1

There’s a locker room full of half-naked, sweaty men on the other side of this door. The door in front of which I’ve been standing for god knows how long…

And in a moment, I’m going to be walking into the lion’s den, pretending that this is a normal, everyday occurrence for me.

But instead of putting one foot in front of the other and going inside, I’m still standing out in the hallway and trying to psych myself up.

It’s not working, though. My traitorous feet aren’t moving, as a text from my editor appears on my cell phone.

If you cant do this I need to know asap, I can send someone else

I glare at the text for a few minutes. This is so Devin— he’s always been the sort of editor who assumes I’ll fail without giving me a chance to succeed. While admittedly, I’m definitely feeling out of my league, I’m also not planning on throwing in the towel this early.

Sports aren’t really my thing, but the school paper was in a bind and needed someone to handle this interview for a headline story. It’s not like sophomores can just turn down assignments and cite a preference for fine arts over football. Besides, if I want to be a real writer, I’ve got to stray outside of my comfort zone, right?

Astrid? Answer please.

I roll my eyes and respond, hoping he can read the “fuck you” I’m crafting between the lines.

I’m on it.

Of course, now I have to do this, or admit to Devin that I chickened out. Not that I was going to chicken out, because I’m a journalist and journalists don’t freak out over going into a locker room full of football players—

“Can I help you?” someone asks, staring at me. My eyes snap off my phone, and I force a smile. It’s a man wearing a Bowen University Staff polo, with gray hair that matches the hallway paint color perfectly. I know he’s one of the coaches— an important one, in fact, given that I’ve seen him at televised press conferences before.

“Hi! Yes! I’m with the newspaper. I have a press pass. I’m supposed to get after game interviews with the starting players.” I have no idea why, suddenly, everything I’m saying sounds stupidly excited, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I smile bigger because I’m not sure what else to do.

“Which one?” the coach asks politely.

“This one!” I say, holding up the press pass, wondering what other type of press pass exists.

“Which paper?” he clarifies, still polite, but now clearly more than a little exhausted by me. I can’t say I blame him.

“Oh, sorry— the school paper. The Bowen Blaze.”

“Sure,” the coach says, nodding. “Well, go on in. If you’ve got a press pass, you don’t have to wait out here.”

“Thanks. Great. Got it!” I say, nodding robotically. I’m so, so glad that Devin isn’t here right now to see this. I’d be stuck editing the horoscope for the next three years. The coach reaches back to hold the door for me, and I slink into the locker room as fast as I can.

The humidity hits me first, so intense that it’s nearly difficult to breathe.

Next, the scent in the air hits me. To my surprise, it’s not an awful smell— which I had prepared for, what with it being a college football locker room and all. No, it’s more…masculine. Heavy, and spicy, like deodorant and sweat and toothpaste and soap.

There’s a short hallway ahead of me that ends in double doors; the walls leading up to them are lined with inspiration sayings about Bowen University, and quotes from former famous Bowen coaches. There are two frosted windows on the doors— which are dark navy, one of Bowen’s school colors— through which I can see shadows of players milling around. I can hear them laughing, carousing, shouting at one another. They’re understandably in a good mood— they won the first game of the season.

Other reporters are surely in there already— I saw them practically sprinting from the press boxes to the locker room as the clock ran out. I take a deep breath of thick air and march forward, putting Devin and his irritatingly persistent doubt out of my mind. I’ve got a press pass. I’m a reporter. I’ve got every right to be in there. And besides, they’re just a bunch of jocks— it’s not like they’re the kind of guys I’m trying to impress. I reach the navy doors and push through, head held high.

Then immediately squeeze my eyes shut, because there are three naked guys right in front of me.

“Oh, god, sorry, I just— I’m sorry,” I stammer, yanking my hands to my chest defensively. My mind is racing, replaying what I just saw over and over and over. A room full of very large, very muscular guys, all with tattoos and thick arms and shining, just-showered faces. Most with towels wrapped around their waists or wearing athletic shorts or boxers. But three— one putting something in a locker, two others drying off— with everything hanging out for me to see. My chest feels hot, my heart races— I’ve never actually seen a guy naked in person before, not really, and this was not at all how I expected it to happen.

“Sorry, seriously,” I say again, mostly because now I’m thinking about the length of the three cocks I just saw, which is totally not what a professional reporter should be thinking about, and also that’s such a huge violation—

“Excuse me,” someone says, brushing past me. I flinch, then open my eyes. It was a player headed out the double doors— and he barely even stopped to notice me. In fact, no one seems to have noticed me. The three previously-naked guys are now wearing towels; everyone is going about his post-game ritual without so much as a glance my way. I lower my arms, and realize that with all the noise, they likely didn’t hear me come in— or my frantic apologies. Which, given how many reporters I now see scattered among the players, were unnecessary anyhow. I guess sports reporters just have to get used to seeing a few naked players now and again?

This is so not at all like covering the fine arts section.

I plaster a smile on my face and walk forward again, waiting for someone to make eye contact with me so I can swoop in for a question or two. I feel tiny and inconsequential, like a little girl wandering through a forest. Only instead of a forest, it’s actual human guys with bodies the size of redwood trunks. I try to take note of how the other reporters are doing it— most of them are bright, bubbly men with personalities that easily capture the attention of players. There are a few women here and there, each a flawless blend of charismatic and professional. They’re all sporting sleek ponytails or buns, apparently having anticipated the locker room humidity.

This is fine. I can do this. Just start with someone who’s by himself, someone who usually doesn’t get a lot of reporter attention. I scan the room— surely there’s some lowly freshman player somewhere who’d love for a reporter to corner him. Even a reporter who wore the wrong hairstyle, wrong shoes, and freaked out when she saw some naked guys about five minutes ago.

My eyes finally land on a player whose back is to me, his head ducked into his locker. He’s moving slowly, deliberately, and is entirely on his own— no reporters, no other players, no one. He’s wearing a towel around his waist, and as I draw closer I can make out back muscles so perfectly carved and toned that he looks like he’s made of stone. There’s a tattoo on his shoulder of the Bowen mascot— a bear— which seems fitting, given that this guy is practically the size of a grizzly. At only a few feet away, I realize he must be a foot and a half taller than me. Still, he’s on his own, so there’s something a little less intimidating about him.

“Uh, hello?” I say, trying to sound confident.

And then he turns around.

I’m not a boy-crazy type of girl, but this guy is the most attractive human I’ve seen in real life. Everything about him looks photo shopped, from the perfect, ice-cube shaped muscles of his abs to the slate gray color of his eyes. He lifts an eyebrow when he sees me so close to him, and it arcs perfectly, like it was painted in that new position. I don’t know how I thought for a moment that this guy was “less intimidating”— everything about him is powerful and massive and intense. I think that the locker room has gone a quiet behind me, but it feels just as possible that this football player is simply absorbing all sound and light and existence.

“Yes?” he asks. There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes, and I’m pretty sure it’s at my expense.

“Hi. I’m, uh—“ I scramble for the lanyard around my neck, and hold up my press pass. “I’m with the Bowen Blaze. Can I ask a few questions about the game?”

“A few questions,” the guy says, as if he’s not so sure he likes the idea. When he breathes, his pectorals lift, and it’s impossible not to wonder how my palm would feel pressed against them. It’s impossible not to wonder how I would feel pressed against him—

“Just a few. Do you mind?” I press.

The guy leans back against his locker, looking for all the world like one of those classical Grecian statues. His forearms are corded, and I can see the bulge of his leg muscles through the white towel around him. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“I—uh, yeah. I’ve never covered sports before. I’m normally on the fine arts beat,” I say quickly, with a little shrug.

“Ah. That’s why you don’t know me,” he says, shaking his head, a scoff in his voice. “I don’t talk to reporters.”

Maybe it’s because Devin’s texts are still rubbing me the wrong way, but there’s a swell of irritation in my chest at this degree of arrogance. Seriously, dude? You think everyone at this school should know you just because you throw a football around on a field? What the actual fuck.

I mash my lips together and say, calmly and fearlessly as possible. “Yeah, I don’t know who you are. So maybe instead of acting like this,” I pause to motion at his entire demeanor, “you could just answer a few questions for me and fill me in? It’s not like you’re busy.”

My voice shakes a little at the end, but I’m glad I said it. I fold my arms over my chest and try to give him a steely, Lois Lane type of look.

The guy’s eyes widen, but his look of pitying amusement doesn’t waver. He turns to his locker, grabs a t-shirt, then shuts the locker behind him. He then sits down on the bench, straddling it in a way that makes the placement of the towel around his waist very, very precarious. He motions for me to take a seat as well.

“Alright, Bowen Blaze,” he sighs. “Have a seat. Let’s talk.”

“Thanks,” I say stiffly, and hurriedly sit down, crossing my legs tightly.

I glance up at his gorgeous face and force myself to look away again. My heart is racing every time I so much as make the tiniest bit of eye contact with him.

I pull up the notes app on my phone and position my thumbs to start typing. “So, first, let me get your name.”

“Carson Slate,” he says firmly.

I swallow, trying to hide my surprise, followed by a hot flush of embarrassment. Carson Slate. The Carson Slate. You don’t have to be a sports fan to know two things about him:

1) He’s only a junior, but is already being looked at by professional scouts

2) His father is a murderer. Or at least, he’s accused of being a murderer.

I guess I didn’t recognize Carson Slate in the flesh, shirtless, wearing a towel, rather than his jersey. I take a few slow breaths and pretend to type on my phone, trying to figure out what I should say next, what I should do next, where I should look next—

“C-a-r-s-o-n,” Carson says. He knows that I’ve realized who he is, I’m sure of it.

I force a smile and look back up with a deep breath. “Got it. So, Carson— tell me about your approach for this game.”

“To win the game.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“To win the game by a lot of points,” he says, with a combination of arrogance and annoyance at the stupidity of my question.

I look back down at my phone and hold in a glower. “Great. Perfect. So, clearly you don’t want to talk about the approach to the game. What about your teammates? Do you feel like anyone played especially well today?”

“We all did. It’s always a team effort,” Carson says, sounding the tiniest bit more serious. “People always want to give the quarterback more credit than he deserves.”

“Is that why you don’t want to talk to reporters? Because you want the rest of the team to get more attention?” I ask.

“No,” Carson says. “I don’t want to talk to reporters because they like to ask about my father’s case, even when they’re supposedly sports reporters rather than crime reporters.”

“You can’t really blame them for trying, though,” I say. “I mean, it’s a big case and people are curious—“

“Actually, I can blame them. And the sports reporters have all agreed not to approach me for interviews after games since I requested my privacy be respected. Things got a lot better after that. Until now, that is.”

I freeze, mouth drying. I made the mistake of looking up again and Carson’s eyes have trapped mine; I can’t look away as I feel a deep flush rise from my neck up through my cheeks.

“I didn’t know,” I say flatly, tearing my eyes from his. “Sorry, I don’t usually cover sports, and—“

“Clearly,” he says. “Any other questions, Bowen Blaze?”

“No. Sorry. No,” I say, shaking my head. I stand up, knees wobbly. What if he calls Devin about this? It’s a huge violation— the paper could lose our passes to the locker room. The sports reporter is going to kill me, if Devin doesn’t kill me first. “It was an honest mistake, okay? I didn’t know about the prohibition on speaking to you after a game, really. I’m sorry.”

“What’s your name?” he asks, and even though I didn’t think it possible, my stomach drops even farther. He’s going to tell Devin that I spoke to him. He’s going to wreck my college journalism career. He’s going to get me thrown off the paper, which means I won’t have anything to show for internships, which means I won’t have anything for job applications…

I close my eyes. “Astrid Tyler.”

“Astrid Tyler,” he repeats, and when I dare to open my eyes, he’s nodding. He isn’t looking at my eyes, though— he’s scanning up and down my body, like he’s assessing something. “Well. Any other questions, Astrid Tyler?” he asks, leaning back a bit. I involuntarily glance down, and my eyes land on his crotch. The towel is still covering everything, but I can see the shape of his—

“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “I should go.” I scramble to my feet, hair sticking to my face, cheeks burning. I have basically nothing for the story that I have to write, but there’s no way I can stay here a moment longer. I carve past the rest of the locker room, past the embarrassed faces of the other reporters and the condemning faces of the other players. I wanted to be a real journalist, and now I’ve blown it all in a college locker room covering a subject I don’t even care about.

I hit to navy doors at a near run, and don’t stop until I’m back to my dorm room.

2

It’s dusk by the time I make it across campus— the post-game crowd is crazy, and packs of alumni and students alike block my way and slow down the crosswalks.

I get back to my dorm room and hit my bed, force my eyes shut, willing myself to fall asleep. If I can just fall asleep, I won’t have to think about this disaster for the next hour or two or however long I can manage to stay in dreamland. Unfortunately, after an hour, I’m still wide awake, staring at my phone, waiting to see Devin’s name pop up with the “there’s not even a word for how fired you are” phone call that I know is coming.

Except, by eight o’clock, I still haven’t heard from my notorious editor. At eight fifteen, I get a text from Devin.

When can I expect your story? Need info on who you spoke to so we can start prepping photos.

I cringe. Story? What story? The story of my total demise? I open my newspaper-issued laptop and log into the program we use to write all our stories in, so we can see how they’ll be formatted on screen. I audition a few sentences and titles— Blaze Reporter’s Blunder Causes Chaos.

Maybe I can try for something humorous, a little off-beat story that would make up for my lack of actually getting anything resembling a real interview.

I blow air out of my nostrils and close my eyes.

Fuck.

Then I send a text back to Devin.

I’ll try to get something to you tomorrow. I spoke to Carson Slate.

I mean, he’s going to find out sooner or later, right? I might as well tear the Band-Aid off. I’ve barely sent the text when my phone rings— Devin is calling. I take a long, steadying breath and answer.

“You got an interview with Carson Slate? That’s insane! Holy shit, Astrid, I did not expect you to land something like that. He hasn’t given a single interview this year,” Devin practically shouts. I feel sick at the excitement in his voice, at just how wrong he’s interpreting the situation. He goes on without giving me a chance to clarify. “Did you get anything good? Did you get anything about his dad, by chance?”

“No, nothing like that. Nothing great at all, to be honest. Just lots of one word answers,” I say, trying to wade into the disaster toe by toe.

“Still, that’s something,” Devin gushes. “If we can fluff up the story a little, it’ll look like we’ve got an exclusive with him. It’ll be huge. God, I wish we’d gotten something about his dad. Did he say anything at all?”

“Uh, no— well, just that he doesn’t like to talk to reporters because they always want details on his dad.”

“Well, yeah. The guy is a murderer. Why wouldn’t we ask for details?” Devin says. “We can spin that. It’s not much of a story, but we can use that as the headline and then just backfill it with old information. It’ll get snatched up like crazy. Maybe even get it syndicated state-wide.”

“Seriously?” I ask, voice daring to rise. A syndicated story? If it went state-wide, Devin probably wouldn’t fire me when he found out that Carson didn’t so much give me an interview as get cornered by an idiot sophomore journalist who didn’t know who he was. Hell, even my parents would be impressed, and they don’t even consider writing an actual, real thing that human beings can do for a living.

Devin keeps talking. “Okay, listen— you’ve got to go get back in front of him. You talked to him once, he must like you.”

“I really don’t know about that,” I tell him.

“Whatever. Look, go see if you can get anything else out of him. You don’t need to tell him you’re working on a story about his dad or anything— just let him take the conversation wherever he likes, then guide it toward his dad when you can, okay?”

I shake my head even though Devin can’t see it. “I really, really, really think that the regular sports reporter ought to do this, Devin.”

“The regular sports reporter has never gotten a word out of Carson Slate,” Devin says firmly. I consider pointing out that this is because the regular sports reporter knew not to even approach Carson in the locker room, but instead rub my face worriedly, smearing what’s left of this afternoon’s mascara.

“What happens if he gets mad about it? He could blacklist the Blaze,” I say. “Never give us anything.”

“It won’t matter if we’ve got a great story about him,” Devin says, sounding darkly thrilled in a way that sort of creeps me out. “Touch base with me after you’ve talked to him again. Most of the football players go to Reign on game nights. Do you think you can be there in an hour?”

I sigh. What am I supposed to say? You don’t just cross your editor, especially not when you’re desperately trying to show your parents that this could be a lifelong career and a reason to change majors, even though they disapprove of the idea one thousand percent.

“Sure.” My voice is meek and flat, but Devin doesn’t seem to notice.

He’s already planning how to turn this crappy little article into something major, something to put both of our names on the map.

And I don’t have the guts to put a stop to any of it.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing outside of Reign with my two suitemates, Arianna and Jess, who thank god were willing to come with me rather than hit up their favorite bars tonight. Reign is a bar in the center of the downtown strip, the kind of place that I’ve never even tried to get in to— it’s more or less reserved exclusively for cheerleaders, future lingerie models, and guys who date cheerleaders and future lingerie models.

Arianna is a thousand times better dressed than me, so I borrowed a little black romper and paired them with the tallest heels I own.

“I can’t believe you’re going to Reign,” Jess says, shaking her head at me as we get in the long line at the door.

“I can’t believe she’s going out, period,” Arianna says, grinning. “But damn, Astrid, you clean up nice in my clothes. You should wear this sort of thing more often.”

“Just don’t let me drink too much, okay? I’m a lightweight,” I say, wringing my hands.

Arianna rolls her eyes. “Calm down. It’s just a bar.”

“A bar full of wolves and jackals,” I mutter, picturing the kinds of men who frequent this place.

Jess knocks me with her elbow playfully. “Seriously, Astrid. Chill. You look great, and you’re going to have a good time. Just do me a favor— can you not talk to Carson Slate for like, an hour or two? Because I don’t want to get in just to be thrown out ten minutes later.”

I told them about my mission here— though I didn’t fill them in on all the humiliating details of the locker room. They are totally aware, though, that there’s a good chance I’m going to infuriate Carson Slate in the name of a story. Given that the football team practically owns this place, there’s no way we’ll be allowed to stay once that happens. I try to tug the legs on the romper down a little bit, as nervous about how short it is as I am about going into this particular bar.

We inch closer and closer to the bouncers while football players— some of whom I think I recognize from the locker room— breeze past the bouncers without even slowing down. The bouncers let a few cheerleaders in, then pluck a few particularly beautiful girls out of the line to allow them in the door. I’d be freaking out if it weren’t for Arianna and Jess— they’re totally calm. They know the drill, I guess. Finally, we’re at the front of the line. Arianna flashes the bouncer a bright white smile, then links her arms with mine and Jess, making it clear that we need to be let in as a threesome. He sighs, but waves us all through.

Thank God, the first part of the mission was a success.

I have to admit, I was worried they might let in my roommates but keep me out. I’m nothing special in the looks department, and this place is known for its high standards.

It was loud outside of Reign, but inside, the music is almost deafening. The bar is sleek and has royalty-themed decor, with gold lions painted on the wall and faux-gilded mirrors on the ceiling. There are chairs and recessed bottle-service areas that are decked out with purple upholstery and chandeliers that I suspect look tacky in the daylight, but expensive in the dim.

“Where to?” Arianna shouts to be heard over the music.

“I have no idea. Your call,” I shout back, scanning the room for Carson. I don’t see him anywhere, but then again, it’s hard to really make out faces in the many darkened corners of the room. Arianna shrugs at Jess, and the three of us head to the bar to order a round of drinks. I sacrifice my credit card for the tab— after all, my suite-mates are here as a favor to me. We sidle away from the bar and sway to the music absently, sipping on our drinks, Arianna and Jess chatting while I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of Carson.

“— And this is Astrid,” I heard Arianna say. I spin around, realizing I’ve totally zoned out, and see that there’s a guy in our little circle now. Not just a guy, but a football player. There’s no way he could be anything but, given his size and the hardened muscles on his arms.

“Astrid, nice to meet you. I’m Luca,” he says, nodding at me politely, but with clear disinterest— he’s over here because of Arianna. There’s something about the expression on his face that pricks at my memory, and suddenly, I realize he’s one of the guys whose cocks I saw earlier in the day. I focus on breathing to keep embarrassment from registering on my face even though the guy— Luca— obviously doesn’t remember me. Are all the football players so brazen? I wonder if I’d have seen Carson’s cock, if I’d been a few moments earlier—

Whoa, no. Nope, nope, stop right there. You’re in enough trouble with Carson Slate without adding those sorts of thoughts to the mix.

Arianna and Luca eventually slide away to talk to some of Luca’s teammates, and it isn’t long before Jess starts up a conversation with a group of girls she knows from somewhere or another. I pretend to study my drink, then to text someone, and even dare to order a second cocktail (which I vow to nurse more slowly).

And I’ve only just received my new drink when he arrives.

I’m not sure how, exactly, I know that Carson Slate has entered the room. It’s almost like he has his own gravitational pull that tugs my eyes, my breath, my mind his way— that must be how I’m so certain when I turn toward the door that he’ll be standing in the frame.

He’s looking over the room with a dark mixture of pride and arrogance, wearing a neat-fitting collared shirt and jeans. Everyone knows him, of course, and there are waves and congratulatory claps on his broad shoulders as he moves through the crowd. A handful of girls swiftly bound toward him, hugging him a little too long for it to be strictly friendly, but he manages to shake them off with practiced skill.

For the second time today, I’m struck by how uncannily attractive he is. There’s something so stupidly sexy about his size and strength and the clean lines of his jawbone. I’m staring, but I know no one will notice— everyone is staring at him.

I take a long sip of my drink and look around for my suite mates. I can’t just approach Carson Slate without backup, especially not after this afternoon’s fiasco. Unfortunately, Jess has vanished, and Arianna and Luca are now making out in plain view. I scowl— Arianna is a little boy crazy, but lip locking a near stranger is still out of character for her, and it’s pretty gross to watch.

