Elena

My backpack is in the process of sliding down my arm when Becky Hillstrom—of the acclaimed Virginia Hillstroms, she frequently brags— starts one of her infamous inquisitions. Her firing off questions is in no way surprising since we jokingly refer to her as The Interviewer because she never stops.

"How was your uniform fitting? Did you get that body butter I told you about with the shimmer, the one that doesn't smell like alcohol? And last but not least, tell me you took the time to read Julia's email."

I nod as I set my bag on the floor and slide into my seat.

“Which one is a yes?” she asks.

I let out a little laugh as I unzip my bag to pull out my iPad, a notebook and a pen, all of which I set out on the desk.

“Most of the above,” I answer. “The fitting went well—no gains since last year, which means I didn’t get any crap from Mandy. The body butter is as good as you said it would be, I’m so excited I finally found one that complements my apricot and honey body wash. As far as Julia’s email goes, I got it on my way here but didn’t even have time to skim it. Feel like breaking it down for me or should I start reading?”

The way Becky's face lights up tells me that whatever the email says, it's exciting and she cannot wait to fill me in. Her expression suggests it’s either significant team news or unbelievably juicy gossip.

When she dramatically leans closer to my desk, I'm sure there's gossip involved. "I freaking knew you wouldn't have read it! Honey, prepare yourself because I am about to give you some knowledge."

I snort out a laugh and nod my head. "Hit me," I joke. No doubt this is gossip based, but I'm betting it’s nothing too good seeing as how this is the first day of our senior year in college. There hasn't been time for anything exciting to happen with our group since a lot of people only arrived back in town over the last few days.

Since I spent the majority of the last eight weeks camped out on the couch at home trying to get over a broken heart I’ve been pretty oblivious. Not anymore, though. As of today, I've officially pulled my head out of my ass, and I am going to get back into the swing of things. No more sad sack me. From now on, it's all going to be positive.

“Coach Adams got fired. F-I-R-E-D fired,” Becky announces dramatically.

My brows shoot up as I take in the information. Coach Adams has been the head coach of the Tigers for the last thirty years. In this town, he is to football as God is to earth. There's a freaking statue of him out in the front quad for goodness sake, and each year there's a parade in his honor after the last game of the season. In the three seasons I've been a cheerleader for the university I've never heard anything less than reverential about him, which honestly has always struck me as a bit weird. Personally, I've always found him a bit pompous and a lot stiff, but that's just me.

Football is a serious money maker here. Having a Division I football team and an award-winning cheerleading squad is a big deal at the university, and Coach Adams's high profile got the football team and the cheer squad a lot of money for equipment and travel. Whether he's the warmest guy in the world or not, he's like a religion in this town and on this campus. I can't imagine the athletic department without him at the helm.

The more I think it over, the easier it is to conclude that Becky is wrong. There's no way Coach Adams is gone. I'm pretty confident he could run around the quad naked, and no one would say a word.

“Wait a minute,” I say, my tone dripping with suspicion. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

Becky shakes her head. "No," she whispers emphatically. "He had an affair with a student last year and then dumped them during the summer. Apparently, it wasn't the first time he's slept with a student—but it was the first time the student he dumped had pictures and video to share with the administration. It was also the first time Coach Adams was dumb enough to have had an affair with someone who comes from a family full of major donors to the university. Even though technically the student is now an alumnus, it's provable that the affair took place over the course of their senior year."

It's the juiciest thing to happen at our school since ever. I’m shocked but also endlessly curious about who Coach Adams had an affair with. “Shut. Up,” I whisper-squeak. “Does anyone know who the student was?”

When Becky’s eyes light up as she grins like a Cheshire Cat I can tell she’s been waiting for this very question. “That shitty little ass-grabber, Michael. Freaking. Simmons.”

