Eight Years Ago

Sadie is going to kill me. I swing the racquetball gear over my shoulder and pound my feet against the concrete in a rush to the Kernette Center. I needed to be there like five minutes ago. The court is reserved, but that doesn’t mean some asshole won’t sweep in and stake a claim. A confrontation over court time is not what I planned for today, but I won’t stand aside. Not when I’m in this mood. If there was ever a time I needed to pound out my frustrations, it’s now.

Upon reaching the center, I push the thick steel door open—the heaviness a stark reminder of this past year’s burdens I’ve shouldered. The ache in my chest deepens. My phone, buried deep in my bag, still burns from Mom’s conversation. Her intentions may be good, but her poor execution negates any positive she tries to accomplish.

The distance between us doesn’t help. I’m completely useless. Los Angeles to Vermont, my home state, isn’t a small feat. It’s not like I can drop everything and be there to help her. Twitching my nose doesn’t channel my inner Samantha. It only makes me look like I have allergies. I tried it once when I was ten and wanted my dad to appear. He was running late, a common occurrence, and was going to miss another recital. My dad missed my performance, and Mom made an appointment with the pediatrician. Several skin pricks later, it turns out I’m a mere mortal who watched too many reruns of Bewitched. But, hey, knowing I’m allergic to ragweed is a plus.

My once strong-as-a-rock mother isn’t handling things well—none of us are. My siblings, Drake and Anna, are left behind dealing with their own demons while Mom tries to deal.

Mom always gets this way about a month before my sister’s bloodwork. I can’t blame her—Anna has only been in remission for two years—but Mom’s not coping well. Pile on my brother’s antics and not even the warmth of Los Angeles weather can turn my sour mood around. I need to clear my head, and a hollow rubber ball will do the trick.

As I near Court B, the boing from a hard-hit racquetball reverberates off the walls and draws my attention to the glass partition. My nostrils flare at the guy squatting on my court time. I knew I should’ve cut the phone call short. The campus is too populated for there not to be a problem.

Before making a fool of myself, I fumble around my bag for my phone to check the confirmation email. Yep, Court B. I take a breath of encouragement as my body tenses for the impending argument and swing the door open.

Whoosh.

I immediately crouch, my heart skipping a beat before galloping as if it was in a race for his life. Jesus, that ball would’ve stung.

“Whoa, are you trying to get yourself killed?” a deep voice asks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Me?” My voice squeaks as my heart paces back to semi-normal. I may still be pissed about him infringing on my time, but the near hit to my face scared the fight from me. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

He stands there with a blank look, and it takes a second for me to collect my thoughts. Mr. Squatter is Mr. Perfect—at least in looks. I try not to let his dark hair, with droplets of sweat beading off the ends, or the hint of defined muscles peeking from the sleeveless Dri-fit shirt distract my mood. But it’s hard. Not only does the sleeve tattoo on his right arm look so darn sexy, but a sheen of sweat coats his skin and accentuates his coloring which glows the same golden oak stain of my bed’s wooden frame. My bed?

I double blink and shove those errant thoughts from my brain. I have one purpose for being here, and that’s to jump him. No! To get rid of him.

“This is my court time. I reserved it, so you can move along.” Jesus, could I sound any bitchier? I think my negotiation skills need work.

Mr. Perfect raises an eyebrow, and the way he stares at me sends warmth spreading from the back of my mouth down to my core. My body may want him to stay, but I won’t back down. I need this exercise, this therapeutic adrenaline shot.

He opens his mouth, but my phone buzzes and cuts him off.

SADIE: Running late. Be there in about thirty.

Great.

“My roommate’s running behind.” I lift my gaze from my phone and land on toned legs. He must have a religious workout routine because he’s in excellent shape. Add in his confident swagger, and the total package points to him being a senior. A competitive spark flares inside me and welcomes the challenge. “Game?”

“Sure I won’t be imposing? I don’t want to infringe on your court time.”

“I deserve that.” I press my lips together trying to suppress a smile. I fail. “Sorry, but I really need to play today.”

“I’m game if you think you can keep up.” His gaze roams along my body, and I can read his thoughts. They’re the same as everyone else’s who sizes me up.

“Don’t worry. I pack a mean punch despite my height.” I snap my goggles on and silently dare him to dispute me.

The cutest dimple appears, and I try not to get lost in those dark eyes. “All right, Cupcake. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Stepping to the service box, I wonder where the nickname comes from and ignore the fact it’s way cuter than the one I gave him. This isn’t the time for warm tingles to invade my stomach. Nope. Too much aggression swirls in my veins and seeks release.

Mr. Perfect positions himself behind the receiving line, and I glance back. “Sure you don’t want to serve first?”

His eyes dip lower. “Nah, the view’s just fine right here.”