“You,” a voice says curtly, and I whirl around. I’m staring at a broad chest that, even through a layer of fabric, is familiar. My eyes climb it until I’m looking Carson Slate in the eye.

3

“Me,” I answer, as my throat tightens and my heart begins hammering in my ears. I still have to yell to be heard over the music, which I’m glad for— it means it’s harder for him to hear the tremble in my voice. The spicy scent of Carson’s cologne has overpowered the scent of perfume and alcohol, and I inhale deeply, wanting to drink it in.

“Are you following me?” Carson asks, voice testy. The crowd that had been surrounding him is still there, but they’ve drifted back, either giving us privacy or giving Carson space to be angry. I wish I knew which.

“No,” I lie. I think. I mean, is it following if I got here before him?

“You just suddenly, out of nowhere, decide to come to Reign, the day you break press pass rules and try to get an interview with me,” Carson says, folding his arms. “I wasn’t going to talk to your editor, you know. It seemed like an honest mistake earlier today. But this is some bullshit.”

“Look, I’m just here hanging out with friends. See? That’s one of my suite mates,” I say, pointing to Arianna.

Carson follows my finger and grimaces. “It doesn’t look like you’re doing much hanging out with her.”

“Well, we were. Until all that happened,” I say, shaking my head.

“Right. Sure,” he says with a sigh, then rolls his eyes and walks away. I should let him go— I mean, he understandably doesn’t want to talk to me. Except now I’ve got Devin’s voice in my ear, the promise of a state-wide story, of a headline, and…ugh. I can’t let Carson Slate and my big story get away this easily. Besides, I don’t like the idea of Carson hating me for no reason. He doesn’t even know me. I step forward and catch his sleeve.

He turns and gives me a glare that says I’ve almost pushed him too far, like maybe he will have me thrown out of the bar if I keep pushing my luck.

“You don’t know a thing about me,” I say, releasing his sleeve. “Stop acting like I’m some stalker just because I accidentally talked to you in the locker room earlier.”

“And then coincidentally showed up at my favorite bar a few hours later,” Carson says.

“Lots of people are here. You’re not treating them like stalkers,” I say pointedly.

“They aren’t reporters. Reporters are stalkers by default,” Carson replies.

“That’s not true. Not at all!” I protest.

Carson’s lips curve into something that might be a smile. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. He fixes me with his intense stare as he speaks. “Let me explain this to you from my perspective, Bowen Blaze. After years of always dealing with a certain male sports writer, suddenly your newspaper decides to send a beautiful girl into my locker room, who claims to not know the rules about speaking to me, and then when she doesn’t get a story, shows up in that outfit at my bar.” He nods towards me as his eyes rake over my body. “And I’m supposed to think you’re not just out to do whatever it takes to get a story?” He finishes contemptuously.

My mouth drops. Did Carson Slate seriously just call me beautiful? Did that just happen? Because I mean, I don’t hate the way I look or anything, but this room is packed with girls who fill out their clothes a million times better than I do—

“That’s what I thought,” Carson says, and turns again. I grab his sleeve for the second time, but this time my hand actually makes contact with his arm. I can feel his muscles through the fabric, the way the curve and fall and rise beneath my fingers. I take a breath, trying to quell the desire to drag my fingers back and forth.

“Look, I’ll admit that I don’t know anything about sports,” say, and now my voice is quivering despite having to shout to be heard. “But the truth is, I didn’t come here to try and seduce you into talking to me.”

He smirks. “Right.”

“However, you’re here and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least try—“

He cuts me off. “I. Don’t. Talk. To. Reporters,” Carson says firmly, glowering at me in a way that tells me this whole thing was most definitely a bad idea. I swallow, keep my head up, and don’t look away. Carson clearly expected me too; after a long bout of eye contact, he shakes his head and takes a steadying breath. “If I let you give me your contact info, will you stop grabbing my arm?” he says. “Then you can tell everyone you tried to do your job.”

“Promise,” I say, and again, I think I see something that might be a smile on Carson’s lips. He hands me his phone and I dial my number into it, call myself, then hang up. He goes to take the cell phone back, but I resist, adding myself as a contact instead of a nameless number. “So you know I’m not actually named Bowen Blaze,” I explain.

“I know your name, Astrid,” he says. “

My heart flutters in my chest at the sound of my name on his lips.

“Oh,” I say, surprised that he remembered it. He looks a little offended that I thought he might not have.

“Got it,” he says, taking the phone back and pocketing it. “Well. Have a nice time here with your…friend.” He points with his chin toward Arianna and Luca, who are still deep into their make out session.

“Should I tell her to steer clear of him?” I ask, unable to look away from them.

It’s like driving by a car wreck, I can’t seem to stop staring.

“Luca? Nah. He’s decent. Doesn’t really get serious with anyone, so if she’s after a boyfriend, she should look elsewhere,” Carson says. “Though Reign isn’t exactly a place for couples to hang out. Does your boyfriend know you’re here?”

I startle. “Boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Interesting,” Carson says.

“Interesting how?” I dare to ask.

Carson chuckles darkly. “Just figured you’d have cornered someone and insist they date you. Seems to be your M.O.”

“Seems to be working for me,” I answer, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright, Astrid Tyler Bowen Blaze. I’ve got your info now,” he says. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see what I do with it.” He gives me a single, long, devastatingly beautiful look before walking away.

* * *

Arianna, Jess and I make it out of Reign before one o’clock in the morning, after Luca has vanished and we’re all more than a little tipsy.

“I can’t believe you and Luca. That was an interesting choice,” I say, playfully shoving at Arianna.

“Oh, relax. It was just for fun,” she answers, giggling. “Don’t you have a wild side buried somewhere deep down?”

“Deep, deep down,” Jess snickers.

“Hey! I have a wild side. Maybe,” I argue fuzzily.

“Sure you do,” Arianna says as we reach out suite door. She goes to unlock it, and it takes her several tries to get the key and the keyhole lined up. She nearly falls into our living room when the door opens. “The wildest you ever got was wearing my clothes tonight!”

“Hey, Carson Slate said he liked me in this,” I quip. This isn’t something I’d reveal if I weren’t drunk, but hell, whatever. I pause for a moment, remembering how he scanned my body when he said that, the way he looked when he called me “beautiful”. That really happened, didn’t it? It seems impossible now that we’re away from the pounding bar music…

“Well, I’d have let Carson Slate do way more than Luca, I’ll tell you that much,” Arianna is saying, giggling and prodding at Jess. “Next time we go, I’m wearing that romper, Astrid. I want Carson Slate to call me beautiful. Too bad he doesn’t hook up anymore, huh?”

“I didn’t say he wanted me, just that he thought I looked good in this,” I mumble. Arianna is falling onto the couch, Jess is stumbling her way to her bedroom. We’re all way drunker than I thought— I think the music and noise and smell of alcohol masked just how much we were drinking. Now that we’re in the quiet of our own suite, it’s painfully obvious that we’re a mess.

“That means he thought you’d look good out of that,” Arianna shouts after me as I head toward my own bedroom. I don’t bother turning on the lights— I just collapse into my bed, shimmying the top of the romper off my shoulders but lacking the energy to pull it the rest of the way off. I roll over and stare into the darkness, exhausted and awake at once. Carson’s words replay in my head, followed by Arianna’s. He said I was beautiful, so…is it so crazy to think me might have wondered what I’d look like undressed? God knows I’ve been wondering what he looks like without clothes on.

I flush as if someone might be reading my mind. I’ve wondered about guys before, but not the way I wonder about Carson. I don’t feel curious, when it comes to him, I feel…wanting.

I want to see him naked, I want to know what his cock looks like, how long it is, how thick. I want him to take my clothes off. No one’s ever done that before, a fact that I never really cared about until this moment. Suddenly, though, the desire to be undressed by Carson Slate is overwhelming. My fingertips dance across my waist, slide down the front of my panties, and I shiver when I realize how wet I am and how quickly it happened.

No, no, no. This is a bad idea. I can’t lie here and touch myself over the subject of an article, no matter how badly I want to. I pull my hand away and turn over, hugging my pillow tight to my chest, trying to think about anything but what it would feel like to be beneath Carson Slate. He’s so overwhelmingly big, and tall, and muscular, and the idea of being underneath him…of having him hold on to me, of having him enter me—

My phone chimes and I’m relieved for something to snap me out of my haze. I fumble for it, and my breath catches. It’s an unrecognized number, but the text can only be from one person.

Unknown Caller: Where did you disappear to, Bowen Blaze?

4

I stare at the message for so long that my eyes burn, then blink myself back to life. Obviously, I’ve got to respond, but I feel completely lost as to how to continue. I swallow and type back.

Astrid Tyler: We left a half hour ago.

Unknown Caller: That’s no way to get a big story. I thought you wanted an interview.

I frown. What, did he want me to hang around and irritate him until he gave me an interview? I thought we left things in as good a place as I could hope for, but now I’m second-guessing myself.

Astrid Tyler: You want an interview now? At 1:27 in the morning?

It’s a real question, even though I suspect it might read as sarcastic. But really— what the hell is going on here? I can’t decide if it’s Carson Slate I can’t sort out, or myself. I jump when my phone buzzes, and my throat dries. He’s calling. Carson Slate is calling.

Holy shit.

“Hello?” I answer, trying to sound not drunk and probably failing.

“Bowen Blaze,” Carson says, sounding not the tiniest bit drunk. He does, however, sound a little tired, like he’s calling me after a long day. I hear rustling that makes me think he’s at home, maybe on a couch or in a chair— he’s not at Reign anymore, I’m sure.

“Astrid Tyler,” I answer sternly.

“Astrid Tyler,” he relents, and there’s something sweet and smoky and perfect about the way he says my name. Something that makes heat course down my bare chest and into the places my fingertips had explored just moments before Carson texted me. “You left without saying goodbye,” he says.

“You made it pretty clear you wanted me to leave you alone,” I point out, feeling spun around.

He chuckles, a noise barely audible over the phone line. “That may have been what I made clear, but that wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“Huh?” Am I too drunk to have this conversation? I’m coming down, I can tell, but Carson isn’t making any sense.

He inhales and I hear a shrug in the sound. “I don’t like that they sent a girl like you to try and squeeze me for info. That’s kind of scummy, don’t you think?”

“They didn’t send me like that. They sent me because the regular sports guy has mono. I swear.”

Carson falls silent for a moment before speaking again. “And I don’t like that you tried to pretend you came to Reign just for the hell of it.”

I press my lips together. “Okay, fair enough. I did come to see you.”

“And I don’t like that you came to see me for your job,” he says, voice lowering a little. It’s growling and frustrated, and reminds me of how utterly masculine Carson Slate is.

“I…” I start, but then the words aren’t there. How am I supposed to respond to that? “I don’t know what that means,” I finally say, which is absolutely the truth.

Carson is quiet for a while, like he’s not convinced I’m being honest. “It means that you, Astrid Tyler, are exactly my type, even if the Bowen Blaze isn’t. So I’m having a hell of a time separating you from the paper you write for.”

“Your type?” I ask meekly, letting my eyes drift shut. This can’t be happening. How is this conversation happening? “I thought— you don’t date. Everyone knows you don’t date.”

“Which is why you’re making my life very difficult, right now,” Carson says, clearing his throat. “Very, very difficult.”

I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what to do, I barely have any idea how to breathe. Is he messing with me? He’s got to be— I saw the sort of girls that Carson Slate attracts. Hell, I’ve seen the kind of girls all the football players attract. They’re tall and curvy and blond, not brunette and so short that I know I’ll get carded till I turn fifty-five.

My core throbs, though, eager to fall, eager to believe that Carson is being serious. Wondering, again, what it would be like to be with him.

“I’m not trying to make you life difficult.”

“Fine then.” He sighs again. “You weaseled your way into an interview. Have at it.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are you serious?”

“Go ahead. Ask me your first question before I change my mind,” Carson says, and I snap back to reality, fumbling between the reporter and lustful sides of my brain.

“Oh, uh— yeah. Okay,” I say, licking my lips. “Sure. I guess— how long have you been playing football?” This is a stupid opening question, but I can barely sort out my thoughts right now.

He laughs again, lightly. “Since I was six. Rec league. My dad coached the team. He played in the pro’s for two years, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” I answer honestly. I can tell that Carson mentioning his father was a sort of test to see if I’d leap on the topic or not. I confess, I am curious about his father, but I don’t want to make Carson angry. I don’t want him to stop talking to me, and not just because it’ll mean losing the story.

I go on. “Okay, then, next question—“

“My turn,” Carson interrupts. “Only fair, right? If you’re going to get personal information from me, I want personal information from you.”

I almost choke, and my body goes rigid. “Um…okay,” I stammer.

Carson waits, like he’s choosing his question very carefully. “Are you still wearing that black dress?”

“It was a romper,” I correct.

“God, women’s clothing is confusing. But that means you’re not wearing it anymore?”

“I’m half wearing it. I pulled it down when I got in bed,” I explain, but then realize that this means I’ve just told Carson that I’m topless. It excites and terrifies me that he might be picturing me in a state of undress— I’ve never had a conversation like this before. I’ve never—

“Keep going,” Carson growls into the phone. “What else are you wearing?”

My breath rattles, and I clench my thighs at the heat growing between them. There’s a genuine ache in my core that’s new and strange and desperate to be alleviated. “Blue panties. Lace.”

“Bra?”

“No.”

He starts to ask another question but I interrupt.

“It’s my turn. Have you always played quarterback?”

He makes a dissatisfied noise deep in his throat. “Yes. Both my brothers do as well. It’s sort of a family tradition. There was never a chance we’d play any other position. What size bra do you wear, Astrid Tyler?”

I flush, a little embarrassed to tell him the size. “I’m only a B cup.” That’s being generous, to be honest.

“Only nothing. I like how small your body is,” Carson says with a groan that makes a matching sound escape my lips— a fact that isn’t lost on Carson. “Astrid, is this turning you on? Talking to me about your body?”

I take a breath and try to wind my way back to professionalism, but it’s useless. I’m hot and flushed and here in the dark, with Carson’s voice in my ear, I feel as far from professional as a person can get. “A little,” I lie, feeling more than a little embarrassed that my body is reacting like this, and that I’m admitting to it.

“Only a little? I can do better than that,” Carson says daringly, and I whimper. Carson makes a pleased humming sound in response, then says, “I need you to put your hand into your panties, Astrid, and tell me if you’re wet.”

I bite my lip. I can’t believe he just asked me that so confidently, so unabashedly. I also can’t believe that I’m already sliding my hand down my stomach, into the front of my panties. I’m not just wet— I’m soaked.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes, you’re wet?” Carson asks. There’s that arrogance in his voice again, that self-assuredness that’s somehow both infuriating and incredibly sexy. Right now, it’s much more the latter.

“I’m very wet,” I whisper.

“Good,” Carson says, then breathes deeply, like he’s really thinking on what he’ll say next. “Did you have another question for me? For the interview?”

I shake my head, then remember he can’t see me, and gasp out, “No, nothing— I can’t right now.”

He sounds satisfied, then says, “Why don’t you take your fingers and touch your pussy for me? Just lightly. Slide your fingers up and down your slit, nice and gentle. How I’d do it if I was there right now.”

I’m heady and delirious at how dirty and wrong and hot his words are— no one’s spoken to me like this before. I’ve never even thought words like this before. And yet, I obey. I let my fingertips trail back and forth between my pussy lips, shivering and moaning lightly as I do. The sound of Carson’s breath on the phone urges me on, makes me wonder what his fingers would feel like on me, makes me wonder how it would feel to have him press my legs apart.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Now, put a finger in your pussy, Astrid.”

It’s not even a question, whether or not I’ll do this. I bite my lower lip and slide my pointer finger into my pussy, and can’t stop myself from wishing it was Carson’s finger penetrating me. That is was Carson’s cock penetrating me. The idea elates and scares me, and I begin to pump my finger in and out, moaning with each stroke.

“That’s right. You’ve made me hard. Very hard,” Carson says almost accusingly, and I grow louder at this, panting as I kick my blankets off, hot and sweating from his words and my own touch. I want to know what he looks like hard. I want to know what he feels like. Carson speaks again, “Take your fingers out of your pussy, Astrid. I want you to spread your pussy lips with one hand, and rub your clit with the other. You understand?”

“Yes,” I gasp, and immediately follow his instructions, propping my knees up so I can get better access. I’ve never masturbated like this before, so intently and forcefully. Certainly never with someone on the phone directing me. With the phone propped on my pillow, I lightly run my fingers across my clit. I’m already so aroused that it only takes the single touch for me to feel a rush of energy—

“You sound like you’re enjoying this,” Carson says. “Are you?”

“Mmhmm,” I say, barely able to form the sound as I rub at my clit again. Sensation rockets through me, light exploding behind my eyes.

“Are you going to come?” he presses.

“Yes,” I pant. I’m going to orgasm any second now, which is crazy because this feeling— this pull, this want, this heat— is already more powerful than any orgasm I’ve ever had. I shamelessly push my hips upward, allow myself to think about what I actually want: Carson Slate. For him to be touching me, for him to make me come like this, for him to overpower me and have me and—

“That’s right. Come for me, Astrid. And think of me fucking you while you do it,” Carson breathes.

I’m undone.

It feels like my nerves are fireworks, exploding one after another in a dazzling show that illuminates my body. I’m moaning, I know, but the sound seems far away. My fingers freeze over my clit, unable to continue their work, and my head tosses to the side as I come harder, longer, than ever before. Carson speaks to me, but I can’t understand his words— though hearing his voice as I come makes it all the more powerful. I’m left panting and exhausted a few moments later; only then do Carson’s words begin to make sense again.

“Good. Very good, sweetheart. Just breathe,” he murmurs into the phone, and somehow, it feels like he’s holding me, like he’s stroking my hair. It’s shocking, even, when I open my eyes and am reminded that I’m entirely alone.

“Carson,” I say weakly, blushing, feeling vulnerable for what I just did, for the sounds I just made, for the things I just thought. This is so not like me.

“Yes?” he asks.

“That was…I just…I’ve never done something like this before, and…”

“And you liked it,” Carson finishes for me. “Don’t be embarrassed. I liked it too.” There’s a smile to the edge of his words, and it alleviates a little of my fear. Carson takes a long breath, then says, “I have practice tomorrow. You should come watch. For the story, I mean.”

“The story? Oh— yeah. Okay.”

“You do still want to write the story, don’t you?” Carson asks.

“Yeah. Of course. That’d be great,” I say, unsure how I’m supposed to look at Carson, now, and somehow not think about what’s just happened between us. About how alive he just made me feel, all over a phone line. About how it’s totally, completely inappropriate that I’m writing an article about someone who just told me exactly how to touch myself.

And how I absolutely, totally loved it.

5

“I’m going to a team practice later today. He agreed to talk to me,” I explain to Devin in the Blaze newsroom the next morning.

“Score,” Devin says, grinning. Devin is handsome. Not hot, not sexy, but handsome, in a very expensive kind of way. Bright white teeth, neat hair, a square jaw, and clothes just a little nicer than a junior college student should be able to afford. His family has money, and even though it’s not something Devin brags about out loud, it’s something that his entire existence sort of brags about.

But something about his entitled attitude always leaves me feeling slightly squeamish, like he’s tainting me with his very presence. “I don’t know if anything’s going to come of it,” I remind him, hoping to slightly temper Devin’s ever growing expectations about the article.

“I made you a list of topics I’d like you to focus on. Just try to steer him into this sort of stuff, okay? Don’t blow it by asking outright,” Devin goes on, and hands me a sticky note. It’s a list short enough that I definitely didn’t need it written down, but it doesn’t surprise me that Devin did. It reads:

-Future football plans

-Frustrations with the team

-HIS FATHER HIS FATHER HIS FATHER

“I get the impression you want me to dig for information about his father,” I say drily. Devin is walking briskly across the newsroom, weaving through the grid of desks toward a printer. It’s assumed I’ll follow him, and I do.

“Not everyone cares about football. You, for example, don’t care about football. But everyone wants to know if Dennis Slate is a killer or not. Carson has to know the real story there— he’s the one who provided his dad an alibi, you know.”

“Okay, but his dad seems really off-limits. He said that’s why he doesn’t talk to reporters— because they all start digging into his father,” I say carefully, raising my voice to be heard over the screeching of the printer.

Devin’s eyes flick to mine briefly, too busy to hold contact for more than a single second. “Well, then you’ll have to wait to have father-related conversations till the end. Till he’s really comfortable with you. Blow it too early and you won’t have a story at all.”

“The Blaze won’t have a story at all,” I say cautiously.

Devin laughs, and it isn’t a welcome sound. “Yeah, yeah— but this is all about you, Astrid. Well, you and me. You’ll be the reporter that got an amazing story, and I’ll be the editor who ran the thing. Dennis Slate’s trial is coming up, and if we do this right, we can release the story right when the hype is insane, and ride it to amazing journalism careers.”

We’re moving again, power-walking back to Devin’s office. “Right. Yeah, okay. What about my other assignments, though?” I ask.

“I handed them out to other reporters,” he says, walking around his desk and pausing to give me a serious look. “From this point on, you’re focused on Carson Slate 24-7, got it?”

I nod, wondering if Devin could possibly have any idea just how true his statement was.

* * *

Carson’s practice begins at two o’clock, which means I have to skip a class, but whatever— I never skip, so I’ve got plenty of allowed absences saved up.

Carson texted me instructions on how to get in to the closed field, and they’re so intense that you’d think I was breaking into a nuclear reactor, not a college football practice.