Swear, my eyes bulge out of my head for like four seconds. Maybe even five. My brain rejects her assertion in the most definitive of ways. Michael Simmons was one of the biggest douchebags on campus. He graduated last year, but for the three years he was on campus when I was he managed to hit on or have sex with every girl I know. “There’s no way—”

“Bible, this is the truth,” Becky assures me. “I thought everything you’re thinking right now when I found out. Captain of the football team, future president, Mr. Never-Without-a-Girl-on-His-Arm and voted Most Likely to Have Five Wives is at least bi, if not gay. To say he hid it well is an understatement.”

“How is no one talking about this on Facebook or Snapchat? Both are like gossip central to this school," I point out.

"It's because the whole thing is just starting to leak out now. By later tonight, social media and the entire campus will be on fire with gossip since we'll all be getting read the riot act this afternoon. A lot of this was covered in Julia's email, which you really should have read on general principle alone considering she's your coach," she says dryly.

I give a sheepish shrug because it's not like I can argue the point. She's right.

"Anyway," Becky continues, "the staff found out in waves. Julia was told to be on campus two weeks ago for an official meeting of the athletic department. She said she knew right away that calling her in before the school year even started meant something was up, and she wasn't wrong. Once she and the other team coaches had the info, they were sworn to secrecy. Some of what I know didn't get covered in the email, but since she's my cousin, I leaned on her until she gave up what she could."

Becky’s eyes sparkle with excitement as she shifts in her seat, her hands sliding over the bright orange surface of her desk. “The bottom line is that we only know about it now because they’ve canceled all practices today for a mandatory meeting where the dean will be reading the entire athletic department the riot act. Anyone involved in sports here at the college has to attend. They’re going to lay the law down about personal relationships with the coaching staff.”

I flip my hair over my shoulder as I roll my eyes. "Michael Simmons may have dabbled in some ancient ass but come on," I say dismissively. "Not one of the rest of us is even a little bit attracted to any of the coaching staff. They're all old. The college has absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Becky nods in agreement. “I know,” she whispers dramatically. “Like any of us care about geezers who blow up balls all day.”

I haven't held on to my virginity to lose it to a random coach—not that I'm saying being a virgin right now makes me smart. In fact, quite the opposite. I've held onto it because I'm an idiot who has spent far too many years focused on one person—the very one who wants no part of my virginity. I've done my best to like other people, including guys here at college that I tried dating but that quickly went nowhere. All of the binge-drinking around campus (and closet steroid use with the athletes) isn't attractive to me at all. Don't even get me started on how many of them don't know how to do laundry. There's a smell in the boy's dorms and apartments that is stomach turning, so staying away from them hasn't been a problem.

Meanwhile, whenever my friends talk about my virginal state, I lie and tell them that I'm holding out for a business type. It's a lie. I have—um, had, dammit! Why does my brain not understand that it’s time to use past tense when thinking of him— a major crush on a man who is the epitome of the athletic type, and no one else has ever measured up to him in my eyes. Not even close. After the events that went down two months ago, I've decided I need to move on. The harsh insinuation that I’m too young to know what I want was a tough pill to swallow—one that’s still giving me indigestion.

No, I need to focus. And right now I've decided the best thing to do is to set my sights set on what happens after graduation because once I'm out of college, I'll be meeting and interacting with different men. Surely it will be easier to find someone, right? In a perfect world, Monday through Friday my man will wear a suit, and on Saturdays, he'll wear nothing at all because we'll be busy rolling around in his bed. Sundays will be casual—maybe khaki pants and a button-down that is most definitely not sexy jeans that perfectly emphasize a ridiculously sexy ass or a T-shirt that shows off an unbelievably perfect upper body. Certainly not a chiseled jaw with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, perfectly kissable lips and coppery chocolate colored eyes that make me weak in the knees.

Andddd I’m now thinking of him again. Dammit!

Picturing that body and those see-through-everything eyes, even for a few seconds, makes my heart beat funny in my chest. I do my best to push those thoughts away. I need not to focus on him anymore. When will that get easier? I’m so lost in my thoughts that I startle when Becky taps my shoulder.

Following the finger she's pointed to the front of the room, I realize our professor is writing something on the board. Shaking off my dreams of a perfect future I open my blank notebook and uncap my pen to take notes as the first class of my senior year gets underway.