The next morning, I check my email, and see I’ve got one from Dr. Reams. I’ve been dreading this— I knew he’d have some sort of comment on the whole tutoring-client-got-arrested-during-a-tutoring-session thing. I open it and read.

Miss Sullivan,

As is most of the city, I’m aware of what occurred during your tutoring session with Finn Thorne yesterday. In the future, please keep in mind that a diner is not an appropriate place for a tutoring session, particularly with a VIP.

And the fact that your student was arrested during this tutoring session is unprecedented. I expect more from you, a great deal more, to be frank.

Given your position in the math department and your mother’s position at the university, you need to be extra careful moving forward. We’re all depending on you: the department, the team, and the school itself.

As you know, I accept only the best and brightest students into my summer program, and I would like nothing more than to see you among them. Seeing this Finn project through to a successful completion would go a long way towards proving to me that you are ready for the next step.

Don’t let us down.

Sincerely,

Dr. J. Reams

Some people call Dr. Reams a douchebag.

Some people are right. Despite being fully aware and acquainted with his douchebaggery, I have to admit that he’s struck a nerve. The summer program is a big deal— a floating internship with several insurance companies; basically, a job as a high-paying actuary right after graduation is guaranteed to people who get into his program. I’ve been gunning for a spot since sophomore year, but with only three available each summer, it hasn’t been easy, especially since Dr. Reams shamelessly plays favorites.

I type a response back as quickly as possible, in as few words as possible— you never want to give Dr. Reams any excuse to read between the lines.

Yes, the whole thing yesterday was unfortunate. Yes, I understand it’s serious. No, I won’t screw up and fail the school and team and leave the country on the brink of civil war.

I’m going to just tutor Finn Thorne in math, and he’ll pass his class, and that will be that.

As I go through the rest of my day, in fact, I’m psyching myself up for my next conversation with Finn, telling myself how professional I’m going to be with him from now on.

This is my future, my life, and I can’t let some cocky football player interfere with my performance.

The next time we speak, I’ll set the tone.

No more jokes, no more late night talks by the fountain, no more getting weak in the knees when he looks into my eyes.

Just tutoring.

Just doing my job….

But every time I get a text or a call, I find my heart starting to race, and then the sag of disappointment when it’s inevitably not Finn Thorne contacting me.

The next day, it’s more of the same.

And the next.

Before I know it, I’ve started to contemplate calling him instead. I have his phone number, and it’s my job to tutor the guy. He needs me…he needs my help. Not to mention my own reputation is on the line.

And I find myself getting resentful and hurt that he’s not calling, that he’s perhaps forgotten about me so quickly.

Could he have requested someone else?

Whatever. If he doesn’t care about his grades, then why should I?

That’s what I tell myself.

And I almost believe it.

* * *

Finn still hasn’t called me when my sister invites me to go with her to Football House, a slightly-off-campus alumni house.

Football House, unlike the Ansley Park place, isn’t anyone’s second or third home. It’s purely a fun house for the football team. I’ve been there once or twice before, always playing the role of sober sister to friends who want to get frisky with players.

Even though house parties aren’t usually my thing, I have to admit, going to Football House is still pretty amazing. It’s an event, basically— an event you have to be invited to, since there’s always some overzealous freshman checking names at the gate. Mandy is always on it— being class president and social committee chair our sophomore year means she more or less knows everyone.

“Bradley’s never been to one of these before. I can’t decide if he’s going to love it or hate it,” Mandy says nervously as we walk up. We’re both in heels, mini-dresses, and makeup that would give our Women’s-Studies-minor-mother a heart attack. I’m not saying that I dressed up (and used my gift certificate for a blow out at Drybar) because of the fact that I might run into Finn, but I’m not saying I didn’t, either.

I don’t know why I care— the guy saw me wearing cat pants, after all. Some part of me wants to sort of…convince him that I’m not all cat pants and calculus? Not that it matters to someone like Finn Thorne. Not that anything matters to him. If it did, he would have called me to set up his tutoring session.

“Mm,” I answer, nodding. I have to at least pretend I care about this issue.

“If he hates it, we might take off. So just keep that in mind, okay? Don’t drink so much you can’t get home on your own.”

“Mm-hmm,” I answer again.

Football House is an enormous, 1900’s-era home on a hill. There’s a large stone gate surrounding it; behind that, the house has a massive wrap-around deck and honest-to-god turrets with windows that pour gold light out onto the manicured gardens.

The team is celebrating a win tonight, which means an effigy of a bobcat— the opposing team’s mascot— is currently being beat up in the front garden by already-drunk bros.