Go to the gate, show your badge and driver’s license, give your car make/model/plate number, write your name down in a book, get a photo taken and wear the little sticker that prints out with the photo, go into the stands, sit in the blue seats only, no photos, no phone calls, no cheering, no waving, no calling out names, no anything except for quietly observing the practice…

When I arrive, there are a few others in the blue seats, and I get the impression they’re not journalists. One is a pretty girl with jet black hair and brown skin, who watches a defensive player with sweet admiration; the other is a bearded guy who looks like he could be on the team, but he’s watching the running back with an expression that matches the girl’s. They’re significant others, from the looks of it.

Wait. I’ve been seated with the girlfriends and boyfriends?

“Who are you with?” the guy asks in a cheerful whisper.

“I— uh— Carson Slate,” I say, not sure I should be telling them this detail.

The girl’s head snaps toward me, and the guy’s eyes widen. “Seriously? You’re with Carson Slate? No Date Slate?”

“Not like that— I’m a reporter for the Bowen Blaze,” I explain, and their expressions relax.

Carson is running some sort of drill with his teammates; if he sees me, he doesn’t show it, a fact that bothers me more than I think it should. It’s strange, seeing him on the field without an opposing team. At the game I went to, he was a machine, full of fury and movement and charge, like a thunderstorm made human. In practice, all of the power is there, but there’s none of the fury— he supports his teammates, calls out to them, tousles them playfully. When they start to slow or underperform, he shoulders them and says something I can’t hear that seems to lift them back up.

“They’re here for him,” the girl sitting near me whispers, and points at a set of seats a few rows down— red seats, not blue like ours. Five men are standing, hands on hips, wearing polo shirts and khaki pants. Some are videotaping on their phones, others are simply watching with eagle-eye expressions, and all are talking loudly. I must have been too focused on Carson to see them come in; now that I’ve noticed them, their volume is distracting.

“Pro recruiters?” I guess.

“Yep. They’re making notes on everyone, of course, but they’re all here for Carson Slate. His brother Sebastian signed to a team last year. Carson’s only a junior, but at year’s end he’ll be eligible for the draft.”

“Oh, cool,” I say, because I think being eligible for the draft is a good thing. “I wonder if they make him nervous.”

“They’d make me nervous. You spend your whole life playing a game and then some bros in pleated pants get to decide if it was worth it or not? That sucks,” she whispers.

“Is he…um…” I’m not sure how to ask this without exposing just how unqualified I am to be writing a story on Carson, much less sitting in the “significant others” section. “Is he good enough to get drafted?”

The girl smiles and, thank god, doesn’t look to horrified by the fact that I have to ask this. “Oh yeah. He’s amazing. But there’s talk that he hasn’t been playing as well this season because of all the stuff with his dad. Distracted, you know? Can’t blame him, but still. What a shitty time for your dad to go on trial for murder, right?”

The guy near us scoffs and laughs. “Uh, I think any time your dad murders someone is pretty lousy, Desi.”

“You know what I mean,” Desi says, and sticks her tongue out at him. We fall silent again as the team runs another play. I find that I sit up straighter in the seconds when Carson has the ball, just after the snap. The way he watches, waits, plans. Everything about his body is sexy, but there’s something even more so in watching him strategize an entire play in mere seconds. I see, now, why so many people think the quarterback is the most important player on the team. If he’s no good, the rest of the team hardly has a chance.

The practice is two hours long, but it goes quickly, especially now that my eyes are darting between the recruiters and Carson, trying to interpret their every expression. Are they as impressed with him as I am? Surely. The team circles up around the head coach; after a short conversation, smaller circles form around other coaches.

While this is happening, one of the security guys I met at the gate leads a group of kids out onto the field. They’re all wearing Bowen navy shirts, and look to be in middle school or upper elementary school. A teacher is with them, and she looks every bit as excited as the kids do— they’re all staring at the stands, the field, the players, the coaches, clearly star struck.

“They do community outreach stuff at the end of Monday night practices,” the guy whispers. “It’s so adorable I can hardly stand it.”

I snort a little too loud, but watch as the kids wait patiently for the players to finish their circles. Some of the players head back to the locker rooms immediately— in fact, most of the older players do, leaving the younger and not-so-famous players to interact with the kids.

Carson, however, stays behind. He takes a few pictures and signs autographs, always taking a knee so he doesn’t loom over the kids when he talks to them. I have to look away to say goodbye when Desi and other guy head out to meet their significant others on the field; Desi’s boyfriend sweeps her up despite her protests that he’s grossly sweaty, while the guy’s boyfriend gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before they head off together, a little more shoulder-to-shoulder than just friends would be.

When I look back, I can barely see Carson for the crowd of kids around him— which means I’m free to notice that one kid, a boy, is hanging out at the distant periphery of the group. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and his bright blond hair is shaved so close to his head that he almost looks bald.

Even from here, I can tell that the kid is posturing— trying to pretend that he doesn’t give a damn about what’s happening, while also casting the players wistful glances when he thinks no one is looking. I feel a swell of pity for the boy; I mean, he ought to just go up and allow himself to be excited, like the other kids are, but I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his life that he can’t even be excited for something so obviously cool.

Carson stands.

I mentally plead for him to notice the boy and, to my surprise, it works— Carson begs off from the rest of the kids and jogs over to wear the boy is standing by himself. They talk for a moment, and while they’re certainly too far away for me to eavesdrop, I can tell Carson is taking a different approach with this boy; he stays standing, folds his arms, looks like he’s talking to another adult rather than a kid. The boy resists, but then begins to speak, begins to gesture with his hands, and at long last, smiles. I don’t realize that I’m grinning at the entire exchange until it ends, and Carson suddenly looks directly at me.

My smile falters, but not in a bad way— it becomes a blush, something shyer and more hesitant. When Carson walks toward me, I feel my stomach flip more than a few times. The fact that I’ll be face to face with the guy who got me to orgasm over the phone hits me, and I feel myself begin to shake as he nears the bleachers. He stops a few yards away so that we can see one another without me having to crane over the railing, and I’m grateful— any closer, and I feel like I might have vibrated my molecules right out of existence.

“Are you waiting for me?” he asks.

“What?”

“You’re still here. Are you waiting for me?” His voice is calm, deep, easy, and it slows my heart the tiniest bit.

“No. I mean— yes. I guess? I was just watching,” I say.

“For the story,” he says.

“Right. Yeah, for the story,” I answer, nodding. Frankly, I hadn’t thought about the Bowen Blaze since I explained myself to the significant others sharing the seats near me, but Carson’s reminder pricks at my professionalism. “I have some questions for you, if you’ve got the time.” I pull out my phone— I wrote them down there, since I knew I wouldn’t be able to remember them when I was face to face with Carson.

“One question,” Carson says, folding his arms. He’s covered in dirt and sweat and grass, and for some reason I suddenly wish I could see what it looks like for a shower to wash this away, for water to run over his architectural muscles and leave them bare—

See, this is why you wrote the questions down, I scold myself.

“Okay— there were recruiters here today. Are you excited about that? Are you looking ahead to going pro?”

“I’m just playing the best game I can play right now. If I start thinking ahead, I stop thinking about the present,” he says.

“Right, that makes sense. Do you feel good about the way you’re playing, though, in terms of what they’re seeing?” I press.

Carson frowns, and I can tell he’s aware of the fact that I’ve now asked two questions. He answers anyway. “I always want to improve. I’m never happy with the way I’ve played.”

“Really? Even when you’re great? Everyone acted like you were the second coming of some famous football player at the last game,” I say.

Carson’s mouth curves into a wry smile. “You can’t name a single famous football player, can you?”

I make a face at him, then shrug. “That’s why you’re letting me interview you, remember? I’m not an insider.”

“That’s not why I’m letting you interview me, Astrid Tyler,” Carson answers immediately, and there’s smoke in his voice that startles me. I smile despite myself, despite the heat that his words drummed up in my core. How does he do this to me so quickly? How is it I never see it coming?

I swallow. “I— um, okay, next question—“

“No,” Carson says, shaking his head. “You already got two. If you want to ask more, you’ll have to do more.”

“Do more?” I ask, unsure what he means.

Carson grins, and it’s not at all like the wry one I saw a few moments ago— it’s brooding, clever, threatening in an incredibly sexy way. I bite my lip, and it only intensifies his expression. “Meet me for dinner tonight.”

“And we’ll continue the interview at dinner?” I ask.

“No.”

“After?”

Carson shakes his head, and before I can draw up the courage to ask him more, turns and walks away. I’m left buzzing, terrified, and, loathe as I am to admit it, excited beyond all reason.

6

I have no idea what to wear to dinner with Carson Slate, but thankfully, I have Arianna. She shakes her head in disbelief when I tell her what I need to borrow another outfit for, and then squeals and calls Jess into the room when I ask for something similar to that black romper, because “Carson really liked it.”

“You are totally going to sleep with Carson Slate. I can tell,” Jess says, falling onto Arianna’s bed as I change into a sundress so short that I’m pretty confident it’s supposed to be a shirt.

“I’m going to dinner with him for a story, that’s all,” I say, as if repeating this will make it true.

“In a short dress, because he likes you in short clothes,” Arianna says in a sing-song voice. “We’ll want details, you know. Like, inches. He’s huge, so his cock has to be—“

“Arianna! Stop!” I protest, but I’m blushing hard, which only eggs her on.

“I’m just saying, you’d better be prepared. You haven’t had sex in ages, have you? Unless you’re like, sneaking around when we’re not here. You’ve never brought a guy home or stayed over, though,” Arianna says thoughtfully.

“No. No,” I say, shaking my head, and I spoke way too quickly and way too cagily. My secret is out.

“Astrid Tyler. Are you a virgin?” Jess asks, eyes wide.

I sigh. “Yes. Yes, okay? I’m not embarrassed to be one, it’s just always such a thing and I hate that. Plenty of people are virgins,” I protest.

“Plenty of people aren’t going on dates with Carson Slate. Does he know?” Arianna asks, looking seriously worried.

“No! Why would I tell him that? Besides, Carson Slate doesn’t have girlfriends. He doesn’t sleep around. Everyone knows that. So it won’t matter, because we won’t be having sex,” I argue. Something in my chest twinges when I say this— disappointment. I’m disappointed at the prospect of not having sex with Carson.

“Okay, but if you do end up having sex, do not tell him it’s your first time. Got it?” Jess says, shaking her head. “He’ll freak out. Guys always freak out.”

“If she doesn’t tell him, he might be too rough with her. He weighs like four times as much as she does,” Arianna points out.

“She’ll be fine. Don’t let Arianna freak you out,” Jess says when she sees my face. Pretty sure I’ve gone pale.

“Stop, both of you,” I say, shivering and adjusting Arianna’s dress. It hangs off my body a bit, but it cinches in at the waist enough that it still looks good. “It’s just dinner and it’s for the school paper. That’s all.”

Except, I can’t stop thinking of the way Carson looked at me this afternoon— a look that said this was not going to just be dinner. As if I wasn’t already terrified, now I have to worry about whether or not I should tell him I’m a virgin. What if he freaks out and ditches me? But Arianna is right, he’s so much bigger than I am, and I’ve heard enough virginity-loss horror stories…

“I’m a reporter. That’s all this is about,” I say, swallowing nervously, as if trying to reassure myself.

* * *

Carson sent me the name of our dinner spot, a restaurant called Highlands that’s way fancier than typical college fare. It’s the kind of place that parents take their kids to celebrate graduations, or alumni take their rich friends to celebrate being rich. I arrive a little early, tugging at the hem of my dress to keep it from riding up too high. I’m clutching my purse at my waist and trying to keep my balance in heels when Carson pulls up to the valet station.

The flickering lamps outside the restaurant make everything look warm and romantic, which means I don’t stand a chance when Carson steps out of the car. Between the lighting and the perfectly fitted dress shirt he’s wearing, he looks like a guy from a fantasy dream sequence.

He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s looking me over, starting at my legs and dragging his gaze up my body, to my eyes. He grins, the smoky look that delights and frightens me, as he walks over.

“You look amazing,” he says, standing close enough that I’m forced to tilt my chin up to look at him.

“It’s my roommate’s,” I blurt out. “I didn’t have anything nice enough to wear here.” Why did you tell him that? What the hell is wrong with you, Astrid?

He continues to watch my anxiety mount, and I get the distinct impression that my nerves please him. He puts his right arm around my shoulders lightly, and guides me to the restaurant door. I wonder if he can feel me quivering at his touch. I wonder if he likes it.

We’re seated in a far corner near a fireplace. The employees clearly know him, thought they all seem surprised to see him here with a date rather than a family member. “Is Mrs. Slate not in town, this time?” the waitress asks.

“No,” Carson says, clearing his throat. “Not this time.”

“And Mr. Slate—“

“No,” Carson cuts her off. The waitress doesn’t seem surprised— she was prying, and she knows it. “This is Astrid, a friend of mine. She’s a reporter for the Bowen Blaze.”

“Pleasure,” the waitress says with false warmth as I nurse the sting over being called a “friend”. I mean, it makes sense— what else do you call someone writing an article on you, who you talk through masturbating late one night? “Friend” is definitely the easiest, broadest term, and a lot less complicated than the alternatives. The waitress vanishes for a while, returning with a bottle of red wine that Carson didn’t even order. She pours us both glasses, and I start to swirl mine a little, like I know you’re supposed to do in fancy restaurants. I’m relieved when Carson doesn’t bother, opting to just drink his straight away, as if it were water.

“I guess you come here often?” I ask as I sip my own wine.

Carson shrugs. “My family likes this restaurant. My dad knows the owner.”

“From where?”

“I have no idea. My dad knows everyone, to be honest. It’s just how he is.”

I bite my lip, thinking about the last item on Devin’s list: HIS FATHER HIS FATHER HIS FATHER. This is as good an opening as any to test the limits of asking questions about Dennis Slate.

“Are you guys close? You and your father and brothers, I mean?” I ask.

Carson looks to me, and his eyes narrow a bit. “Let’s get through dinner before you start with that, Astrid.”

I look away. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s your job,” he says, and seems to mean it. He goes on, “Is that what you want to do after college? Write for a paper?”

“Honestly? I’d rather write novels. Something more creative. But my parents don’t think writing is a legit career anyway, so writing fiction was way out. So, I’m majoring in journalism to keep everyone happy.” This rolls off my tongue easily, because I’ve said it a thousand times before, and I’m grateful for the chance to say something well-rehearsed instead of fumbling through a conversation.

Carson seems impressed, and nods thoughtfully. “And yet here you are, stuck interviewing a football player.”

“What about you? Can you tell me any more about what you want to do after you graduate?” I press.

Carson considers this, studying me. “I think I need to explain something to you, Astrid.” I nod, and he goes on, never looking away, never doubting his own words. “You know that I don’t date. That I don’t sleep around. I have to stay focused on the game— there’s too much going on in my life for me to get distracted by anything else. But…now I’m finding myself incredibly distracted by you. And that’s a problem.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to stomach the dagger his words just pushed into me.

He continues. “I thought that after our phone call the other night, I might be satisfied. And then I thought that seeing you at the practice, reminding myself that you’re a reporter— I thought that might do it. But here we are, and you’re asking me interview questions, and I’m thinking about the sounds you made when you came the other night.”

My lips part, my face flushes red, and once again, I can tell that Carson likes this— he likes my nerves, my timidity. He smiles with one corner of his mouth, and continues. “So, here’s my suggestion, so that we both get what we need from this. I’ll give you information for your story, like I promised. And you give me…you.”

“I…I don’t know exactly what that means,” I stammer.

“Not sex,” he says, though it seems to pain him to set this limit. “Just…something to satisfy me.”

“Like what?” I ask, my stomach churning with butterflies, my nipples tightening.

He breathes deeply, and his eyes get hungry at my question, at how open-ended it is. “Tell me what sort of panties you’re wearing under that little dress, Astrid.”

I inhale and feel my already-wet panties grow even more so. “They’re gray,” I say in a whisper. “Lacy. Thong.”

He makes a throaty sound, takes another long, deep breath. “Bra?”

“Blue. They don’t match. I don’t— I don’t really have matching sets like that,” I say, shrugging as my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

He lets his eyes linger on my breasts for a long while. My breath is quickening under his gaze, and I’m growing very, very wet. My eyes drift shut despite the fact that we’re right here in public, diners all around us, waitresses buzzing by…and yet all I can think of is how it felt on the phone, how it felt to have him give me orders, how it felt to obey him.

“You have quite the effect on me,” Carson says in a growling sort of voice. I smile nervously, and then he reaches over and takes my hand in his. He’s gentle, but it still shocks me, and now I know he can feel me shaking. His palm dwarfs mine, and he goes still for a moment, like he’s letting me get used to the feeling of our skin touching— even though I’m fairly certain I’ll never get used to this feeling, all electric and terrifying and perfect.

Carson locks eyes with me as he takes my hand off the table and draws it toward his lap. I realize what he’s doing to do a moment before it happens, and I must look scared, because he makes a gentle “shushing” sound just before he presses my hand against his pants— against his cock.

I’ve never touched a man before, and I know if Carson weren’t holding my hand against him, I’d yank my fingers away in fear, despite the fact that I like it.

I like touching him this way.

His cock is hard, and feels huge— long and thick and pulsing. Carson groans quietly, then cautiously moves his hand away. I keep my hand on him, and in a few moments, I dare to move my fingers along the edges of his cock, exploring it’s outline, working out just how long it is. Arianna was right— he’s massive, so much so that I can’t imagine what I’m feeling fitting into my pussy. Carson watches me stroke him, jumps when I press my thumb against the tip of his cock. I smile despite myself— I like watching him react to me.

“I don’t know if a woman has ever made me this hard,” he says in a low voice. He looks like he’s about to continue when suddenly our waitress reappears. My instinct is to withdraw my hand, but Carson is faster than me— he puts his hand back over mine, pressing my palm to his cock while he calmly asks the waitress for another glass of wine and a few appetizers. I’m unable to speak, shocked that he’d be so brazen. What if she saw? What if she figured out what was going on? When she disappears I laugh nervously, and Carson releases my hand, letting me pull it away from his cock. I instantly miss the heat of it.

“Astrid,” he says calmly. “Take your panties off.”

“Here?” I ask, eyes wide.

He nods. “Take them off, and I’ll owe you another answer for your story. See? It’s the perfect arrangement. We both get what we need.”

Right, right, the story. Of course. I totally hadn’t been about to take my panties off just because Carson told me to…

I meet his eyes, drumming up the courage to do as he asked. There’s a tablecloth, so no one should be able to see if I’m clever about it. I take a breath, then hike the edge of the dress up a few inches, tugging my panties down to my thighs. Carson watches without restraint, and I hear him growl when my panties are finally far enough down my thighs that he can see them. He licks his lips as I cautiously wiggle them down my legs, then lift my feet to slide them off my heels. I immediately grab for my purse to hide them away, when Carson clears his throat.

“Give them to me,” he says sternly.

My lips part. “I— um—“

“I’ll buy you another pair,” he says, almost a tease, but not quite. I nervously pass them to him beneath the table, and Carson’s eyes close when the fabric hits his hands. His nostrils flare. “These are wet, Astrid.”

I flush, hard— I hadn’t thought of that when I handed them over, or I’d have protested more. Carson looks down, then rubs his thumb against the lace that’s now dark gray and damp from my arousal. He then tucks them into the pocket of his pants, casually as if they were a wallet or car keys.

“Alright, you’ve earned it— ask me another question,” he says, turning back to me.

7

The rest of the night is unbelievably normal.

We talk about football, about the reaching the pro’s, about his high school team. He uses silverware to show me how plays work, and laughs when I tell him I have no idea what a punt is. It’s almost enough to make me forget that I had my hand on his cock earlier, or that my panties are currently in his pocket.

When it comes time to leave, I worry he’ll invite me back to his place, and that I’ll have to sort out whether or not to tell him that I’m a virgin…but instead, he just kisses me lightly on the cheek, affection that feels like the exact median of the evening: half romantic, half professional. I go home without my panties, sorting through the various quotes he gave me that I might be able to use in the story. I’m in the middle of typing them up when I get a text that I’m disappointed to see isn’t from Carson.

Devin: How’s it going? Heard you were at Highland with him.

I frown. Who the hell told Devin? I’m not exactly surprised, of course— Devin sort of has spies everywhere. Though I’m assuming his spies didn’t see any of my and Carson’s more scandalous activities at Highland, or my editor would definitely be calling, not texting.

Astrid: Went well. Lots of great info on his development as a player. He’s got a cool story— he’s sort of a reluctant quarterback, even though he’s amazing at it.

Devin: HIS FATHER, Astrid. You’re not a sports writer.

I sigh and set my phone back down. Thanks for the reminder, Devin— I really needed it.

If I’m going to get Carson to talk about his father, I probably need to start the conversation with a little more finesse— which means I probably need to know more about Dennis Slate. I search for his name, and as expected, a huge list of articles pop up. Most of them just repeat what I already know: Dennis Slate was having an affair, the woman threatened to tell his wife, then the woman turned up dead. Carson provided his father with an alibi— that they’d been eating dinner around the time the woman was killed. There were even traffic camera shots of Carson driving to and from the dinner, though his father isn’t in the car with him. Worse, Carson apparently couldn’t remember where they’d eaten, or any details about the evening.

I stare at the screen, at the traffic camera shot of Carson behind the wheel of the car I saw him drive up to Highland just a few hours ago. I’m no detective, but even I’ve watched enough Law & Order to get the feeling that Carson is covering for his father. The articles I read also paint a very different picture of Carson than the guy I’m familiar with— calling him a “party boy” and “morally ambiguous”, especially when compared to his brothers, Sebastian and Tyson. Naturally, those labels don’t make his alibi any more convincing.