Every feminist bone in my body stages a protest at the chauvinistic remark, but my muscular system warms to the idea of him liking what he sees. And damn, if I don’t flirt back.

“Just fine?”

Surprise coats his features before he breaks into a wide grin. “I was being polite. Your ass is more than fine. Great even. But I didn’t think it was appropriate to list every single position my dirty little mind has pictured it in.”

Holy crap.

My jaw opens slightly. And the battle raging inside? Score one for soft tissue because every muscle burns with heat as fire spreads through my veins. This guy is clearly out of my league.

As if he reads my mind, he chuckles. “Thought so.”

Not sure what he means by that, I let the comment go. “Let’s see if your skill can match that mouth of yours.”

I drop the ball and deliver a jam shot. Darting to the right, he makes quick use of his forehand stroke, and the game begins. As I zone my opponent out, I focus on my movements. Each delivered stroke eases the sting of not being there for Mom. Each returned ball, a therapeutic dose reduces my worry over Drake’s obvious outcry for attention. Each shot lessens my body’s need to scream for the injustice which is my sister’s life. Or my life. I go in for the drop shot and score the first point.

“So, this is the tempo you want to set?” He raises an eyebrow underneath the safety goggle.

“Warned you I wasn’t a novice.” I shrug.

Amusement lines his voice. “Just serve.”

He matches me stroke for stroke, but he proves to be too strong of an athlete and pulls ahead. I finally concede.

“Break,” I say and grab my towel, each intake of breath a chore. Hardly panting, he grabs the bottom of his shirt, and I try not to stare at the cut lines and happy trail as he dabs his forehead. But, Jesus, his right flank is tattooed as well. This guy really is perfection.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Mia Gunner.”

“Well, Mia. It’s nice to meet someone who can match me on the court.”

A few moments tick by, but he doesn’t introduce himself.

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

He jerks his head back as if I just asked his dick size. I’m guessing he’s somewhat popular. Makes sense. He looks like he’s in his fourth year. I already know he’s arrogant—that was obvious the second I realized he stole my court—but to assume I’d recognize him? Cessna University enrolls over twenty thousand students. I couldn’t possibly know him.

“I’m AJ.”

“Does AJ have a last name?”

“Yeah, it’s Gonzalez. AJ Gonzalez.” Amusement dances in his eyes before a sense of appreciation settles in them. He looks as if he’s trying to figure something out. “Where did you learn to play racquetball so well?”

“Back home in Vermont. Playing helped me...cope.” It used to be dancing, but I hung my ballerina slippers up a while ago. The familiar pressure in my chest resurfaces, and I swallow back the burn. I reach inside my bag for my water bottle, my breath easing back to normal. “How are you not winded?”

“I stay fit.”

Yes, you do.

“Do I dare ask why?”

He steps closer, eyes darkening with want. I think. “I need to stay on top of my game. Keep my endurance up.”

“Sorry I’m late.” Sadie’s voice resonates through the room as she barges through the door. She finally looks up from her bag and comes to a halt when she notices AJ. “Oh.”

“Next time you need a partner, hit me up.” His deep voice drips with a level of intrigue that sends chills across my body, drawing a slight gasp. Maybe I imagined the double entendre and he only meant partnering in racquetball. I don’t know, but in less than thirty minutes, I’m left speechless twice.

Momentarily closing his eyes, he shakes his head and mumbles, “Too sweet.” He dips his mouth close to my ear as he brushes past me, his “Later, Cupcake” stealing my breath.

It’s a skill to make something sweet and innocent seem sexy and sinister. But as the whoosh from the door restores my breath, every inch of my body believes AJ possesses such talents.

“Oh my God, do you know who that was?” Sadie’s high-pitched squeal jars me back to reality.

“AJ Gonzalez. I think he’s a senior.”

She stares at me with her mouth agape. “Yeah, that’s his name, but do you know who he is?”

“No, but I’m guessing I should?”

“Well, yeah.” The silent “duh” hangs heavy in the air. “Don’t tell my boyfriend, but AJ’s the hottest player on the baseball team. And I don’t mean by looks alone. He’s already been scouted by the Phillies agents. Rumor has it, he’ll be one of the top draft picks.”

Any excitement over meeting him deflates faster than a child’s spirit after learning Santa Claus isn’t real. I sneak a look at the glass wall and catch his backside slipping around the corner. Figures. The first interesting guy I meet on campus goes from Mr. Perfect to Mr. Unattainable. I can’t catch a break.

I cinch my racket back on my wrist. It looks like I need to pound out more frustration. “Ready?”

“Game on.”

As Sadie slides her goggles on, I go stand behind the receiving line. It doesn’t matter who AJ is. He may have flirted, but we didn’t exchange contact information. Considering it’s January and I’m just now running into him, I doubt I’ll ever see him again. Which is a shame because the brief time we were together, he made me forget about my shitty life.