We make our way inside, arms linked, and grab drinks at the bar— the open bar, with a bartender and everything. Mandy spots her boyfriend Bradley and we migrate toward him.

He, a handful of other rowers in their ever-present crew jackets, and a few tennis players are gathered in the memorabilia room, a designer-decorated space with huge televisions and dozens of framed photographs of Harton football greats.

“Hey! I wondered when you’d get here. You look gorgeous,” Bradley tells my sister, kissing her cheeks.

He smiles, teeth bright white and flawlessly straight. He and the other rowers are every bit as muscled, chiseled, and hard as the football players milling around the room, yet they still look like athletes drawn by a different artist.

Where the football players are rowdy, these guys are enthusiastic. Where the football players are arrogant, the rowers are proud. The largest difference between them is that every one of these rowers will one day look at home in an expensive suit, whereas the football players will always look most at home in a jersey.

“Kenley! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Bradley says, hugging me. I hug him back— Bradley is nice, but he’s sort of phony in some way I can’t quite put my finger on.

Almost too nice.

I’ve never told Mandy that I find him to be kind of a bore -- he makes my sister happy though, so what do I know? They’ve been unofficially dating for a month now; when Bradley and Mandy stand side by side, they look like an advertisement for the Hamptons or Cape Cod.

“I’ve been trying to convince her to come out to watch you guys,” Mandy says, scolding me a bit.

“I don’t wake up at five o’clock for anyone,” I answer, shaking my head at the both of them.

Looking around the room at the other revelers, I slowly withdraw from their conversation, without them seeming to notice. I can’t help it—I want to see if Finn is here.

It’s become a bit of a nagging obsession now, and I tell myself that this is not a problem. Everything’s still completely under control. I’m not dealing with anything more problematic than a minor case of lust for an objectively hot guy that I just so happen to be tutoring.

Am I still tutoring him, though? It’s hard to tell.

After scouting around a bit, I haven’t yet seen Finn, and decide my chances will be better at the bar, where he’s bound to end up eventually.

I wind up sitting at the bar, making small talk with the bartender while I nurse a cranberry juice and watch as football players and their beautiful guests talk, order drinks, make loud and boisterous toasts.

It’s getting to the point where I’m considering just leaving. Obviously he’s not around and this whole thing was a total waste of time—

And then I see him. Finn is here after all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse and my heart is racing because it’s him, and I feel happy and excited and furious all at once.

I turn and look straight at him now.

He’s not far away, exactly, but there’s no way he’ll see me— he’s in the middle of a dozen beautiful girls. They’re all long legs and highlighted hair and gorgeous contouring highlighter on their already perfect cheekbones.

I look good tonight, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked that good. They’re fawning over him, smiling and laughing, and the glimpses I catch of Finn between their spin-class-toned bodies make it clear that he’s lapping up their affection.

My stomach sinks and I’m surprised at the feeling of rejection that courses through me.

You forgot who you were dealing with, Kenley.

Finn made you feel like you were special, but you weren’t. He was buttering up his dorky tutor, and nothing more. And then, of course, he forgot about you, because look at him!

He’s a golden god and he’s surrounded by women that look like they stepped out of a “Girls of Harton University” calendar.

I know I should leave now, but I can’t quite force myself to do it. Instead, I turn back to the bartender. “Can I have a beer?” I ask, ignoring the surprised look on his face at my sudden demand for alcohol.

“Sure,” he says doubtfully and slides me a beer. I sip at it, pretending to be having fun, as I keep glancing back at Finn over and over again.

The drink is gone before I know it, and I order another one.

The buzz helps a little, and I feel pleasantly numb and a lot less destroyed by watching Finn with his hands all over other girls’ hips, touching their lower backs, whispering in their ears and making them laugh.

Then I order another drink, and feel even better—even more numb—like I’m simply watching an interesting movie now.

Then I get yet another drink, because the last one went so quick.

Which is a really terrible idea, because I’m a lightweight. By the time I realize I’ve overdone it, the liquor has set in big-time.

I somehow end up on the couch, focusing on not looking drunk with every fiber of my being.

Where the hell is Mandy? I remember she told me that she and Bradley might leave, but I have no idea if they actually have. I text her, but there’s no response, and my message was a garbled mess anyway— damn drunk fingers.

There’s a golf player sitting next to me, short and wiry, talking about…something. Something related to golf. Pars? Or clubs? I have no idea.

“Hey, I need to…uh…go to the restroom,” I say, grimacing at how slurred my speech is.

“Ok, I’ll wait here,” the guy says, smiling broadly. “I’ll get you another drink while you’re gone.”