I’ve long heard the story that Carson Slate was a very different person before this year, but since I didn’t know much about him beforehand, I never thought on it all too much. Now, I have to wonder— did he change because he didn’t like the way he was portrayed? Or because a lawyer advised him to? Or did the papers just never have him pegged correctly in the first place? I wish I could ask him, but I suspect that line of questioning is just as off limits as his father is, right now.

But then again, maybe it’s only a matter of time.

* * *

The regular sports reporter is back for the next game, and I text Carson to tell him as much— though mostly, it’s just to wish him luck. He doesn’t answer for a while, but then responds a few hours before the game.

Carson Slate: Meet Desi at the front gate. She has a ticket for you.

I grin, then hurry to throw on a Bowen navy dress that’s a little longer than Carson would probably like— but I’m just watching the game, so it can’t matter all that much this time around, can it?

Desi meets me at the gate with a ticket and a big hug. She chatters as we get in line to have our bags checked. “Look, you might be a reporter, but Carson clearly likes you. My boyfriend said that Carson seemed happier than he’s been in ages this morning, and then next thing you know, I’m getting a text asking me to meet you with a ticket…”

“That’s really nice to hear,” I say, blushing, trying to pretend that the idea of making Carson noticeable happier doesn’t elate me.

“I’ll say. And he plays better when he’s happy. Everyone on the team knows it. That’s why he’s been kinda meh this year,” she calls to me as a security guard probes her purse. “I bet this game will be totally different.”

“We won the last game, though. He played great,” I argue as I retrieve my purse from security. We walk together through the stadium, Desi in the lead— she clearly knows exactly where she’s headed.

“Trust me, Astrid, you haven’t seen anything,” she tells me with a grin.

We’re sitting in the friends and family section, a patch of gold-painted seats right by the fifty-yard line. There aren’t many seats here— only a hundred or so— and it’s clear that we’re surrounded by other significant others, moms, grandmas, and high school buddies. Desi greets everyone like an old friend, and when I’m introduced as a guest of Carson Slate, eyebrows rise.

“I can’t wait to see how he plays,” someone murmurs loud enough for me to hear.

“I can’t wait either,” I whisper just to Desi. “Also, this is sort of a crazy amount of pressure, people thinking I’m responsible for the team’s quarterback doing well.”

“Imagine being the team’s quarterback,” Desi answers with a meaningful look.

She’s got a point.

The game begins to a flurry of cheers and confetti and face paint and blue and gold everywhere. It isn’t long before I realize that Desi was absolutely right— I hadn’t seen anything, based on that last game. Carson played great back then, but now, it’s like he’s come to life. He’s faster, smarter, leading the team like a general leads a battalion. He’s a curious blend of the Carson I saw at the last game and the Carson I saw at practice— controlled and fierce, but more communicative with the other players too.

“He’s relaxing,” Desi says, nodding. “That’s good. He’s been so tense at all the other games, it freaks the rest of the team out.”

“You go to a lot of games, don’t you?” I ask her.

She laughs, loud and cheerful. “Steven and I have been together since seventh grade— no, really— and I’ve never missed seeing him play. So, yes. I go to a lot of games. He’s a junior too, so I’ve been watching him and Carson play together for four years now. Steven once said that Carson is the second most important relationship in his life.”

“After you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, he said after his mother, but meant it as a joke. I still refused to sleep with him for a week, though. Don’t expect a biochem major to have a sense of humor three weeks before finals.”

We laugh together, and the game rolls on. Bowen wins by a landslide, but that doesn’t make it any less exciting to watch— and it doesn’t appear to make the Bowen team play any less intensely. When the game is over, there’s an explosion of confetti, and the stadium begins to empty into the city streets.

Desi loops her arm with mine to keep us from being separated. Rather than following everyone else out the gates, she leads me down an access hallway, then to a stairwell that goes to field level. There are security guards, but they clearly know her— they wave as she goes by, their eyes sliding right over me.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

“The locker room— oh, right, you’d have gone to the press entrance last time. We’re going through the players’ entrance,” she explains.

“We’re allowed?”

Desi scoffs. “Of course. There are many, many perks to dating a football player, Astrid.”

I consider reminding her that Carson and I aren’t dating, but once again I find I wouldn’t know how to correct her— there’s not really any term for whatever is happening between me and Carson Slate, is there?

And besides, I have to admit that a large part of me wants to feel like Carson and I are dating.

Which is very, very bad news.

I need to get a hold of myself but I don’t seem to have the willpower to do so…

The player’s entrance to the locker room is alarmingly nondescript and unlabeled, I suppose intentionally, since it must keep prying eyes away from the door. Once we’ve pushed through it, however there’s a Bowen navy set of double doors nearly identical to the ones at the press entrance. I realize we’re on the opposite side of the locker room than I was last time.

Desi doesn’t slow, pushing into the locker room with total confidence and, to my dismay, letting my arm slide away so she can bound over to her boyfriend. I’m left standing at the entrance, looking around, unsure what exactly I’m supposed to do. It seems like most of the players are still in the showers— other than Steven, who is now holding Desi up against the lockers to kiss her— there are only a few younger players in sight, and all are still grimy from the field. I bite my lip, unsure where to go—

“I wondered if she’d bring you down here,” a voice— Carson’s voice— says from somewhere off to my left. I spin around to look at him. He’s still wearing his jersey, his pads, still sweating and smeared in grass and dirt. The pads exaggerate his breathing; each inhale lifts his already broad chest up. His arms look even more muscular slicked in sweat, and there’s an intensity to his eyes, like he hasn’t yet come down from the rush of the game. Like so many things about Carson Slate, it’s equal parts arousing and frightening.

“Should I not have come?” I ask hesitantly.

Carson tosses the bag he’d been carrying down on a bench, and while he keeps his eyes hard on me, he doesn’t move forward. “I’m glad you did.”

“Oh,” I say.

Carson takes a few more long, steadying breaths, then casts his eyes off to the side as he considers something. He finally looks back to me, and there’s a strict determination in his eyes, not entirely unlike the look I saw when the cameras zoomed in on him during the game. “Come over here,” he says, tilting his chin back.

I lick my lips and walk toward him, unable to keep my eyes on him as I do— he looks too intimidating, and I know I’ll lose my nerve. When I’m a few feet from him, he speaks again. “Spin around for me, Astrid.”

“What?”

“Turn around, in a circle. I want to look at you.”

It’s not a request— it’s a command, and I obey so immediately that I almost laugh at myself. I turn, spinning on the ball of my foot, moving as slowly as I can manage. Carson inhales deeply, appraisingly, and his eyes are on the hem of my dress when I complete the turn and am facing him again. He steps toward me, and my nerves leap to attention. Then he reaches out and, with ease, takes the hem of my dress between his fingers.

“Longer than the others,” he says.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you. Up close, I mean,” I stammer.

Carson’s mouth curves into a smirk. “You’d have worn something shorter for me?”

I bite my lip, then nod quickly, because it’s true. Carson still has hold of my hem, and the nearness of his hand to my pussy is making me tremble, as is the fact that at any moment, the locker room could fill up with his teammates. He tugs lightly on the hem of my dress, then steps even closer to me. When he does, the fact that I’m so much shorter them him becomes almost comical; I barely reach his chest, and this close, I have to tilt my head up just to find his eyes.

“I’ll owe you a question,” he says under his breath. “Deal?”

“Okay,” I say shakily, and Carson then uses his free hand to take one of mine, and guides me to standing on the bench beside him. With the bench, we can make straight on eye contact; I’m marveling over this when I realize that the hand Carson had on my dress hem is now on my thigh.

My lips part; I gasp as it begins to climb, his palmed pressed against the front of my leg, his thumb sliding along the inside and fingers pressed tight to the back. I grab hold of his shoulders without thinking— but I need something to hold on to, or I might collapse. I can’t look away from his eyes, but a worried whimper escapes my lips as Carson’s hand stops millimeters before his thumb would brush up against my panties.

“I make you so nervous, Astrid,” Carson says in a way that tells me this isn’t really a problem. “Trust me.”

I struggle for breath, for words. “I do,” I pant as my core clenches and releases over and over, desperate for him to close the difference, to feel his hands on me— to feel hands on me, period, for the first time. I open my mouth again— do I need to tell him I’m a virgin? Surely I should say something now; it’ll only be more difficult later. I close my eyes, trying to muster up the courage to say the words out loud—

But then Carson Slate’s mouth is on mine. He kisses me like he’s been waiting to do it, like he’s been planning it, and when he slips his tongue into my mouth and runs it across my lips I’m hopeless; my knees actually go weak, and I have to hold on tighter to him to keep from tumbling down. He’s just tasted at my tongue again when suddenly he moves the hand that’s beneath my dress.

I moan into his mouth, unable to stop the sound, unable to control the volume. His thumb is pressing against my pussy through my panties, and wetness floods from me, hungry for more of him. I hold onto him tightly as he rubs his thumb back up and down massaging my clit and playing at the edges of my entrance through the soaked fabric, and I find myself longing for him to push my panties aside and touch me directly.

And then he kisses me lightly, draws his hand away, and leaves me unsteady and swaying, still standing on the bench.

“Carson,” I moan, grateful my hands are still on his shoulders, or I’m pretty sure I’d fall over.

“I don’t want to owe you too many questions at once,” he says. He waits until I’m a bit more stable to step away, then strips off his jersey. I step down from the bench and watch as he removes pads, medical tape, but not the skintight pants that show off his muscles. I must be staring, because he clears his throat.

“If you’ve got another question, ask it— I’ve got to go shower off, and if you follow me into the showers then we definitely won’t be working on this interview.”

“How am I supposed to think about questions when you do that to me?” I ask.

“How am I supposed to answer questions when you do this to me?” he asks in a lower voice, then takes my hand and guides it to the waistband of his pants. I hold my breath as he pushes my palm against his skin, sliding it into the front of his pants. I can feel the heat, the sweat of him, and my fingers stretch nervously until I brush against the head of his cock. I jolt; Carson holds my hand there until my eyes drift shut and I dare to push my hand a little farther, till I can wrap the top of my fist around him. He’s thick— god, he’s thick, and I can feel blood pulsing through it as I explore him my touch.

I finally open my eyes again.

“Astrid,” Carson says in a heady whisper. His gaze is hungry and demanding; I like my lips and step closer to him, allowing my hand to slide farther down. I can’t imagine this fitting inside my pussy, and yet I want to find out of it does.

“Your huge,” I whisper.

“Do you know how often I think about fucking your sweet mouth?”

My lips part in shock, in delight at his words. No one’s ever spoken to me like that before, and I love it— and love the idea of him thrusting between my lips. Though again— how could I take all of this? I bite my lip, glance downward, then meet Carson’s eyes again.

“You know, if sucking my cock is on the table, then eating your little pussy has to be too.”

I nod, and the tension between my legs expands into a gnawing pain. The idea of having my mouth on Carson’s cock, of having his tongue in my pussy, tasting me in ways no one ever has before—

A door slams behind me; I yank my hand from Carson’s pants, flush hard. I’m a reporter— I can’t be seen in the locker room with my hands wrapped around the star player’s dick. Carson grins broadly at my alarm, then steps closer to whisper in my ear.

“Next time we’re alone, I need to be inside you.”

8

I end up writing down all my questions and texting them to Carson.

It’s easier this way— I don’t have to remember them when I’m still flushed and dizzy from his touch, and it also gives him to chance to pick through them and answer them as he goes along.

It’s an odd strategy and one that Devin is totally against, when I explain what I’ve done— it gives an interview subject time to prepare an answer, after all. With Carson, however, it works well, because he’s actually interested and excited to answer whatever it is he chooses from the list, even if he usually doesn’t choose the particularly hard-hitting questions. Still, it’s more than enough for an article— but, of course, not enough for the hard-hitting article on Carson’s father that Devin wants to publish.

“What’s your backup plan? If you don’t get drafted?” I ask over coffee one afternoon, before he heads off to practice. Today, he requests I not wear a bra or panties to our meet up at a coffee shop I’d never been to before. I oblige, only to realize that Carson was a step ahead of me— this place is freezing and my nipples are hard and showing through my top. Carson is watching the way my breasts move beneath my blouse, pleased with his handiwork.

“Coaching. Or working with an athletic wear company. I did some modeling for one of them my freshman year, and they were good people,” Carson says, though I can tell this is a distant sort of backup plan. I lean back and, after a quick look around to make sure no one is staring, relax my shoulders so my nipples press hard onto the front of my shirt.

And then I smile a little to let him know it’s intentional—and that I like him seeing my nipples like this.

“Careful,” Carson growls at me. “Don’t think I won’t take you back to my place right now.”

I like it when he talks to me like this. The truth is, though, that we’ve never even come close to going back to his place. We’ve gone on dinner or coffee dates. Carson has massaged my pussy through my panties, rubbed his thumb across my nipples, and had me sit in his lap while is erection threatened to break through both his pants and my skirt. Still, we’ve never seriously talked about going back to his place— which means we definitely haven’t discussed the fact that I’m a virgin.

“Empty threat,” I tease him. “We never go back to your place.”

“Empty? No. I just assume you have somewhere to go this evening, and I don’t think I could be done with you that quickly,” Carson says and takes a long drink of his coffee.

I lick my lips and squirm in my seat— I’m already wet, practically since the moment I walked in and saw him here, but when he says things like that it sends a whole new wave of arousal through me.

I bite my lip and try to sound like I’m teasing back when I say, “I don’t have anywhere to go this evening.”

Carson lifts his eyebrows. “Well. I have practice in an hour,” he says.

“Right,” I say, turning red. I shouldn’t have said that— I shouldn’t assume he actually wants to have sex with me just because we’re doing whatever it is we’re doing. I mean, just because I want him in me doesn’t mean he’s required to want anything more than what we’re doing, no matter how dirty he talks.

And ugh, I do want him in me, in a way I’ve never wanted a guy before. It’s not curiosity about what sex feels like. It’s Carson— I want him. I want him to take me, to guide me, to take control and—

“I’m free after practice,” he says, words clipped and serious. “You should come by my place then.”

I blink. “Really?”

Carson nods, his eyes hooded. “Really,” he says, then leans forward, adjusting his chair in the process so that no one can see when he rolls his hand over my left breast, squeezing my nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger. I stifle a moan as he leans into my ear and whispers, “I need to fuck you, Astrid. I’ve needed to since I first say you, I’ve just tried to ignore it. I can’t anymore. Do you need my cock in you, sweetheart?”

“Carson,” I whimper as he nips at my earlobe. “Yes. I need it. But—“

He releases my earlobe and sits back a bit, a look of concern on his face. He doesn’t release my breast, but he relaxes his fingers working my nipple. “You don’t have to, of course,” he says, and he means it.

“That’s not it.” I say hurriedly. “I want to— I really, really want to. But I feel like…I feel like I should tell you something.”

“Oh,” he says, looking concerned. I can’t blame him; that was an awfully open ended “but”.

“I’m a virgin,” I say, unable to keep my eyes on his as I say it. I bite my lip; Carson’s hand falls away from my nipple, and he goes still.

“A virgin?” he asks.

I nod at the floor.

“But you’ve…you’ve done some things, right?” he asks.

My eyes feel hot— I might actually cry. I guess Jess was right— guys freak out when you tell them you’re a virgin. Why did I say anything? I should have just risked it; he’s been incredibly attuned to what I like this far, why would I think he’d be different in bed? It’d have been fine. But now I’ve gone and—

“Astrid? What have you done before?” Carson presses me.

“With anyone other than you?” I ask meekly, and I see him nod in my peripheral vision. “Nothing. Well, kissing. Sometimes sort of intense kissing, I guess, but that’s it.”

Carson inhales, sharp and surprised. “So I’m the first one to touch you like I’ve been doing?” he asks.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. My roommates just got me worried that it’d be too rough and I’d get hurt and Arianna said I should tell you and I wish I hadn’t—“

I’m quieted by Carson’s mouth on mine, firm but gentle, his tongue easing against mine, his free hand sliding around my back and pulling me a little tighter to him.

“Eight o’clock. I’ll text you my address,” he murmurs against my cheek.

9

I count down the hours, the minutes, practically the seconds till eight o’clock. I shave my pussy, because that seems like the sort of thing to do. I reapply all my makeup. I put on my one and only set of matching underwear, which isn’t actually matching at all, but the bra and panties are practically the same shade of pink so it’ll work.

When his address appears in my text messages at seven, I stare at it for far too long. This is really happening. I’m losing my virginity to Carson Slate tonight, in an hour.

It’s an excruciating amount of time to wait.

But finally, at eight o’clock, I arrive at the door to Carson’s apartment, shaky and scared and excited and practically vibrating off his front step with the confluence of emotions. My heart races as I hear him walk to the door, and feels like it stops completely when he answers it.

“Astrid,” he says, that arrogant smirk pulling at his lips. He’s showered after practice, and I can smell the sharp scent of shaving cream on his skin even from here. He steps to the side and allows me into the apartment.

He’s from a wealthy family and he’s a successful football player, so I shouldn’t be surprised that he has a remarkably big one-bedroom apartment to himself rather than cramming in with suite mates. I am, however, surprised at how neat it is. There’s nothing on the walls and no real decor to speak of, but there’s a tidy futon that even has throw pillows, a two-person dining room table, and a decent kitchen. It screams “I’m never actually here”, but it also screams “I don’t trash it when I am”. Carson shuts the door behind me and I jump; he lifts an eyebrow in amusement.

“Relax,” he says, shaking his head and stepping toward me. He cups my face in his hands and lowers his lips to mine, kissing me soothingly. It doesn’t totally abate my nerves, but I do feel some of the tension slipping away. I lean into Carson, part my lips a bit, and he slips his tongue lightly into my mouth before pulling away. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” he says.

“I know. I’m just a little scared,” I answer, blushing.

“Of me?” he asks.

“No. I’ve heard horror stories and I just…I don’t know what to expect,” I admit. “You’re…you’re a lot bigger than me.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. Trust me.” He kisses me again, and then sweeps me into his arms in a single motion. I startle, but then lean into the feeling of his body carrying me, how strong his arms feel beneath me. I drop my purse and my lips find his neck as he carries me into the back— to his bedroom. He lowers me to the made bed gently, and turns on a tiny bedside lamp that’s the only source of light in the space. The shades are already pulled, and the room smells like him. I sit stiffly on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed, unsure what to do next.

Carson steps back and looks at me, letting his eyes drag up and down my body without restraint. “You’re perfect, you know,” he mutters, stepping forward, brushing a piece of hair over my shoulders. He runs his fingertips down the side of my neck, then drags them underneath my right breast. I inhale at the sensation, and bite my lip. “I’m going to go so slowly, Astrid. So slowly. I don’t want to forget anything about this, and don’t want you to either.”

“Okay,” I say breathlessly.

“Relax,” he tells me again.

“I’m trying,” I argue.

He nods. “Maybe— wait here,” he says, and then walks to his closet. He returns a half second later holding a neck tie, one I recognize as the color the football team wears out to formal occasions. I sit perfectly still as he props a knee on the bed beside me, then lays the tie over my eyes.

“Carson, I want to see—“

“You will,” he promises, words a hot whisper in my ear. “You just need to relax a little first, Astrid. I promise—you’ll be looking in my eyes when I fuck you for the first time.”

“Okay,” I stammer as he knots the tie around the back of my head. It’s smooth and cool— silk, I think— and I have to admit, not being able to see forces my shivering to subside a bit.

Carson never takes his hands away from me entirely, so I always know where he is. He smooths my hair down, slides his palms down my arms, drags his fingers across my legs, playing at the hem of my skirt as he goes. I know he’s staring hungrily at me— I can feel it, even through the blindfold— and I like it. I find my lips curving into a smile as he drags his hands further down and gets off the bed to carefully unclasp my shoes, one at a time. He kisses the side of my foot, then my ankle, my calves, up and up and up until he’s at the hem of my skirt once again.

“Perfect,” he mutters again, and then lifts my skirt the tiniest bit to kiss me there. I expect him to repeat this, but instead he moves back up, and lifts me a little bit to push me farther back onto the bed, so I’m lying flat on my back. I cross my feet again, instinctively I suppose, as Carson positions himself at my side. He must be kneeling, because one hand strokes my cheek while the other begins to creep up my inner thigh, urging my legs to uncross. I obey, and then spread them a bit to give him better access. “That’s right,” he says, then brings his lips down to mine, kissing me slowly and passionately. I lift my arms, wanting to wrap them around his neck, but then he pulls away. For a moment, I’m not sure what he plans— but then I feel his breath on my thigh.

My breath staggers as Carson lifts my skirt by tugging at each side, kissing my legs as he goes, growing closer and closer to my pussy. He finally gets my skirt up over my hips, and gently pushes my legs farther apart with his hands. I can’t see, but I know he must have a clear view of my panties now, and by his stillness, I can tell he’s staring.

“Astrid,” he growls. “Look at you.” His hand then gently covers my pussy, and I moan as he massages me lightly, his thumb rubbing against my clit and his fingers stroking my lips. My panties are long soaked through, and now grow even more saturated from the pressure of his hand. My back arches at his touch, my head pitches to the side, and there’s a blurry moment of peaceful, sweet bliss at the feeling.

Carson makes a satisfied sort of hum, and then I feel his fingers move to the edge of my panties, tugging them gently to the side. I don’t know why, but I expect him to plunge his fingers into my pussy— and I want that, to be honest. Instead, he teases at the edge of my lips, circling my entrance and then lightly touching my wet clit with the pad of his fingers. I groan again, shuddering at each touch, so sensitive.

“No one has ever done this to you,” Carson comments in disbelief and delight.

“No one,” I stammer. “It feels so good.”

“We’re just getting started,” he growls, then tugs my panties down to my knees in a single, fast motion. I laugh nervously, and tilt my head side to side, like I might suddenly be able to see what’s about to happen. No luck, though; I’m immersed in darkness when Carson places his palm above my pussy and carefully spreads me with his fingers, exposing me as I’ve never been exposed before. I breathe heavily, waiting for what will happen next, and then feel Carson’s breath tickling my abdomen, my clit, and then the light, gentle sweep of his tongue against my pussy itself.

