brains out.

I gasp and look up from my phone, adrenaline flooding me. What the hell happened to the guy who couldn’t possibly see me on any days besides Monday through Wednesday? I’m dying to ask Tyler that very question, but I force myself not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I text the address of the party to Tyler and add lamely…

Thank you.

Tyler replies instantly.

Don’t thank me. I’m not coming to get you for your benefit. I’m coming to get you for mine.