“I’m good, thanks,” I say, shaking my head.

“Hey, it’s early! Just one more— I don’t want to drink alone,” he says, the rises just as I do. I smile weakly, then hobble on shaky feet toward the bathroom.

Except I don’t really know where the bathroom is, so really, I’m just walking toward the back of the house. hoping to find some sort of sink or bathtub or cooler of ice I can use to splash water on my face and sober up enough to get home. Instead, I find the last person I want to see when I’m sloppy and feeling pathetic— Finn Thorne. Tucked away in a corner, a girl leaning toward him, everything about her hungry and predatory and eager. Finn is grinning— until he looks up and sees me.

“Kenley?” he asks, his voice loud in the hallway, which, compared to the main rooms of Football House, is silent as a church.

“Sorry, don’t let me interrupt,” I say, and try to smile apologetically, but I think I just glower at him. The girl casts me a dark look, one that grows darker still when he slips away from her and walks over to me.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, looking a little concerned. He stops a few feet in front of me, then stoops to put down the bottle of beer in his hand.

“As if you care,” I say, hating how difficult it is to sound as hurt as I truly am right now.

His brow creases. “I don’t get it.”

“You never called,” I say, my voice harsh.

He shrugs. “I got busy.”

“Whatever,” I tell him, my hand fluttering as I try to wave him off.

I tilt a little and, before I realize what’s happening, Finn is touching me. “Hey, hey…you’re going to fall if you’re not careful,” he tells me.

One hand on my shoulder, the other on the small of my back, palm so broad it covers the spot entirely. It feels like we’re dancing, and I find myself swaying a little.

Finn laughs quietly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m tipsy.”

“You’re drunk,” he corrects me. “Where are your people?”

“Mandy is my people, and she left with her people,” I say thickly.

I lift my hands into the space between us, then place them flat against his chest. I can feel the rise and fall of him breathing, and beneath that, the thump of his heart. I press my hands harder against him, let my fingertips grip the places where his muscles ripple, lead forward and place my forehead against him—

He feels good. He feels right.

It should have been us together all night, not me alone and him with his hands all over those fucking hot girls…

What the hell am I doing? I jolt and try to pull back, but my reflexes are too slow— I swing backward and, if it weren’t for Finn’s hands on me, I’m sure would have fallen on my ass.

He’s quick to react, though; his palms move from steadying me to embracing me, watching my weight easily and holding me against him until the world stops swimming.

“Sorry,” I mumble into his t-shirt, which smells glorious and spicy. I close my eyes.

“It’s no problem,” Finn says, voice lowering a little. I mean to open my eyes, to look up at him, to step away and act like an actual adult who can hold her liquor, but instead I just lean farther against him, until I hear the quiet, breathy sounds of laughter in his chest.

“Hey. Stop it. Don’t laugh at me,” I say, and try to push him away.

“I’m not!” Finn protests, and doesn’t release me— which means I don’t have a chance of escaping his arms. I look up at his eyes, so far above me that I find myself wondering how tall he is. Eight feet? Nine feet? Eleven feet? How tall are football players? How tall are you before you’re considered a giant? How tall is the tallest giant?

“Now I’m laughing at you a little,” Finn says, and I realize I’ve been looking at his eyes for a good minute, without speaking.

“Fine,” I mutter, pulling my eyes away. “I’m drunk. Where’s my phone? I need to call SafeRide. Oh— I think I left it with that golfer player.”

“How about you sit here, and I’ll go get your phone from whatever a golfer player is.”

“He’s on the couch. He’s bringing me another drink,” I explain crossly as Finn lowers me to the ground and leans my back up against the wall.

“Then he’s a real asshole,” Finn says. “Don’t go anywhere,” he repeats, and I nod, as I lean into the wall and watch him go.

He returns a few moments later with my purse and my shoes, which apparently I’m not currently wearing. “Ready?”

“Where are we going?” I mumble, reaching up. I mean to take his hands so he can help me stand, but instead he ducks his head into the space of my arms and lifts me up into his. I don’t know that I’ve ever been carried by a guy before, and am a little mad that I’m too tipsy to appreciate the experience.

“A tutoring session, obviously,” he jokes.

“Oh, good. I like tutoring you. Especially when I see your big cock,” I say, then realize I said the words out loud.

Now Finn laughs properly, loud and echoing down the hallway. I try to wither and die, but fail.

“Glad to hear you enjoyed it,” he says, voice lower and a little growling, but in a way that makes my chest tighten.

I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of being carried, and knowing I’m safe.