I cry out without meaning to, and Carson pulls away for a heartbeat, before apparently realizing the sound was from pleasure. He puts his mouth on me again, this time kisses my clit as deeply as if it were my mouth, massaging me with his tongue until my hips buck relentlessly against his touch. My world, already dark, is somehow growing bright from pleasure, and there’s a rippling in my chest that’s spreading down to my pussy, an orgasm that feels more powerful than anything I’ve experienced before.

“Carson, I’m going to come,” I whisper.

“Not yet,” he answers, and abandons my clit. I moan in protest, but his mouth moves further down, licking at the sides of my pussy, exploring me entirely with his tongue. He repositions himself between my legs, then lifts my feet so that my knees are propped on his shoulders before he lowers his mouth to my pussy once again. This time, he slides his tongue into me.

I cry out again, nearly a scream this time, at the feeling of being penetrated. My hands dart down and I practically smack Carson in the head in my blindness, but then grasp his hair in my hands and hold on tightly. Carson doesn’t need direction; he knows I’m enjoying this, and he begins to lick up to my clit before returning back down, slipping his tongue instead of me, then licking the length of me again. He hands support my ass from below, lifting my pussy to his mouth, squeezing my ass cheeks hard as he continues on. I feel like I may break apart, I start to sweat, to feel dizzy and hazy.

“Carson,” I pant, but I can only just get his name past my lips. There’s no stopping my orgasm this time, there’s no way. Carson must know this; suddenly his mouth is on my clit, sucking, stroking it with his tongue as I moan loud and long against the feeling. My hands tighten into fists and the wave of arousal threatening me suddenly crashes down, obliterating all sensation except pure and perfect pleasure. I’m hazy and dizzy and writhing on the bed, wanting to both escape and push deeper against his mouth, the sensation too much to bear yet somehow not enough.

Carson’s mouth lightens as I catch my breath, begin to slow, feeling drunk and lightheaded as the most powerful orgasm of my life tapers off. He kisses my pussy again, then lowers my ass back to the bed and ducks to lift my legs off his shoulders. I’m not entirely expecting it when he reaches up and slides the blindfold off my face.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, looking into my eyes again. I blink at the light, giving him a pleading look.

“Don’t stop,” I manage to say. “I want more.”

Carson’s eyes grow darker. “You’re getting more. But are you ready for it?”

“Yes,” I whisper, nodding. The blindfold worked like a charm— with one orgasm out of the way, I feel emboldened, eager to let Carson move on without worry. He looks satisfied with my answer, then moves to the end of the bed. He finishes sliding my panties off my legs, then reaches up, unzips the side of my skirt, and pulls it down as well. I’m naked from the waist down when he’s finished. I’m about to sit up and help remove my top when he stops me.

“Wait,” he says, and then gets back on the bed, kneeling beside me. He positions his fingers at the entrance to my pussy, the touch causing me to whimper in pleasure. He meets my eyes, then slides his other arm underneath my upper body, easing me forward. As I sit up, his fingers press at my entrance; when I’m halfway to sitting, his pointer finger pushes inside me.

My eyes widen— his fingers, like the rest of him, are large, and while there’s no pain I can feel myself tighten around him. He continues to ease me upward, pushing deeper inside of me as he does so. When I’m sitting upright, I spread my legs a bit more and rock my hips forward so he gets a bit deeper. Carson rubs at the inside of my pussy, and that lightheaded, drunken feeling returns, though not so strongly that I can’t lift my arms up as he uses his free hand to tug my shirt up and over my head. He removes his finger from me in order to unclasp my bra, which he does slowly and carefully, like he doesn’t want to spill something very precious. He groans as he slides my bra off my shoulders and my breasts come into view. I bite my lip, watching him appraise them.

“Astrid, sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. “I knew you had a perfect body underneath those clothes, but if I’d known you looked like this naked…”

It’s only when he says this that I realize it’s true— I’m totally naked in front of him, while he’s still fully dressed. He got me to orgasm and undress, to calm down and to let him touch me like no man has, and he did it so slowly and carefully that I barely noticed how far we’d come. The realization that he’s being every bit as meticulous as he promised arouses me even more, and I dare to lean back on my elbows, which causes my breasts to rise and my hips to lift, giving him better access to everything he might want to touch.

He reaches for my breasts first, cupping them lightly with both hands and running his thumb around the circle of them. Then, Carson slides his thumb directly across my nipple, and I tremble with satisfaction. I lick my lips and meet his eye, telling him in no uncertain terms to keep going. He lowers his mouth and licks the side of my right breast, dragging his tongue across my skin and toward my nipple. I inhale as his tongue finally lights on my nipple, and when I do he immediately envelops it with his mouth, sucking on me gently and readily, rolling me nipple back and forth along his tongue. I moan, and he responds by moving one hand back to my pussy and, more directly this time, sliding his finger back into me, using his thumb to rub against my clit as he finger fucks me.

Having my breasts and pussy and clit stimulated all at once is more than I can handle, and before I know what is happening, a second orgasm rises in my clit and radiates through my body. I nearly collapse back onto my elbows, but Carson supports my weight without missing a beat, pulling my breast tighter to his mouth and sliding a second finger into me, straining at my walls, pumping in and out of me until I begin to rock my hips to his rhythm as the orgasm blinds me to anything but the pleasure of being with him.

As I regain my senses, I can’t help but wonder how I’m going to make it through the night— I already feel so close to passing out from exhaustion. But then Carson rises and, with his eyes on me, strips his shirt over his head. I’ve seen him shirtless before, of course, but never with the promise of impending passion— I can’t believe I’m going to feel that body pressed bare against mine, and it makes me bite my lip in want.

He drops his shirt on the floor, then unbuttons and unzips his pants. I can already see his erection straining at the fabric; when he slides his pants down, his boxers tent out, revealing just how large his cock must be. I breathe heavily in re-instigated nerves and arousal, and Carson’s nostrils flare, as if my excitement has heightened his own. He then slides his boxers to the floor and steps out of them.

My lips part. His cock is huge— larger than any I saw in the locker room that day, and seemingly thick as my wrist. The very idea that it would fit inside me is terrifying and thrilling at once. My eyes jump to his, and there’s a glint in his gaze.

“I’m going to fuck you with this, Astrid,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m going to fuck your tiny virgin pussy with my cock. Would you like that?”

I nod, licking my lips, and he steps closer still, till his knees brush the edge of the bed. “Touch me,” he commands, and I immediately obey, lifting my hands and wrapping them around his cock. One on top of the other, I don’t come close to covering the length of him. I can feel blood pulsing through his cock as I hold him, and he groans as I lightly move my hands up and down, pumping against him. He’s so hard that it seems impossible that I’m touching a human body and not solid stone.

“You’ve never sucked a cock before either, have you?” he asks, looking down at me.

“No,” I say, and suddenly I want to— badly.

Carson puts his hands on my head gently, stroking my hair back as he does so. “Just for a moment— because I can’t wait any longer than that to get deep inside you. Kiss me here,” he says, and motions to the head of his cock. I lean my lips down and kiss the spot he mentioned, tasting him, spicy and masculine on my tongue. “Again,” he murmurs, groaning a bit as I part my lips a bit more this time and kiss him, extending my tongue to run it along the rigid underside of his head. He groans again and pushes a little harder on my head, until I part my lips entirely and let his cock enter my mouth. He fills me so quickly, striking the back of my throat just as my hands, still encircling his shaft, meet my lips. Hands and mouth combined, I can take all of him. I press my tongue up against his cock as he lightly fucks my mouth; when I look up and meet his eyes, I’m aware of how hard he’s fighting to restrain himself.

“Okay,” he breaths, pulling away from me quickly. “God, Astrid. I can’t come in your mouth yet.”

“Why not,” I pout, reaching for his cock. He twists away.

“Because I’m going to come in your pussy,” he says firmly, hungrily. I smile, heart quickening, and Carson reaches into a nightstand drawer and removes a condom. He keeps his eyes on me as he tears the packaging and slides it over his cock; even though I know it’s wise, I can’t help but wish I could feel him bare inside me. Carson takes a few slow, steadying breaths. “Lie back,” he commands. I do so, and he climbs onto the bed between my legs, pressing my knees apart, lightly touching my pussy again to confirm I’m still soaked. He tilts over me, lowering his head to kiss me deeply, tongue toying with mine.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs, moving his kisses to the side of my cheek.

“I—I think so,” I say. “I want this.”

“I’ll be careful with you,” he says, kissing my neck. “You’re so small…I’m going to fill your little pussy up so quickly.” He reaches down between my legs, lining his massive cock up at my entrance; suddenly, I’m aware of just how right he is about my size. I’m also aware of how badly I want him in me even as part of me is terrified it will hurt. He keeps his eyes on mine, watching me, clearly loving this moment— the moment before.

Then he pushes forward, and his cock eases into me.

There is mounting pressure, and at first I wonder if I can actually do this. Take him all the way. I open my mouth to tell him to wait, panic rising inside of me.

And then the pressure gives way, as something inside of me seems to suddenly stretch to accommodate him. There is a burst of momentary pain and then another burst of pure ecstasy.

My mouth opens; I gasp in surprise and pleasure. Carson groans, loud and long, but when my eyes start to drift shut he finds his voice. “No, look at me. I want you looking at me when I take you,” he growls. It’s a fight, but I keep them open as he continues to inch into me, stretching at my pussy, straining at every wall of me until I moan and rock my head back. It doesn’t feel good now— it feels incredible, as my body seems to get more and more accustomed to this new feeling. Carson braces himself with a hand above my head, and places the other by my hip so he can twist his torso and circle farther in.

“That’s right, baby,” Carson says through gritted teeth, pleasure radiating from his body. “Let me in.” He slows, and then, licking his lips, begins to slowly withdraw, onto the thrust back into me. The motion makes me feel reckless and crazy and desperate for more, and I can’t stop the cries coming from my lips. He thrusts into me again, fucking me bit faster each time.

I’m being fucked.

Fucked for the first time, and God is it amazing.

I reach down, wanting to feel where he’s entering me. His cock slides smoothly against my hand, into my pussy, and I’m shocked to discover how much of him is left. I’m already so full of him, my pussy is already straining against his hardness.

“I told you I’d fill you up quickly,” Carson growls to me, watching the way my breasts bounce with each stroke. He then sits back on his knees, pulling my hips with him, so that he towers over me and my body is tilted back, balanced on his legs. He begins to work me at a faster, shallow clip, and it makes my heart race. I moan— I’m going to come, I realize, though this is like no orgasm I’ve ever felt before. It’s starting not at my clit, not with a shatter of nerves, but from my core— from deep inside me. Each time the head of Carson’s cock enters me, I get closer. I begin to pant—

“Let’s try something,” Carson mutters, almost more to himself than me. I’m useless to respond anyway, wobbly from need and arousal. Carson, cock still in me, leans down and pulls my upper body up against him, then spins us both around so his feet are firmly planted on the floor. I’m sitting on his cock now, though he’s holding most of my weight to keep it from plunging too deep inside of me. I fling my arms around his neck, and Carson begins to lightly bounce me on his cock, one arm wrapped around my back to steady me and the other tucked neatly under my ass to balance me on him.

“Oh my god,” I moan into his ear. “Carson, please—“

“Please what, Astrid?” he growls back. “Tell me what you want.”

“I—“ I don’t even know. I don’t know what I want, I just know I want him, more of him, in me, on me, having me. I cry out and then drop my weight as best I can, taking more of him than I have before. It hurts, but in a wonderful, daring way. Carson groans in my ear and clutches my ass tightly, and I feel drunk with power at his reaction— knowing that he’s feeling as heady and happy as I am. I raise up a bit so our faces are level, and kiss him deeply, then ease back down onto his cock. His eyes stay on mine, like he’s watching something magnificent.

This position, however, is too much for me; I’m going to come, and there’s no holding back. My eyebrows knit together, and my ability to speak in actual words vanishes. Instead, I gaze at Carson as I rise and fall on his massive cock, hoping my eyes say what I can’t: Come with me.

His lips curl, almost a snarl, and then he begins to move faster, leaning over me slightly but supporting me enough to keep me from falling to the floor. I arch my back, and my nipples are brought to Carson’s mouth in the process. He licks me, sucks on my breasts as he fucks me, and the heat rising in my core swells. Carson groans as my pussy clenches him, and I feel him throbbing inside of me.

The feeling of his cock, desperate to come, is what tips me over. The feeling in my core releases, and I moan loud, practically a scream of pleasure, as the orgasm ripples through my body like a shockwave. Carson thrusts farther into me, and then groans, clutching me tightly to his body and coming deep in my pussy.

When he pulls me back up, I feel like a rag doll. Carson is panting, his face red, and I know I must be a disaster of melted makeup and tangled hair. He doesn’t care, though; he kisses me, then eases onto his back, bringing me with him. Once there, he guides my legs up, and slides out of my pussy, leaving me feeling empty but more than satisfied. I crash down next to him, shaky and hot.

“Good?” he asks breathlessly.

“Amazing,” I answer curling up against him. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know it would be like that. That it would feel like that. That I would want more of you, even when I couldn’t take it.”

Carson kisses my forehead. “Don’t worry— we’ll build up to it. We’ll build up to a lot of things, Astrid, because believe me: this isn’t the last time I’m going to fuck you.”

10

I want to go again right away—I never want to stop. Carson, however, insists we wait at least a few hours before a second round.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “It’s not now or never.”

“But—“

“Astrid, you’re already going to be sore tomorrow— for a virgin, you took a lot of my cock. I don’t want to keep going only for you to wind up in pain,” he says. “Besides, I came hard. I need a break.”

“Fine,” I pout, and he pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head in consolation. The cool of the night is starting to nip at my skin; I tug the blanket back up my body and allow Carson to position me against him, my head on the front of his shoulder, legs curled up to his chest. I have to admit, I can already feel more than a touch of soreness creeping in, which I suppose is to be expected, given the cock I just took. Carson is still naked, shamelessly enjoying the night.

“What made you hang on to your virginity for so long?” Carson asks, sounding just innocently curious enough that I’m not exactly embarrassed by his words. I am surprised, though, that he cares to ask.

I shrug against him. “I never met anyone I wanted to have sex with that badly. Till you, I suppose. I guess it seemed a stupid to have sex just for the sake of having sex with someone. It’s not like I was trying to unload my virginity to the first available…buyer. Wait, that sounds weird…”

Carson laughs lightly. He sounds so much more relaxed, like having me has sanded down his many rough edges. I prop my chin up on his chest and dare to ask something I’ve wondered about for a few weeks, now. “They say you used to sleep around, you know. That you’ve only stopped dating this year.”

“It’s true,” Carson answers. “I’m just trying to stay focused.”

“That’s totally a newspaper pull quote fake answer. It’s like saying “no comment”,” I argue.

“You’re literally a reporter!”

“I’m literally naked in your arms,” I point out, and he sighs, nodding as if in agreement.

We sit in silence for a moment, and then Carson takes a heavy breath. I can tell that he doesn’t exactly want to tell me the real answer to my question— but I can also tell that he’s going to. “My father slept around a lot. I think he saw women as a means to have sex, not as people.”

I go still against him, worried that if I stir, he’ll stop talking— and he sounds so open, so free right now. I can’t bear to take that away.

He goes on. “Anyway, I suppose you could say that his trial and all the scrutiny surrounding it has made me think a lot about the kind of person I want to be. And, frankly, I don’t want to be like my father. At least not in that regard.”

I bite my lip, listen to the sound of Carson’s hard thumping in his chest. “But in other regards?”

“Definitely. He’s a great football player. Was a great coach to my brothers and me. He was a great dad, when he wasn’t being a terrible one, you know? Like, our holidays were always amazing— Thanksgiving, Easter, Christmas, all of it. He was really into holidays, so we always had these insane parties where the entire extended family and all the neighbors and everyone’s coworkers and half the neighborhood came over. It sounds stupid, but they were magical— like something out of a movie. But…then the holiday would be over, and I guess normal life was boring, because next thing you knew, he’d have a new girlfriend.”

“You knew he had girlfriends? That’s awful,” I say.

He scoffs in disgust. “Oh, we all knew. My mom knew too, honestly.”

My eyes spring open. “Really? Does your lawyer know that? Because that sounds like pretty solid evidence that that woman threatening to tell your mom about the affair isn’t nearly motive enough for him to—“ I stop myself, then cringe. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Got carried away.”

Carson’s voice is a little stiffer when he responds. “It’s okay. Besides, you had a whole bunch of questions about my family on your sheet. I owed you answers to at least a few, after that performance,” he says, trying to tease me a little as he reaches over and lightly spanks me. “Our lawyer does know, though. Our lawyer knows everything. She talks to my brothers more than I do.”

“I got the impression the three of you were close,” I say, frowning. How could you play not only the same sport, the same position as your brothers and not be tight? It’s like a built-in conversation topic.

“We were close. But a murder accusation can really mess things up for a family. Sebastian told my mom he thinks Dad might be guilty. Tyson doesn’t want to talk to any of us anymore, because he’s tired of fighting. I’m sort of stuck between the two of them.”

“You…think your father might be guilty? Even though you gave him his alibi?” I ask carefully, knowing I may have stepped too far. This is exactly the sort of information I’m supposed to get for the Blaze article— and when I think that, I feel sick to my stomach. Carson is opening up to me, really and truly; how dare I even think about the article right now? I swallow hard to contain the disgust with myself as best I can.

Carson is staring straight at the ceiling, like he’s hoping there are answers to everything written up there, which means he doesn’t see the guilt in my eyes. “I don’t know for sure that I met my dad for dinner that night. I did when I gave the statement—but you’ve got to realize, my dad had just gotten arrested for murder. My entire world was getting turned around, I was scared, I was worried, we were all freaking out. Dad and I had dinner one night that week, I’m sure of it, but weeks had passed by the time the cops asked me about it.”

“There’s a traffic video of you, though,” I persist.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “On a route I drive all the time. It fits with the timetable of us getting dinner, but that doesn’t mean we definitely were. The lawyer has told me a thousand times that I don’t know for sure we didn’t get dinner, so it’s just as possible we did.”

I shift, nodding. “I don’t remember where I got dinner weeks ago. If someone told me I needed to remember it, I’m sure I would have, but there’s no way I could tell you off the bat if I went to Chipotle or not on any given Tuesday,” I say.

“Yeah,” Carson says with a half-hearted shrug. “It’s driving me insane, though, not being able to remember— not knowing if my alibi is actually legit. I just hate that the strongest piece of evidence for my dad’s innocence is all on me. If you were choosing between me and my brothers for a responsibility like this, you’d choose the other two before me, every time. So. There’s the family drama you’re getting yourself involved with, Astrid. Sure you want to go another round?” He says this with a grin, but it’s not a very happy one.

I smile genuinely. “First off, I’m not with your entire family. I’m with you. And secondly, I am very, very sure I want another round. You’re the one that’s making me wait, remember?”

Carson laughs lightly, then, after a moment of comfortable silence, asks, “What about you? Siblings? Parents?”

“No siblings. Parents are in Massachusetts. You’ve got something in common with them— they’re not fans of reporters, either.”

“Wait, are they famous or something?” Carson asks, frowning.

“No— they just think it’s a dying profession, and they’re mad I’m going into it. They want me to go into law. But journalism isn’t dying, it’s just changing right now— sort of like the music industry did a decade or two ago. My parents don’t much care though. They’re letting me get my undergrad in journalism so long as I promise to apply for law school afterward.”

“Just apply?”

“If I apply and get in, I know they’ll make me go,” I say, sighing.

Carson snorts. “They can’t make you do anything.”

“They pay all my bills. I’m only able to work for the newspaper because they give me an allowance so I don’t have to work a real job. They can make me do a lot,” I answer.

Carson disagrees, clearly, but he doesn’t appear interested in pressing the issue. Instead, he says, “Well, I’m sure when you show them this amazing story you’re writing on the great Carson Slate, they’ll change their minds.”

I feel a little sick at how close to home that comment hits.

And it makes me think about the fact that Devin isn’t interested in a positive story on Carson Slate. He wants an exposé, a story about Dennis Slate, a story about crime with a little football thrown in.

A story that I could write this very second and pad my portfolio with an incredible piece of work on a hot topic issue. And a story that I can’t possibly write— because if I do, I’ll lose Carson.

* * *

We go out for breakfast the following morning, since Carson’s suite doesn’t offer much by way of actual human food (though if you want old tortilla chips, random condiments, or potatoes covered in new growths, he’s got you covered). We’re in line to be seated at a popular pancake place when my phone buzzes. I glance at it, and sigh— it’s Devin.

Devin: Call me asap, need to review your work

“Something wrong?” Carson asks.

“It’s my editor. He’s sort of the worst. He’s one of those micro-manager types,” I explain.

“Tell me if you need me to put some muscle on him, get him to back off,” Carson answers, and leans in to kiss the top of my head. I jump, startled— are we doing this, now? We’ve been out together plenty of times before, of course, but this is a college town— just because a couple is out together doesn’t mean they’re an item or anything. All of our physical contact has been beneath tables and tucked away up until his point, but now he’s kissing my head right here, in front of everyone—

“Follow me please,” the hostess says cheerfully, startling me. Carson follows behind the hostess, and I hurry to keep up, trying to sort through my surprise. Obviously, there wouldn’t normally be anything at all worrisome about an incredibly attractive guy displaying affection for me in public. But…he’s the subject of a story that Devin is hoping will go national and I’m hoping to write without ruining my relationship with Carson. If people have seen us together like this, my integrity as a journalist is shot.

“Hey, Carson?” I ask carefully as we sit down. He slide into the peach-colored booth beside me and has a hand on my leg, sliding it up a bit higher than necessary, and I tingle at the nearness of his hands, at the knowledge of just how good he can make me feel with his touch—

Focus, Astrid, I scold myself.

“What’s up,” he says.

“People can’t know we’re together,” I blurt out apologetically. “Because of the story, I mean. If people see us together as a couple, then I write a story about you, no one will believe a word of it.”

Carson’s eyebrows lift, and I can’t tell if he’s surprised or angry at my words. He takes a breath, though, then pulls his hand from my leg and taps on the table lightly. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I say with a wince. “It’s not that I don’t want us to be seen together or anything like that. You can still…you know…” I say, glancing toward my lap.

“How long do we have to pretend we’re not together?” he says.

“A few weeks is the plan,” I say, just as my phone buzzes again.

Devin: We need to meet up tonight to discuss where things are! Call.

And it hits me that my life and this story has gotten way more complicated than I ever could have imagined…

* * *

I call Devin that afternoon, while I’m waiting for my comparative literature class to start and while Carson is at yet another team meeting (I’m beginning to think football players simply don’t attend any actual classes whatsoever). Devin answers the phone too-fast, and I can hear urgency in his voice.

“Astrid, finally. Look, what do you have on the Slate story so far? I hear the Atlanta paper is running an article about Sebastian Slate, and I don’t want them competing with us. Do you have anything particularly good on Carson and his father?”

“I— no,” I lie quickly. “No, nothing really strong yet.”

Devin groans. “Seriously? You’ve been running around with the guy for weeks now, and someone told me the two of you were looking pretty friendly at a coffee shop the other day. He hasn’t told you anything worth sharing?”

“I’m working on it, Devin. Really,” I insist in a rushed whisper.

“Come by my place tonight and bring all your notes. I want us to try and piece something together,” Devin says.

“I can’t. I have plans tonight.”

“Astrid, we have to get this story together,” Devin says firmly. “I gave you total freedom to pursue this story and handed off all your other assignments. Don’t drop the ball now.”

I press my lips together. Devin always sounds pretty serious, but right now, he sounds almost threatening. There’s an undercurrent to what he’s saying that screams there will be consequences for not meeting up with him and handing over my notes. “Fine, I’ll swing by. Can’t I just email you my notes?”

“Astrid—“

“I’m coming by,” I say. “Class is about to start— text me your address, okay?” I nearly hang up on him, though we manage to get out some short goodbyes before I weave into class and find a seat. I might as well not have come, to be honest, because I can’t focus to save my life. How could I? I lost my virginity in the most mind-blowing way to none other than Carson Slate. I heard him practically confess that there’s a strong chance his alibi is trash. And now my editor is demanding to see my notes on Carson, so he can help me put together a tell-all article that would undoubtedly wreck any shot for a future between Carson and I.

I can’t do it. I can’t betray Carson like this. Not because I’m sleeping with him, not because I want him, not because when I close my eyes, I can’t help but think of the way his arms feel around me. I can’t betray Carson because he’s a person, a person who opened up to me. A man whose family and personal life could be destroyed if I reveal what he told me last night while we were lying in bed.

I don’t want to be that kind of reporter. The kind who puts a story above a person. The kind that Carson had been avoiding for a year.

I open up my phone, and create a new file of notes on Carson— carefully editing out the information on the alibi.

11

I hurry to Devin’s door that evening, wearing heels and a short skirt— because if I can get through this meeting fast, I can be over to Carson’s before ten o’clock. Maybe even before nine o’clock, if I can keep Dickhead Devin (current reporter nickname for him) from launching into one of his know-it-all monologues. I ring the doorbell and step back, listening to the sound of Devin’s feet on the floor.

When he answers the door, I’m not particularly surprised to see he’s wearing what he normally wears to work— a collared shirt and khakis. I strongly suspect he doesn’t wear anything but this ensemble, not even to sleep in. He looks at me for a minute, then makes a face.

“What are you wearing that for?” he asks.

“I told you. I have plans tonight,” I say.

Devin shrugs. “Whatever you say. You don’t usually dress like those desperate girls on Broad Street, is all. You look good though.”

“Can I come in?” I ask impatiently. Devin shrugs a second time and steps back, allowing me into his apartment. It’s small and beige and totally undecorated, like it’s more of a crash pad than a place someone actually lives. He’s got the television turned on to a local news station, and his laptop open with a million tabs pulled up on his browser. As I near it, I can see they’re all articles about Dennis Slate.

“Have a seat,” he says, sitting down on the end of the couch and motioning for me to do the same. It’s one of those couches where you sink down farther than you expect, and I nearly flash him when my skirt hikes up from the drop. Thankfully, Devin is too preoccupied with arranging his computer on his lap to notice— I hope, anyway.

“Alright. Let’s hear what you’ve got,” he says, looking up at me.

“I’m thinking that a good angle might be to talk about his relationship with his brothers,” I say, a rehearsed line. It’s not the story he wants, but I think it just might be the story I can sell him on. “So, he’s got these two brothers, right? Sebastian and Tyson. Sebastian is the responsible one, Tyson isn’t really speaking to the rest of the family because of the drama with their dad. What if we made it a story about Carson being the one stuck in the middle of it all? You know, middle kid, family getting torn apart— a real personal story.”

Devin has been typing notes on this as I speak; when I pause, he looks up at me. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s a great story!” I say. “Look, I’ve got some great quotes and everything from a few interviews.” I brandish my phone at him, but he doesn’t move to take it.

“You’ve spent weeks with this guy, and that’s all you have? A story about it being hard to be the middle kid when your dad offs his mistress? Carson is the key to the whole damn case, Astrid,” Devin says, looking bewildered that I’ve even brought this story idea to his door.

I lick my lips and try to calm the anger brewing around my heart. “Devin, why would he tell a reporter anything new he hasn’t told the police? I know we were wanting to do a more investigative type piece, but I don’t think an interview with Carson is going to make it happen.”

“Then what the hell are you doing with him all the time? Just hanging out? Taking a break from the newsroom?” Devin asks, shaking his head. He shuts his laptop a little too hard. “I thought you were really digging into him.”

“He’s a legit nice guy. He’s worried about his dad. He wishes his relationship with his brothers was better.”

Devin scoffs. “Well, fantastic— it sounds like we’ve got all the material we need to write Carson Slate an amazing Tinder profile.”

“That’s not fair. There’s not a story here,” I say.

“There is, though, that’s the thing,” Devin says, shaking his head. He gives me a wary, annoyed look, then opens his laptop back up. “I had some of my assistants do some research on Dennis Slate’s case and the whole “we were getting dinner together” alibi. There’s a traffic camera shot of Carson Slate driving out toward Lithia that night, but that’s basically it. By the time the alibi was needed, all the security footage from the handful of restaurants out there that actually have it was gone.”

“Okay…” I say hesitantly, and move close to Devin so I can see what he’s looking at. He’s sorting through emails, now, and finally finds the one he’s after. There’s a spreadsheet of what I realize is all the restaurants in Lithia— everything from Long John Silvers to the upscale Indian place. Beside them is their opening hours, closing hours, addresses, and links to their websites.

“It was on the later side that they supposedly went to dinner, so it was probably to a fast food place or one of these four restaurants. But who goes all the way to Lithia to meet their dad for fast food? Plus, Dennis Slate has high cholesterol— they even had to make him special food in jail. Fast food would be the last place he’d eat,” Devin says, and I can tell by the way he’s speaking that even if the question wasn’t rhetorical, he wouldn’t let me answer it— not when he needed to showcase his own genius. “That means they probably went to one of these four. Except, this one was shut down that night because a of health inspector thing. This one was booked for an event, so they weren’t taking walk-ins.”

“So it was one of these two?” I ask, pointing to the other two names on the restaurant list.

“Yes. And the thing is, at this one,” Devin says, highlighting a place called Alessandro’s, “a woman went into labor that night, and an ambulance had to be called. And at the this one,” he pauses to highlight a place called Snap, “the power went out for thirty minutes because a transformer got hit down the street.”

I look at the names, realizing the connections Devin has drawn. Realizing what this means— that I might know the answer to the question that’s been plaguing Carson, and that it’s not the answer he wants. It’s not an answer that keeps his father out of jail.

“You think he didn’t go out with his father that night,” I say, eyes wide.

“Carson lied,” Devin corrects.

My eyes open yet wider, and I shake my head quickly. “No, no way— he didn’t lie. He really didn’t remember where they went for dinner. Do you remember where you went for dinner months ago, on some random day?”

Devin narrows his eyes. “No— and that’s what I’d tell investigators, rather than saying that I did just to keep my father out of jail. So, as you can see, I’ve more or less done your job for you here.”

I look down. Truth is, he has done some stellar investigative work, and if it weren’t for my feelings for Carson, I’d be excited about it. I really have spent more time getting to know Carson as a significant other rather than as a subject of a story, and while I don’t regret it for a moment, it does mean that Devin has the right to wave my failure in my face, doesn’t it?

“When is the story going to run?” I ask. I want to tell Carson about his alibi falling apart before he reads about it in the paper.

“When you write it,” Devin says, looking surprised. “I’ve got the information, but you’ve still got to put it together. You’re the one who’s been seen with him— it’ll seem more realistic if it’s from a reporter who has been following him around, getting the inside scoop. Which, speaking of, there’s one thing I think we need to make the story go big.”

“What’s that?” I ask flatly.

“We need to know if Carson knew his alibi was crap or not. Does he really not remember, or is he covering for his father?”

“There’s no way he’d tell someone that,” I say, making a face.

Devin’s gaze is cool and careful. “I’ve already done the real legwork on this story for you, Astrid, while you’ve been out eating fancy dinners with your subject. You’ll get this information, or you’re off staff. What good is a reporter willing to sleep with a guy for a story if she doesn’t actually get the story?”

My lips part, hurt and anger and indignation coursing through me. Did he just say that? “Devin, that is totally inappropriate—“

Devin rolls his eyes. “Sure, sure, yeah, whatever. I’m just saying that I practically hand selected you to get this story from that first game, and you’ve bombed out at every turn.”

“Hand selected? I wasn’t even supposed to be at that first game! It’s just good luck for you that you’ve got a story at all— if I hadn’t gotten that first interview with Carson—“

“Oh, Christ, Astrid,” Devin says, putting his fingers to his temples and shaking his head. “The sports writer wasn’t really unavailable that day— I sent you because I knew he could do a great write up watching from home, and that you’re exactly Carson Slate’s type. I figured you had a better chance at getting in with him than anyone else did, and it worked.”

I jump up from the couch, grab by purse. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Devin calls after me, standing and following me to his door. “Why the hell would any editor send the girl from the arts page to a football game? Look, it doesn’t matter, Astrid—you’re in now, okay? You need to finish the job. Get the linchpin for the story and it’ll be like I said— we’ll both ride it to some national coverage and some sweet internships.”

“You used me,” I snap as I grab the door.

“You’re using Carson right now,” he shouts back, and I freeze in the open door frame. Is he right? Yes— and no. I was using Carson originally, I suppose, but now…

I don’t know.

I slam the door behind me, with no idea where I’m going— or what I’m going to do when I get there.

12

Because my parents have the worst timing in history, I come home to see a series of glossy law school booklets they’ve mailed me waiting on the table. I trash them immediately and hurry past my alarmed suite mates to my bedroom. A few moments later, there’s a light rap at my door.

“Astrid? Everything okay?” Arianna asks through the door.

“Yeah. No— just drama with the paper,” I answer through poorly disguised tears.

“Everything’s cool with Carson?” Jess asks.

“We’re fine,” I answer. Is that a lie? I’m not sure— because I’m pretty positive that we aren’t fine, but also that we are for a few hours at least, before I tell Carson all that I know and all that Devin plans to print. Devin still wants me to write the story, but I know that’s just for appearances— the information he found about the alibi will get printed one way or another. At least if I write the story, I can try to put a decent spin on it—

My phone chimes. It’s a text from Carson.

Carson: You’re going to need to hurry up at your meeting, Astrid, because I’ve got a list of things I want to do to you and it’s long.

I try to smile, but god, I can’t go over to his place right now. I’m a mess, weepy and red-eyed and totally makeup-less, now that I’ve practically rubbed my face all over my pillow. The outfit I knew Carson would love is now crumpled up on the floor, and I’m wearing duck pajamas. I’m pretty sure that if Carson saw me right now, the list of things he supposedly has to do to me would grow infinitely shorter.

Astrid: I think I need a rain check for tonight. Tomorrow?

It’s only a few seconds later that Carson calls.

“Is everything alright?” he asks over the phone, sounding genuinely worried.

“Yes— just some drama with Devin,” I answer. I try to keep my voice steady, so he can’t tell I’ve been crying.

“What’s going on?” Carson asks.

“Nothing I want to talk about right now,” I say with a sigh. I know I need to tell Carson about the alibi, about Devin sending me intentionally to the game that day— just like Carson worried— but I can’t go through it all again right now. I need at least a few hours to calm down and think it all through.

Try to find some options that don’t feel like the end of the world.

Carson makes a noise in his throat, then says, “I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes.”

“What? Carson, I’m already in pajamas—“

“Then wear pajamas,” Carson says, and I can tell he’s grinning in that arrogant way that I love-hate. “We’re not going anywhere public. Just to a place on campus I like. Trust me.”

I do trust him— and he trusts me, far more than he should. I agree, and a few moments later Carson’s car is outside. I’ve changed into jeans and a t-shirt that are at least a single step up from the duck pajamas, and I stop to hug Arianna and Jess to thank them for worrying about me. When I slide into the passenger seat of Carson’s car, I’m instantly soothed.

“You look amazing,” Carson says, and leans over to kiss me on the mouth, gently but deeply. I practically sigh into his lips.

“It’s not a short skirt,” I point out apologetically.

“It’s not the clothing that makes you look amazing,” he answers as he kicks the car into drive and we ease away from my apartment complex. He slides a hand onto my thigh, but doesn’t creep it up high— it’s for comfort, not arousal, though it provides a bit of both. It’s impossible for me to be with Carson and not be aroused, even in a situation like this.

We carve through campus, which is still lively despite the hour— plenty of people going from dorm to dorm, arriving at or leaving late study sessions, or cutting through the quad to get to the bars. I’m surprised when we park, of all places, outside the president’s house.

Technically, the house belongs to whoever is currently president of the university, but they never actually live in it anymore. These days it’s more of an event space, with fancy rooms and long dinner tables and antiques galore. The interior is lit up, but it’s pretty clear there’s no one actually here. Carson parks the car at the end of the driveway and climbs out.

“Let me guess: Star football players get keys to the president’s mansion?” I ask, gazing up at the turrets— seriously, the place has turrets— in wonder.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carson says.

I frown and look over at him. “Really? Then why are we here?”

Carson smirks, the darkness making his face a mask of perfect shadows. “Because I have keys to the garden in the back.” He wraps a hand around my shoulder and pulls me tightly against him, and together we walk toward the iron gate that leads into the house’s back garden. I can see through the scrollwork to a bright white gazebo, rows of flowers, a koi pond with a bridge over it.

The gate gives way and Carson steps aside to allow me to go in first. He clangs the gate shut behind us, then pauses, looking at the expanse of the greenery.

“What do you think?” he asks lowly.

“It’s beautiful. Why do you have a key to this, of all places?”

“Junior year, when I became starting quarterback and my dad was arrested, I needed a place to get away from both football and my family. This was the only place on campus that was guaranteed to have neither. They gave me a key so I could come here and get my head together before games.”

“Did it work?” I ask, looking out at the heaps of jasmine draped over the tall privacy fences.

“Usually. You can never get away from it completely, though, can you?” Carson says thoughtfully.

His words sting. Even now, with me, he hasn’t gotten away from it. I feel a wave of guilt and shame wash over me.

Carson grabs my hand. “Come on— let’s go sit.”

We walk to the gazebo in the center of the garden, glossy white in the darkness. Sitting on the benches that line it, it almost feels like we’re on an island in a sea of flowers. I sigh and cuddle into Carson’s arms, and he responds by pulling me onto his lap, like my idea of closeness wasn’t adequate. He’s right— this place does calm you down.

“Feel better?” he murmurs against the top of my head, running his heavy fingers across my jawbone as he speaks. His thighs are hard and muscular beneath me, and I feel small and protected leaning against his chest.

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Want to tell me what happened, now?” he says.

Not really— but I’m going to, because he deserves to know. “The story I’m writing about you? Devin has sort of taken over.”

“You’re not the one writing it anymore?” Carson asks.

“No, no, I’m still writing it— but Devin is just…he’s insisting that the story focus on you and your father, not you as a player.” I wince as I say this, waiting for him to be angry, to push me off of him. But while Carson does go stiff beneath my cheek, he doesn’t push me away. Instead, he breaths slow, focused, steady.

“Which is why I don’t talk to reporters, you’ll remember,” he says, sounding exhausted by my news.

“I’m so sorry. I really am,” I say, sitting up and meeting his eyes. His face is unreadable, a portrait in stone and skin, and despite the gazebo’s tranquility, I can feel myself gearing up to cry again. Should I tell him everything? How I was a plant, just like he worried? How Devin found out the truth about the alibi?

Yes— to the second. I have to tell him about the alibi.

“There’s more,” I say. “You won’t like it.”

“Okay,” Carson says, voice stern and brows furrowed.

“Devin did some research into the alibi you gave your dad. He found out that most of the restaurants you’d have gone to would have been closed by the time you arrived. There were only two you’d have been able to eat at, and both had crazy stuff happen that night— a lady had a baby at one and the power went out at the other. If you’d eaten there that night, you’d probably have remembered it. So…”

Carson closes his eyes as what I’m saying connects. “So the alibi doesn’t hold up. We didn’t get dinner that night.”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

Carson exhales and lifts me off his lap like I weigh nothing, sliding me down onto the bench beside him. He tilts his head back and stares up at the gazebo roof. “I’m glad to know,” he says, though his voice sounds more than a little flat.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. But I don’t…” Carson swallows, then shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“My dad was the one that suggested I tell the police we had dinner together that night. We get dinner in Lithia every so often, so it wasn’t a crazy suggestion. But I don’t know…I don’t know if I’d have said it if he hadn’t brought it up. If he hadn’t convinced me that we’d been together that night,” Carson says, swallowing.

“It’s possible he didn’t really remember either, though—“

“Or it’s possible he knew I’d cover for him. I didn’t take much convincing. It should have been harder— I mean, a woman was murdered, and I basically just nodded and said sure, Dad, if you say we were having dinner, we were having dinner.” Carson looks disgusted with himself, his chest rising and falling in the predatory, animalistic way that it does when he’s on the football field— only now, the opponent is his own past. “I knew something was weird about it. I knew it felt seriously off. But I let myself be manipulated so easily.”

“He’s your dad, Carson,” I defend him.

“She was someone’s daughter,” Carson counters. “I assume Devin is going to want this in the article? Whether or not I knew the alibi was bullshit?”

“Yes,” I say, the words painful. “I’m not going to paint you as a villain though. I promise. I’d never do that.”

Carson looks unconvinced, but gives me a half smile anyway, like he appreciates the effort. “Thanks for telling me,” he says, then takes a big breath. “But, you’ve broken the cardinal rule of this garden— no football, no family.”

“You asked me to tell you—”

Carson shakes his head. “Sorry, you’re the one that broke the rules. My hands are tied on this one. Punishment is in order.”

“What sort of punishment?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” Carson answers, a wry smile. “Now, Astrid? Take your clothes off for me. Slowly.”

13

My eyes widen. “Here? Now?”

After everything we’ve just discussed, I can’t believe he wants sex.

But then again, maybe that’s exactly why he wants sex.

“Here. Come on— clothes off,” he says sternly.

I flush, and glance over my shoulder. There doesn’t appear to be anyone hanging around, so…I stand up, and slide out of my shoes. Carson sits back, watching me like a judge, as I reach for the hem of my shirt and tug it over my head. I’m not wearing a matching bra and panty set, this time— in fact, I’m wearing a sort of ridiculous pair of panties from the clearance rack at Target. They have cacti on them. I wish I’d remembered this fact before I took my pants off, but no such luck.

Carson, however, looks particularly pleased, and when I’m standing before him in my bra and panties, he holds up a hand to stop me from removing anything else. “Come here,” he says huskily, and I obey, closing the few steps between us. When I reach him, he nudges me to turn me around so that my back is facing him. My skin prickles excitedly as he cups my ass cheeks, rubbing them lightly, then hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties and tugs them down just a little, kissing the top of my ass lightly as he does so. It’s cool out here, just this side of cold, even, but I’m already growing warmer from his touch.

Carson pulls my panties down to my thighs, and slides his hand between my legs, urging them apart. The side of his hand plays at my pussy lips, and I tremble, wanting more of his touch. Now that we’ve had sex once, my nerves aren’t from worry or fear, but from need and anticipation. I want him in me again, now, but I also want him to toy with me like this, to wait until I’m desperate to sink into me…

“You’re already wet,” Carson says, sounding almost amused.

“Your fault,” I answer, looking over my shoulder at him. He lets the side of his hand creep a little farther up, until he’s spread my pussy lips and it rubbing right against my entrance. His thumb climbs against me, and to my alarm, he presses it tightly against my ass. I jump forward, but he’s quick to grab me around the waist and keep me from skirting away.

“Calm down,” he soothes me. “I’m not going to fuck you there, Astrid— not right now. But you’re going to have to let me touch you. Trust me.”

I bite my lip, but force myself to stay put. Carson tries again, circling his thumb around my ass, the smallest amount of pressure on that entrance. I can’t believe it, but I like the feeling of his fingers there, the slightest penetration that makes my nerves jump and heart beat faster. I exhale and arch away from him, giving him better access to…well. To everything he might want.

“See?” Carson says, and squeezes my ass cheek lightly before standing up behind me. He slides my panties farther down, and they finally drop all the way to the gazebo floor. Moonlight casts my body in blue light, and cool air touches places I’ve never exposed to the outdoors before. Carson unclasps my bra and keeps me facing away from him as he slides it down my arms and tosses it aside. His hands climb my body, and he cups my breasts, rubbings his thumbs over my nipples, hardening them. He then turns me around, kisses me, then looks me in the eye. “Get on your knees.”

I can’t look away from him as I lower myself down, knees (thankfully) coming to a rest on my pants rather than the gazebo floor. Carson always looks so much bigger than I am, but from my knees, he’s a giant. I gaze up at him, and he reaches down, playing with my hair for a moment adoringly.

“Take my cock out,” he finally says, voice cool, but hungry.

I haven’t exactly done this before, but eagerly reach for the waistband of his pants and pull them down. His cock is pressed hard against the front of his boxers; when I pull them down as well, I take hold of it and bite my lip at his warm heat. He’s rock hard, and he groans deep in his throat at my touch. This spurs me on, and I wrap both hands around him, then draw the tip of his cock down to my mouth and pull it between my lips.

“Hands behind your back,” he demands, then puts his own hands gently on the back of my head.

My eyes widen. What if he goes too deep? What if I choke? I’m about to say this out loud, but Carson gives me a serious look, and I already know what his response will be— trust me.

And I do. I do trust him.

And maybe part of me feels I owe him this, after the way I’ve betrayed him. The way my newspaper and my editor have put him in the position of defending himself against yet another attack from the press.

The truth is, I want him. But I also want to make it up to him…

The tip of his cock is still in my mouth, and once my hands are behind my back, Carson eases my head forward. He stops only a few inches in.

“Use your tongue on me,” he says, clearly struggling to keep his voice steady. When I begin to swirl my tongue around him, he groans again, and his fingers tighten in my hair. I lick up and down his shaft, as far as I can go without taking him out of my mouth entirely, and he hardens even more. “Relax your jaw, sweetheart,” he says, then with a careful breath, pushes farther into my mouth.

I feel his cock strike the back of my throat, but I don’t choke like I’d worried I might— instead I look up at him, loving the fact that he’s staring down at me, watching my lips curve around his cock, our eyes locked as he begins to slowly, gently fuck my mouth. With my hands behind my back, I struggle to balance, but Carson takes care of that— he holds my head still as he pumps in and out of my lips, every now and again pausing before thrusting so I can lick the tip of his cock lightly, flick at the head with my tongue. Carson groans, so loud that it seems impossible no one could hear it, then withdraws from my mouth, breathing heavily.

“I’m going to come in your mouth if we keep going,” he says. “You’re good at this, Astrid.”

“I have a good teacher,” I say slyly, then, biting my lip, add, “You can come in my mouth.”

Carson’s eyebrows lift, and then he shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m going to make you such a bad girl, Astrid Tyler,” he says, then takes my head again and lowers it onto his cock.

He gives me more control now, and I pump my lips up and down on him, enjoying his taste, enjoying the way I can feel blood pulsing into his cock, keeping it hard for me. I keep my eyes on Carson’s as I go, the sound of my lips and our heaving breathing the loudest thing in the night. Carson finally parts his lips, grabs hold of my head, and I know it’s time—

His come hits the back of my throat, and I nearly jolt away— except his hand on my head prevents that. I swallow, and there’s more, salty and hot and flooding my throat. Carson pushes farther in, and I press my lips against his shaft as he finishes, moaning in pleasure. I’ve never made someone look like that before, and I feel high with the power of it. Carson pants, and watches me carefully as he slowly pulls his cock from my throat. I lick my lips and swallow again. All I can taste is him, and it’s so much more arousing than I could have ever expected.

“Astrid…” he says, catching his breath. He offers me a hand and helps me up. His cock is still hard, pressed against my torso, and for a moment I worry that since he’s come, it’s all over— I won’t get to have him in my pussy tonight after all. I’m about to ask if that’s the case, when he turns me around and wordlessly bends my upper body forward, letting me brace myself on the gazebo railing. I look back over my shoulder, and see he’s extracted a condom from his pocket, and is now lining himself up with my pussy. I whimper in anticipation, wondering if it will be as good as I remember.

“Were you sore last time?” Carson asks grabbing hold of my hips. He pulls at my ass cheeks, exposing me, and places his thumbs up against that entrance, his cock still pressed against my pussy.

I can barely speak to answer him. “Yes. Yes, but it wasn’t bad,” I stammer.

Carson is breathing hard, trying to slow himself down. “You might be this time,” he says.

And then he thrusts into my pussy.

I cry out in pleasure as his cock fills me, not inch by inch like it did the first time, but in a single, sweeping stroke. I don’t know if he’s entirely inside me, but it certainly feels like it, and I moan as he fucks me in deep, bold strokes. With each hard thrust, his thumbs press against my asshole, and before I even realize what’s happened I realize that he’s penetrated me— though only an inch or so— there as well, with both thumbs inside me. I can’t believe this, I can’t believe how good it all feels, and I nearly collapse across the railing as a result of the whirling feeling that’s rocketing from my toes to my head and back again. I hear Carson groan again, and I try to regain control of myself, holding onto the railing tightly and forcing my ass back against his hands.

“Say you’re mine, Astrid,” he says, his voice far away in my disoriented state.

I smile hazily. “I’m all yours.”

“And you’ll let me fuck your tight little pussy however I want?” he asks through staggered breaths.

“Yes. Yes, please,” I say, and the world feels so unbalanced and beautiful. I moan again as he increases his speed, begins to fuck me harder, and I feel the swell of an orgasm rise in my core. But I don’t want to come yet— I want to keep going. I focus my breath and try to regain control of my senses, then toss my hair to the side and look over my shoulder as best I can at Carson pumping against me. He sees me watching and dares to go even harder— though I can tell he’s still having to hold back. My pussy is still tight, straining against Carson’s girth.

Carson slows, breathing heavy, then pulls himself from me. I turn around, ready for more, and he guides me to the ground, onto my back. He leans over me, then reaches back and guides my legs around him, till I’m gripping him tightly around the hips with my ankles locked against his lower back. Carson cranes his neck down to suck one of my nipples, a brief reprieve for my pussy, then releases it and guides himself back into me, deep enough that I gasp.

“Almost all of me this time,” Carson whispers in my ear, just before he begins to fuck me quickly, never fully withdrawing from me, but rather almost grinding into my pussy. I tighten my legs around him, squeezing against him to try and get him farther inside me. Carson growls at this, then lifts up slightly, moving my hips up with him. The new position instantly makes me moan— something about the angle, about the way his cock pushes inside me, about the tension in my own legs. I moan and writhe my upper body, unable to contain the dazzling feeling streaking through me.

“I’m going to come,” I pant, eyes squeezed shut. “Carson—“

I feel like a tidal wave has crashed over me, and I cry in pleasure as it washes over my body. I fist my hands and press them against the ground, bucking my hips as high as I can; Carson responds by fucking in deep long strokes through the orgasm, draining me of energy, leaving me a blissful, happy disaster when the feeling finally subsides. I’m panting, staring at up at Carson’s face and beyond him, the gazebo ceiling.

“You’re good at this,” I huff.

“So are you,” he answers, and ducks his head down to kiss me, his tongue gently sweeping through my mouth. He then speaks directly against my lips, the words a soft murmur. “But we’re not done yet, Astrid, so better catch your breath.”

14

I write the article about Carson the following day.

I write it a half dozen times, in fact, editing and rewording and rephrasing as I go. Dumbass Devin/Diminutive Dick Devin/Don’t Even Devin texts me non-stop, but I ignore him save for a few messages to tell him I’m working on it, and to leave me alone. Honestly, if Devin weren’t graduating at the end of the year, I’d quit the paper entirely; as is, I focus on the fact that I’m getting the story, getting the great portfolio piece, and keeping Carson from being cast as a monster. I write him the way he is to me— intimidating at first, but a good person. Someone who wanted to believe his father. Someone who was tasked with an insurmountable responsibility that he didn’t want or deserve. Someone who is a great football player with a great future, and wants to pour himself into that instead of suffering for the potential crimes of his father.

Someone whose father is basically a cheating asshole.

If ever there was an audience who will understand, it’s got to be fellow college students. We’re all under our parents’ thumb in some way— me included. We’re all trying to escape it. Of course, few of us have parents quite so (potentially) villainous as Carson does, but still— we’re our own people, making our own way, and we can’t be cast into our parents’ rolls just because they make for splashy headlines.

The following morning I re-read what I’ve put together, print it out, and head over to the newspaper offices. I keep my head high, my pace tight and clipped, and for once, I’m not having to fake either. Fuck Devin, and fuck his sexism, and fuck him for using me— but I’m the one with the alibi info straight from the horse’s mouth, which means I’m the one with the power right now.

I push through the newspaper’s doors and hurry up the old stone steps, into the comparatively modern and sleek newsroom. The heads of fellow reporters pop up from behind cubicles as I enter and walk to Devin’s windowed office. He’s standing behind his desk, as per usual, looking like he’s running NASA rather than a college paper.

“Devin,” I say curtly, pushing the door open without knocking. His gaze flicks to me.

“Astrid! You made it in,” he says with so much oozing artificial warmth that it makes my stomach churn.

“I have your article.”

“Oh,” Devin says, eyebrows lifting. He’s not actually surprised any more than he was actually pleased to see me. He folds his arms across his chest. “I didn’t hear from you, and you left my place in such a huff that I figured you weren’t interested in writing it.”

“I texted you and said I was working on it,” I say sternly.

“But you didn’t text me back and tell me when it would be ready. I had to move ahead without you and write something up myself using your draft. It’s in copyedits now,” he says coolly.

My throat closes, but I don’t back down; I narrow my eyes at him. “My draft?”

“I assume a draft of what you’re holding there,” he says, pointing to the print out in my hand. “You wrote it on the paper’s laptop, so it went into our cloud. I pulled it this morning, edited it, and sent it on up. Don’t worry, though— I put your name first in the byline,” Devin says.

“You put my name on something without my approving it?” I say, my blood suddenly going cold.

I feel like ice water has been dumped on my head.

“It’s your draft, with my editorial work and a few additional details from the alibi investigation we did. Calm down,” Devin says, shaking his head at me and returning to his desk.

“I want approval before it goes to press,” I snap. People outside can hear me; I know from experience that when someone fights with Devin, everyone goes silent and only pretends to work. Given how quiet it is behind me, I’m wagering that’s happening right now.

Devin blinks at me. “You could have written the entire article on your own, Astrid, and then you wouldn’t need it. As is, you barely did an inch of the legwork on this thing, and I’m being kind enough to give your name priority in the byline. Now you want “approval” for the work I did? Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“If my name is on it, I want to know—“

“Astrid, get out of my office,” Devin says, voice steady and cool and cruel.

I take a breath and press my tongue against my teeth to keep from screaming. “Let me see the article.”

“It’s up in copyedits. You can see it there,” Devin says, and then looks back to his computer, ending the conversation.

I try to stay calm— he used my draft, so there’s a very good chance it’s fine— that it’s the article I wanted to publish, with a few details from Devin’s “investigation” added in. That’s what it ought to be, in fact. Plus, my article was great, I’m sure of it, so there’s no reason for Devin to have totally rewritten it.

I walk to the copyediting room, a silo-shaped space in the back of the building where the copyeditors are holed up with a coffeepot, pouring over documents in a way that’s always struck me as a little goblin-like.

“Hey, Astrid!” one of the copyeditors says, looking up from her corner desk. “Here to pick up the Slate piece? It’s fantastic.”

A smile breaks across my face, and I almost manage to relax. “I wouldn’t know. Devin pulled it from the cloud and edited it without letting me proof it. But it’s decent?”

The copyeditor scowls, “That guy is such a tool. You know when you started, he was telling all the guys here how he wanted to hook up with you? He had this weird fantasy of you two being some kind of newspaper power couple. It’s gross.”

I make a face, more surprised than I should be. “He’s always been so awful to me.”

The copyeditor is printing the article as we speak, the scent of toner becoming overwhelming in the room. “I think that’s his thing,” she tells me. “He once told my friend that she was an eight, but she’d be a ten if she’d let him pick out her clothing.” She rolls her eyes, then hands the paper over to me. “But anyway, it’s a really great article. Super gripping. I can’t believe you were willing to be alone with Carson Slate, knowing what his dad did…they sound way too alike for comfort. I love that you totally stuck it to him, though.”

My heart sinks; it truly feels like it’s somewhere around my stomach, wedged between my kidneys.

My world is starting to crumble around me, everything is turning hazy and dark.

I mumble a goodbye to the copyeditor and hurry to the building’s stairwell, the only place I can think of where I can be alone to read the article. I toss my purse onto the concrete landing and drop to the top step, knees pulled up, to read. The headline isn’t promising: Carson Slate: The Quarterback’s Cover-up. As described, my name comes first on the list of authors— by Astrid Tyler, with Devin Gussup.

My fingers shake as I read the piece so unlike my own, it’s practically unfamiliar. Gone is the connection to other students dealing with their parents’ influence. Gone is the fact that Carson himself feels guilty over the alibi being incorrect, the fact that he genuinely wasn’t sure what the truth was. Gone is him being a great ballplayer who wants to share credit rather than be the team’s hero. The article casts Carson as a jock who is used to getting what he wants, and willingly lead the police to believe an alibi he knew was false. It doesn’t quite say that Carson was covering up a crime for his father— that’d be libel— but the insinuation is there.

Worse? This section: I went undercover as a sports reporter at the Bowen vs. U. Laketon game. Slate’s reputation for being something of a womanizer proved true; despite refusing interviews for the better part of a year, he spoke with me that day, and again that evening. Over the following five weeks, Slate offered up information on himself, his brother, and his fathers— in-between commenting on the shortness of my skirts or asking about the size of my breasts. It was clear to me that Slate didn’t consider me a “real” reporter, but rather, one of the many self-professed “Sluts For Slate”— and it’s hard not to wonder if this dismissive, possessive attitude toward women isn’t learned from his father.

I feel like I might throw up. This isn’t right, it isn’t true, and now it has my name on it, and it’s going to press—

I force a few breaths, though they do little to calm me. Think, Astrid, think. The story can’t be stopped, clearly, but that doesn’t mean I can’t mitigate the damage somehow. First, though, I’ve got to get to Carson and show him what’s going to press. In fact—

Yes. That’s the plan. I didn’t want people to know Carson and I were together before, since it would delegitimize the story. But now that I want the story delegitimized, Carson and I need to be obnoxiously public. Stupidly public. Gross, get-a-room public— so everyone will believe us when we say that Devin reworked my original story to sell papers, and that I didn’t really okay it.

I text Carson hurriedly.

Astrid: We need to talk ASAP. About the paper and the story.

He hits me back quickly.

Carson: I’m about to go into a team meeting that’ll be a few hours, after?

Astrid: Okay, but right after please.

Then I do the only thing I can do.

Wait.

15

I don’t really know how long team meeting typically last, but four hours later I still haven’t heard from Carson. I text him to ask if he’s still there, and it shows that it’s been read, but he doesn’t respond— he must still be there. I can’t sit still any longer, though, and my suite mates will be home soon; I know if they see me like this, I’ll need to explain what’s going on, and I really, really feel like Carson should be the first to hear it. So, I grab my purse and head over toward the stadium. I have no idea if this is where team meetings are even held, but I’m pretty sure he’s mentioned there being rooms for that exact purpose here.

“Can I help you, miss?” a security guard asks as I approach the locked gate.

“Hi there! I’m with the Bowen Blaze,” I say quickly, and produce the press pass from that first game— it’s been tucked in my purse ever since. “I’m supposed to meet Carson Slate here after his meeting?”

“Sorry, miss. Passes are only for game days,” the guard says, shaking his head.

“Really? He’s expecting me. We’re friends,” I say, and even wave my phone a little, as if the poor guy will somehow understand via the gesture that Carson actually does know me.

“Lots of “friends” come by for Carson Slate,” the guy says, shaking his head. “We can’t let anyone in, but especially girls who say they’re his friends.”

“But I actually am— never mind,” I say with a sigh. I turn, but rather than going back to my car, cut around the side of the stadium. I know from when I’ve left the locker room before that there’s a side entrance…

I’m totally acting like a stalker. No wonder the security guard wouldn’t let me in.

By now the sun is starting to go down, the days growing shorter alongside the football season. The temperature drops sharply once the stadium casts me into shadow, and I begrudgingly return to my car to stay warm. It isn’t until I see the security guard flick off the light in his booth that I suspect Carson isn’t here anymore— or might have never even been here to start with. Maybe they held the meeting somewhere else?

Astrid: Still in the meeting?

Again, it shows up as read almost immediately— and again, there’s no response. I swallow nervously, start up my car, and ease out of the stadium lot, headed back toward my apartment. When my phone chimes, I nearly run off the road lunging for it. It’s not Carson, though— it’s Arianna, my suite mate.

Ari: r u home

Astrid: no, on my way though

I have to text that at a red light, so it’s another few moments before I can see what she’s typed back.

Ari: theres the brewery tasting thing at reign happening and carson is here, did u know

I stare for so long that I miss the light turning green; someone honks to wake me up. I drive downtown and pay to valet outside of Reign, feeling numb and unsure about what I’m walking into. Did Carson lie about the meeting? Or did something happen? Or…

“Miss, this is a formal event,” the bouncer says, frowning at my yoga pants and t-shirt. I didn’t notice that I was underdressed until he mentioned it, but yes— the crowd is sipping tiny beers in waning sunset light, wearing cocktail dresses and dress shirts.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Honestly, I’m not staying. Can I just get a ticket? I have some friends in there.”

The bouncer looks hesitant, but then shrugs and lets me in. I bustle around dresses and lipstick smiles and cologne until my eyes find Arianna across the room, with that guy Luca once again. She looks relieved to see me, then shakes her head, eyes wide, and pointed with her drink to a spot at the bar.

There he is.

Carson is in the middle of a pack of guys, louder and larger and brighter than I’ve ever seen him. There’s nothing steely or serious about him, right now— he looks jovial, carefree, the quintessential party boy. It’s not a great look on him, to be honest, and not one I’ve seen before. I take a few steps toward him, unsure of myself, uncertain if this is the guy I know or…

Carson’s eyes fall on me, and there— a flash in them, a familiarity.

“Carson?” I ask, unsure what I’ll say next. Unsure what I’ll do next— unsure of everything. How did the world get shaken so hard in the last twenty-four hours?

Carson swallows, and there’s no apology or stumbling to find an excuse— there’s just cool, stony anger. “Bowen Blaze,” he says.

My eyebrows lift, hurt flooding me. “Can we talk?”

“Is it on the record?” he asks. The crowd around him had been pretending to chatter while listening in— no different than the newsroom people. With this, though, they laugh, clap him on the shoulder supportively, give me dark looks.

“We really need to talk,” I say again, quieter this time, more desperate.

Carson takes a long drink of his beer, waves off the brewery employee who tried to offer him another sample, then walks toward the door. I follow; once outside we snake to the right of the bouncer, along the narrow, fenced-in patio that takes up just enough sidewalk space to allow for a few people to stand comfortably. Carson stops short and spins around so fast that I crash into his chest, which causes the scent of him to overpower me; with it comes a flood of pleasant memories that seem more like dreams, at the moment.

“The paper sent over a copy of your article,” he says flatly. “One of the coaches showed it to me this afternoon. So I couldn’t answer your texts because I had to call the lawyer, my family, and the team publicist to let them know the sort of shit that was about to hit the fan,” he says.

His eyes regard me with coldness and mistrust.

I shake my head and reach for his hand; he pulls it away. “Carson, no,” I say, shaking my head, tears forming in my eyes. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I didn’t really write it. It’s Devin— he was the one that put it together. He used these scraps from my story, which was originally what I promised you it’d be—“

“Your name is on it, Astrid. You might have pulled one over on me before, pretending to be a clueless reporter in the locker room, but you’re not doing it again.”

“I wasn’t undercover! I mean, I was, but I didn’t know— Devin used me. He sent me there on purpose, but I didn’t know. I really thought I was just filling in.”

“The fine arts reporter? Filling in for a seasoned sports writer?” Carson asks, rolling his eyes.

“It sounds stupid now, I know, but at the time— look, you can’t just turn down assignments!” I plead. “Carson, please. Please, please, please, listen to me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t mean to do any of this.”

Carson coughs and looks away, like he can’t bear to even meet my eyes. “Astrid, I have no idea whether you wanted this or not— but you damn sure did it.”

“Let me show you my article. The one I wanted to run—“

I don’t get a chance to finish, because Carson turns around, slings his hands into his pockets, and walks away.

He doesn’t need to actually say it out loud— it’s crystal clear.

We’re over.

16

Things really shouldn’t be able to get any worse, but they do.

First, I quit the paper, because fuck Devin and fuck everything he touches because he is the worst human ever and if I somehow become a scientist and discover a new kind of sexually transmitted disease, I’m naming it after him.

Of course, Devin’s version of the story runs, and while Carson is definitely made the villain in plenty of people’s eyes, there are just as many who— thanks to the team publicity department— think I betrayed his trust, essentially catfished him, and slept with him for the story. People have shouted Sluts For Slate! at me across campus more times than I can count.

Carson still won’t talk to me, no matter how many apologetic, pleading, desperate texts and emails I send him.

And finally, the cherry on top of it all…my parents find out about everything.

Thankfully, Jess and Arianna have been running interference for the last twenty-four hours, so they’re the ones who get to my cell phone first and see the caller ID.

“Whoa— nope, nope, nope. Don’t touch that one,” Jess says, silencing my phone and turning the television back up.

We’re been watching a lot of reality TV, because Arianna says there’s no better cure for a breakup than marathoning The Bachelorette (“You get to watch her break up with thirty guys. It’s like revenge porn for breakups”).

“Wait, who was it?” I ask.

Jess throws popcorn at me playfully. “Your mom. I assume that’s a hard pass?”

I bite my lip. “They texted earlier. They saw the story.”

“And I assume they’re not happy?” Arianna says, cringing.

“I have no idea, actually. It’s sort of a law story. Kind of. Maybe they think it’s a step toward law school,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I should call them back. If you think they won’t come down here in person to talk to me, you’re really underestimating them.”

“Okay, but I’m pausing this. Don’t think you can get out of the last group date episode you’ve got another thing coming,” Arianna says, and gets up to pour herself another glass of box wine (which she also says is the best cure for a breakup) (and I think she might actually be right about this one).

In my bedroom, I steel myself for the many directions this conversation could go, pretty much none of them good, and call my mother back. She answers the phone, and an instant later I can tell I’ve been put on speaker.

“Can you hear us?” my mother asks. “Your father is here.”

“Can she hear me?” my dad yells.

“That’s what I just asked!” my mother screams back.

I sigh. “I can hear you both.”

“Well, good. Astrid, we read the article you wrote about Carson Slate. We need to discuss this,” my father says stiffly. “I don’t like that you used yourself as…as…as bait to get a story on that boy.”

“That’s not really how it went,” I mumble. I pull up the story— the version they read— so I can better anticipate their concerns. While I’ve read my own version of the story a half dozen times, I haven’t read this one again since sitting in the stairwell. It’s too difficult, too painful to read something so heartless and cruel. When I read my version of the story, it hurts in a different way, a melancholy sort of way— it reminds me of what I had with Carson, for a while there. Of the person I know he really is.

“Honey? Are you still there?” my mother asks.

I blink back tears for the millionth time. “Yes, yes, sorry— I got distracted.” I focus my eyes on the Bowen Blaze webpage I have pulled up, where the story’s headline takes up most of the landing page.

“Oh, good, I was afraid we were disconnected. Anyhow, Astrid, it’s nice to see that you’re getting into criminal investigations with the newspaper. I think this will look great on your law school applications. Did you get the brochures we sent?” my mother asks. There’s no malice in her voice, no acknowledgment that I didn’t want the damn brochures, even though she knows that’s the case; my mother is all practicality, all the time.

“I did,” I say.

“It’s certainly the most interesting article you’ve written. I hear it’s being syndicated nationally! Pity you don’t get paid. Or do you? How does that work?” my dad muses.

“Never mind that,” my mother says, and I can hear her slapping him lightly in the chest. “I want to know more about this Carson Slate boy. Now, Astrid— he comes from a powerful family. You let us know if they threaten you in any way. We spoke to your father’s lawyer, and she says the school is responsible for keeping you safe from him—“

“I don’t think you need to worry about that, Mom.”

“I absolutely do! I hear horror stories all the time of jilted men wreaking havoc on women’ lives!”

“It’s not like that, Mom. It’s an article I wrote, but it doesn’t really tell the whole story of Carson Slate. Just the version of the story my editor wanted it to tell.”

“Is Devin your editor? What’s he like? Devin is a nice, strong name,” my mother says thoughtfully.

“Mom. Focus.”

“That’s right, honey, focus,” my father says to my mother. “Astrid, we are just so impressed. Writing for the school paper didn’t seem like a very wise use for your time, but this is really quite an impressive piece. I think it will look great to law schools, and honestly, if you were to want to seriously pursue investigative journalism…well, perhaps that’s a discussion we could have.”

I blink. Is this actually my father on the phone? My father, who for some reason seems to equate being a writer with being a circus artist or prostitute?

“That’s true. We’re proud of you, darling,” my mother says.

“Wow,” I say, or perhaps just breathe— it’s hard to tell. Have they said that, once, since I told them I wanted to be a writer? Since I told them I didn’t want to be a lawyer?

I look down at my computer screen, at the bastardized version of my story. Carson Slate the monster, Devin the snappy investigator working out the alibi, and me, the trap who used her body to lure Carson Slate into spilling his secrets. There’s nothing about the feeling of being chained to one’s parents, about try to escape without cutting ties entirely, about the way Carson feels about his dad and how it’s not entirely unlike the way I feel about my parents, the way everyone feels about their parents, as best as I can tell. That is the better story— and a story that I could have been proud of, even if perhaps my parents wouldn’t have been.

“The story isn’t what you think,” I say, sighing into the phone. “Devin, my editor— he took the story I wrote and he turned it into this giant murder mystery scandal. The truth is, I know Carson Slate. I know him well, at this point. He’s a good person, and he was put in a horrible position around being an alibi for his father. Carson didn’t really know for sure if they had dinner together that night, but he wanted to trust his parent. I understand that.”

“I don’t…think I understand,” my father says slowly, and I can perfectly picture the way his brows are furrowed into a single line.

“I don’t think newspaper reporting is for me,” I reply. “I don’t like boiling people down into facts and headlines. I want more humanity to it. I want to tell a whole story, not a summary of someone’s worst moments.”

“Well, okay, honey,” my mother says, sounding a little worried. “Do you want to switch over to pre-law?”

I smile to myself. “No. I think I’m going to switch to creative writing. I quit the paper, by the way. Devin’s the worst person on earth, and that is his whole story.”

There’s silence for a few moments, then an eruption of voices as my parents begin to talk over one another— creative writing doesn’t even allow you to teach after college, and, that’s not a job, it’s a hobby, and, if you think we’re paying for you to go to school and write fairytales, you’ve got another thing coming, and…

And plenty else. I put the phone down and pull up my version of Carson’s article, reading through it. I understand why, even if Devin wasn’t a dick, it couldn’t have been published in the newspaper.

This isn’t a news article: It’s a love story.

17

My parents get over it.

Well, sort of. Not really.

They get over it to the tune that they’ll pay my living expenses, since they’d “have to pay those anywhere”, but they totally refuse to pay for tuition if I’m not moving toward a “serviceable career”. Which is fine with me— I’ve got decent scholarships and can apply for a few more, if need be. Besides, now that I’m not working at the Blaze, I can pick up a part time job or something next semester.

It’s been three weeks since the article went live and my relationship with Carson went very, very dead. Even though I can tell I’m moving on with life, it has a surreal, false feeling, like being on those moving sidewalks at the airport. Things are going by, but you look down and see you’re moving at a fraction of the world’s pace. I can’t help but wonder how it feels for Carson. He didn’t just find out his alibi for his dad was fake— the entire world found out it was fake.

I wonder if he talked with his father, with his brothers, his mother— do they understand? Do they forgive him? Or do they blame the investigation that lead to the alibi being blown on me?

Despite the fact that my suitemates advise a total Carson detox, I sneak to watch the second to last game of the regular football season on television while they do the same at one of the sports bars in town.

It’s weird, watching a game from home after attending them live; being able to mute the crowd only contributes to that surreal sense. But I curl up with a blanket and all the junk food I can scrounge together from the pantry, and watch. I remember what Desi told me about the way Carson played at the last game— that he was better than ever before, because he was happy. I wonder— and I bet his teammates are wondering— how he’ll play now, since I know he’s got to be anything but.

The answer? Poorly. Very, very poorly, in fact.

Carson usually looks like a general commanding his troops— a great general when he’s happy, and a middling general the rest of the time. At today’s game, though, he looks like an overzealous dictator, shouting commands, missing signals, passing before his teammates can guarantee a catch. He’s a mess, and the announcers can’t get enough of it— they have pity in their voices, but they still zoom in and replay each and every one of his failures. The coaches are in deep discussion through their time outs, and there’s even talk of them pulling him from the game entirely.

That’s the last thing he needs. Come on, Carson. Pull through this, I think hard at the television. I know scouts are watching, I know the everything’s more important now, toward the end of the season. Even people who think he’s a villain have to know that his mind is in a million different places, but that this isn’t his usual game— right?

I curse at the television when another pass is ruled incomplete. Did I manage to not only derail Carson’s family life, but his entire future career as well? The coaches argue with the referees for a few moments, and the camera zooms in close to Carson. He’s talking with another player, and it’s clear that the other guy is trying to calm him down. Carson has removed his helmet, and his face is harsh, all straight lines and dark eyes. He doesn’t appear to be hearing a thing the other player is saying, nor does he appear to feel the sweat dripping from his hair onto his cheeks. It looks like his mind is somewhere else entirely.

In that moment, my heart breaks.

I miss him so much. If only he would have spoken to me, let me back in…

The announcers stop talking for a moment, waiting to hear the outcome of the conversation between the referee and the coaches. To fill the time, the cameraman zooms in on the marching band, then the crowd, finally focusing on a few people in particular. I can’t sort out why at first, but realize what’s going on at the same moment the announcers do— Carson wasn’t zoned out, he was staring at a group of students from the opposing school who are hanging over the side of the bleachers. They’ve unfurled a sheet on which they’ve painted, “Slate For Prison 2020”. They’re jeering at Carson, though I can’t make out their words— still, it’s clear from their faces that they’re not shouting compliments his way.

The announcers discuss this for a moment, calling it unsportsmanlike, wondering if someone will make them stop, if anyone has the authority, and the camera alternates between a tight shot of Carson’s face and the jeering fans. I hear the announcers mention the article, citing my name and Devin’s name, and even through the television I can feel tension in the air, that frightening sense of stillness before two dogs lunge at one another.

Carson moves; the crowd erupts in cheers or boos as he shoves past his teammates on the sidelines. The guy he’d been talking to on the field— Desi’s boyfriend, I think— tries to stop him, as do a few other teammates when they realize what’s about to happen. Coaches are running in from the sides, shouting, but Carson is already at the bleachers. Thank god the people themselves are too high for him to reach— but their sign isn’t. He grabs the sheet and yanks it down so sharply that one of the students nearly tumbles over the side rail. Thankfully, they remain safe; the sign flutters to the ground just as most of Carson’s teammates reach him and pull him back, but the damage is done.

The announcers are going nuts, pity in their voices— understanding why the sign got to him, but unforgiving about him acting from his emotions. The crowd is going crazy, and the conversation between the referees and coaches, which was previously about that incomplete pass, changes tone. In a matter of seconds, the pass is ruled incomplete, and Carson is cited for unsportsmanlike conduct. Bowen loses fifteen yards, but worse, the coaches opt to pull Carson from the game— the first time it’s happened all season. I close my eyes— I’m not sure I can watch this any longer. I fumble for the remote and, eyes still shut, find the mute button.

I understand why they pulled him from the game— it’s not the coaches’ fault. In fact, it’s what reasonable-headed-Carson would have wanted— for the team to succeed rather than for the focus to be on him. But this is all my doing, even if it wasn’t on purpose. The fact that I didn’t mean for it to go down this way doesn’t make it any easier— in fact, if I’d plotted to take Carson down like the article suggested it’d probably be easier, since it’d mean I was against him from the beginning. Devin’s probably fist pumping in his living room right now, in fact.

I wish so badly that Carson was here with me. I wish his arms were around me, I wish my chin was tilted up toward him. I wish I could tell him to power through and finish the job— that he is his father’s son, but not his father. That I know the fake alibi was an accident, in the same way the article was an accident. That I know he’s good, and that I want him, and that no stupid college newspaper editor will ever change that.

* * *

The internet lights up that evening with information on Carson. Because of my past research on him, it feels like every ad I see has something to do with football, or Bowen, or the Slate family— I can’t escape it.

So I open up a new file on my laptop and begin to type out what really happened between me and Carson. I don’t really know where I’m headed with it; I guess it just feels like I might be able to take all the pain and frustration out of my head and let it live on the computer for a while. When I’ve written a dozen or so pages— the story of that disastrous first meeting in the locker room— I sit back, consider it, and then send it to Carson without any explanation.

I don’t know why, honestly. It just feels like I should— the story is half his, after all, and I feel like he ought to see anything I write about him from now on, even if it’s just going to live on my computer.

For the next few weeks, I do this nearly every night, until it becomes almost a ritual. Come home from class, dinner and marathon reality show watching with Arianna and Jess (those shows really are addicting), then to my room, to the quiet, to the memories of being with him. It’s bittersweet, writing about our relationship, remembering what once was— but it’s also a reminder that it happened. Despite it all, I know I’m a better person for it. I’d never have stood up to my parents, if things hadn’t happened the way they did. I’d never have realized what a creep Devin was, and probably dedicated way too long to journalism before realizing that my heart wasn’t in it. I’d never have lost my virginity, which sounds like a silly thing to mark up in the “better person” category, but it is— being wanted, being desired, being willing to bare myself to someone and trust completely was powerful. Was good, and not just in a sexual way.

I send it all to Carson, periodically, even though he never replies, but the act of zipping the email off to him is as ritualistic as the storytelling itself. It’s not until I finish writing the final stage of our story— the article, the meeting with Devin, the breakup at Reign— that I realize this email I send to Carson will be the last one that goes his way. Will likely be my last communication with him ever, in fact— if you can call a one-sided email chain “communication.”

I read back through what I’ve written, attach the file to my email, and stare at the screen for a minute.

So, this is it, Carson, I think, looking at his email address and trying to picture his eyes. I’m sorry about everything. I hope someday you believe me that I didn’t really write that article. That I didn’t know I was a plant— but that I’m glad I was, in some ways, because otherwise we wouldn’t have met. That I know you’re a good person, and I hope you’re able to get through your father’s case no matter how it turns out.

I consider typing all that up, but instead I just write “this is the last one” in the subject line, and send it off.

* * *

Two days later, I’m walking to one of my last classes of the semester through the strangely sharp cold that has taken over campus. It’s the sort of weather that leaves you endlessly sniffling as you duck between overheated buildings and dry winter air. I hug my scarf around my neck and keep my head down, breathing into the material at my collar to warm my cheeks. Students mill past, everyone as eager to get into their warm classrooms as I am.

Thankfully, the buzz over the article has died down enough that the other students don’t part around me like I’m some sort of leper anymore.

The MassComm building is just ahead; soon, all my classes will be on the other side of campus, in the English and comparative lit building, which is older, mustier, and a thousand times cooler. Someone falls into step just behind me, and I slide over to the side of the sidewalk to let them pass. They don’t, though; they speed up only enough to start walking just beside me, closing in way too tightly on my personal space. I don’t want to stare, but they keep up the pace long enough that I glance up to get a look at the person with no sense of boundary.

It’s Carson.

I feel the breath empty out of my lungs in a whoosh.

I stop short on the sidewalk— so short that the person behind me knocks into me, and I pitch forward. Carson is fast; his hands jump out and he steadies me before I tumble to the ground. Confused and shaken by his presence and nearly busting my face, I wobbly step off the sidewalk and into the grass to avoid blocking more foot traffic. Carson is smiling, though the smile is small and a little sad.

“Hey,” he greets me, pulling his hands back now that I’ve caught my balance.

“Hi,” I say, sniffing, staring up at him through cold-watery eyes. “I—uh…hi.” Has he always been this beautiful? Of course. Though remembering the flawlessly carved cheekbones and seeing them again in person, at such a close distance, are two very different things. I remember how his jawbone felt against my neck, against my chest—

“I’ve been reading your emails,” he says calmly. “I thought we should talk about them.”

My eyes widen. I was so sure he’d been deleting them. Class change is almost over; the sidewalks are now just a smattering of late students jogging the last few yards to their buildings. “Okay,” I say, swallowing. I can’t read his expression— is he irritated by them? Happy? Angry? I have no idea, and it’s killing me.

“I owe you an apology,” Carson says, sincerity in every word. “I’m not— what happened was a disaster for me. On and off the field. But…I blamed you. And it wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m so sorry—“

“Hang on,” Carson says gently. “I’m almost done. I was stressed out and angry, and instead of taking the time to listen to you and think rationally about it all, I shut down and shut you out. That only made things worse, because if anyone could have helped me get through everything, it was you. So then I was angry because I didn’t have you, and…well. It was a mess.”

My eyes are watering more, now, but it’s not from the cold— hot tears are welling in them, and when they fall they leave raw streaks down my cold cheeks. Carson hesitates, then reaches forward and brushes a few of them away. My eyes drift shut; his hand is warm and smells of him, and before I can stop it I lean my cheek into his palm. When he strokes my skin with his thumb, I shudder in relief and happiness and from the knot in my stomach— the knot that’s been there since the article ran— finally unties.

“Astrid…I want you back. If you’ll forgive me for being such a dick to you,” he says, voice low.

“Do you forgive me for the article?” I ask meekly, opening my eyes and looking up at him. His are glittering and dark and perfect.

“There’s nothing to forgive. It wasn’t your fault. And as bad as the article was, I’m glad that I know the truth about the alibi now. To get through this, though, I need you, Astrid.”

I’m ugly-crying now, and the few people still on main campus are staring, but whatever. I nod frantically at Carson, wiping my eyes with gloved hands, trying to breathe through the thickness in my throat.

“So…is that a yes? We can be together again?” Carson asks, leaning down, trying to read my answer in my eyes.

“Yes,” I manage. “Yes, please. And not as a secret, okay? I want to be with you publicly. I want everyone to know about us.”

Carson grins, and then sweeps me up against him so effortlessly that it’s like I’m weightless. I reach up and link my hands around his neck, and he draws his face down close to mine, his warmth lighting me up. “Absolutely,” he whispers against my lips, and then kisses me, deeply and sweetly and perfectly.

“You’re packing an awful lot of clothes, given how rarely I’m going to let you wear them,” Carson says, watching me organize my suitcase. I make a face at him and keep going, checking off the list I’ve made. We’re going to Mexico, along with to Carson’s brother Sebastian— his recent signing deal means he has plenty of money to not only fly us and down, but put us up in a ritzy resort alongside him and his girlfriend. The timing is intentional; their father’s trial is starting in a week, and I’m guessing Sebastian is just as eager to take a break before the chaos begins as Carson is.

“Have you even packed anything at all?” I ask him pointedly.

“Condoms,” he teases, lifting his eyebrows.

I fold my arms. “That’s a shame, because I was hoping to have sex one more time before we left.”

Carson gives me a wry smile. Then rises from where he’s sitting in my desk chair— he looks ridiculous when he sits there, like a giant sitting on doll furniture. He picks me up in a sweeping motion and pulls my mouth to his, kissing me softly but firmly. “Conveniently, I’ve been badly wanting to fuck you without a condom anyway.”

I smile against his mouth, at the feeling of his cock hardening against me. “More conveniently, I started taking birth control, because I’ve been badly wanting that too.” Carson groans against me, and almost immediately lowers me to the ground, moving quickly to take my clothes off. I shy away, laughing. “Mexico. Save it for Mexico,” I say.

He growls. “That’s an awfully big ask.”

“We leave in two hours. And besides, that gives us both something to look forward to,” I say, biting my lip hungrily at the thought. Carson scowls at me, and I know he’ll spank me later for this— and that I’ll love it.

I make my way through the rest of my “to do before Mexico” list, checking things off as I move down. Message my parents— done. They’re still not thrilled that this is my last semester as a journalism major, but now they’ve come around to splitting my tuition costs with me, so that’s something. Besides, they met Carson when they came to town a few weeks ago, and despite the bad first impression that article left them with, they adore him. How could they not?

“What’s next?” Carson asks, looking over my shoulder at the list.

“It’s the Devin one,” I say, frowning. This is the item that’s sat on my To Do list for days, now— an email from the Bowen Blaze advisory council with the subject “Devin Resignation”. I haven’t read it yet. I mean, it’s obvious that Devin has resigned from the paper based on the subject line, presumably because he’s taking a job at one of the many papers that syndicated his story on Carson…but I just don’t think I want to read a bunch of professors talking about what a great asset he was, how they wish him luck, blah blah blah…

But I know I should read it, given all that happened between me and Devin and Carson. I give Carson a heavy look, zip my suitcase shut, then sit down on the bed and open the email. My eyes widen.

“What?” Carson asks, concerned.

“It’s not— holy shit,” I say, stunned. “He didn’t resign to pursue a job. It says that they asked for his resignation due to inappropriately advising younger reporters, sexual harassment, and misuse of funds!”

“Misuse of funds? What’d he do? Buy beer with paper money?” Carson asks, frowning.

“I have no idea, but this is the best thing I’ve ever read!” I say, leaping to my feet and jumping toward Carson. He looks alarmed, but catches me in his arms anyway, kissing my forehead swiftly.

“Okay, okay— is there anything else?” Carson asks as I settle. When I shake my head, he grabs my suitcase like it weighs nothing and hauls it out the door. I hug my suitemates goodbye and jog down to Carson’s car. We’re headed to his place first, then from there to the airport.

We have to take a roundabout way to get to his apartment— when the football season ended, he was offered a spot in the draft, but turned it down, citing the fact that he wanted to take another year to grow as a player. Ever since, the media has been in a frenzy outside his apartment’s main gates, meaning we’ve always got to slip in through the side, through an entrance that’s technically for the maintenance crew. It’s overgrown with bushes, and despite the season, a warm snap has confused the sweet olives into releasing a few blooms. When Carson rolls down his window to swipe his access key, he frowns, and goes still.

“What is it?” I ask when a few moments pass and he hasn’t moved, save to pull his face into an ever more pensive expression.

He sits there, frozen.

“Are you okay?” I say shrilly, wondering if he’s having some sort of medical emergency.

“Fuck,” Carson says, shaking his head. He suddenly throws the car into park and grabs for his cell phone. I watch as he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Mom? I just remembered where I was that night— where I really was. And I think that Dad might be guilty.”