“He’s here.” I read the text saying as much and smooth my dress down. I do a final turn side to side to see myself in the mirror from every angle.

Vanessa lies on her bed, watching me obsess. “Want me to go downstairs and ask him what his intentions are?”

I laugh, easing some of the nerves that have taken over my shaky hands. “As entertaining as that would be, maybe we should wait until at least the second date to scare him off.”

Or until I get laid. I know it’s probably a terrible idea to sleep with the guy who holds my statistics grade in his hands, but a girl can only be expected to have so much restraint.

“Better to know now before you waste a perfectly good Saturday night.”

Most people I know don’t even go on real dates, let alone on a Saturday night. Weekend nights are pre-filled with frat parties and nights out at the bar. The rare occasions I’ve been asked out on a real date, it’s always been something mid-week. A Monday night coffee date, a Tuesday dinner, sometimes even a Thursday out together at The Hideout. Fridays and Saturdays are reserved. I’m willing to risk missing a party to go on a date with Wes. One almost certainly ends with me coming back alone, but the other . . . has possibilities.

The sorority house is a two-story home with bedrooms on both floors and a basement with a kitchen and dining room, laundry room, and our chapter room where we hold meetings. Vanessa follows me down the stairs from our second story room and into the first-floor entry way/living room. Men aren’t allowed beyond the entryway unattended, so essentially it serves as our “suitor waiting area.” It doesn’t see a lot of suitors for all the previously mentioned reasons.

Hostess duty is a real thing in the house, a chore shared between all of us, and it seems Molly has jumped at the opportunity to play hostess. She hasn’t only let Wes in, she’s proceeded to fawn all over him. I hold back a giggle as I watch him lean back away from her as she tries to snake a hand up his arm. An arm that leads to those hands I admire so much. He looks up as I appreciate my first glimpse of him in date attire—a black T-shirt, dark denim jeans, and tennis shoes—a different pair from what I’ve seen him wear before, and I’m suddenly curious how many pairs of sneakers this guy owns.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs and Vanessa pushes ahead of me. She waltzes up to Wes and eyes him carefully.

“You gonna give me the talk, maybe show me your gun collection before you let me take our girl out?”

“Nah, I don’t think it’s necessary to tell you I’ll either personally kick your ass or pay someone to do it for me if you hurt my girl. I’m sure it’s also not necessary to tell you that a badass chick like Blair deserves a gentleman. Where are the flowers? Chocolate covered strawberries?”

I groan, and Wes looks embarrassed. V, however, keeps going.

“I expect that, for the rest of the evening, you bring you’re A game. I’m talking door-opening, attentive, no-looking-at-other women, hold-her-hand, chivalrous shit.”

“Okay.” I step in front of Vanessa and take Wes’s arm. “I think we have it from here.

Wes chuckles and lets me lead him to the door. I give V a small wave over my shoulder. Her intentions are good. She knows enough about the shit David pulled to understand why going out with someone new is both nerve-wracking and exciting. We’ve almost made it outside when Wes stops abruptly and turns. V still stands in the doorway watching us.

“Don’t worry about our girl. I’m well aware of just how badass she is.”

Wes leads me to a small black SUV and opens the door for me. I flush, assuming he’s following V’s orders. “Don’t let Vanessa get in your head. She’s—”

But my protest is cut short. He winks and leans in. “Would have opened the door for you either way. It gives me more time to check you out. You look amazing.”

“Thank you. You too.”

Wes drives us to a small bistro on the outskirts of town. It’s well out of the three-block radius that most university students venture out of, and I wonder if it’s a coincidence or if he’s purposely taken me somewhere we won’t be seen.

“I’ve never been here,” I say as he helps me out of the car. A blue awning welcomes us, and inside, I’m surprised to find the décor a mix of local sports memorabilia and amateur artwork. Canvases are hung artfully around the small space with the artists’ names boldly displayed on gold plaques underneath. Jerseys ranging from tee-ball size to high school are lined up on one wall like a walk through a lifetime of an athlete. It’s a bizarre design, but it feels welcoming none the less.

“Hey, Wes Reynolds.” A man with a mess of unruly gray hair that makes him look like a mad scientist appears from behind the counter. His smile falls, and he pauses. “Did you get the days mixed up? Game is next week.”

“Nah, came here to eat.” Wes places a hand at my back. Those long fingers splay out across my lower back. The heat of the contact makes me feel secure and possessed all the way down to my toes. “Cal, this is Blair. Blair, this old man is Cal.”

“She’s with you?” Cal gives Wes a shocked look and then tosses a wink in my direction. “Honey, he didn’t kidnap you, did he? You’re free to go. I have a bat under the counter here and I’d love an excuse to take some practice swings.”

Wes snorts and lifts his foot. “The boot is off, old man. You can’t catch me now.”

Cal’s expression softens, and he rounds the counter, zeroed in on Wes’s leg. “You’re really back? Coach letting you practice and everything?”

Wes nods. “Yep, all the way back. Even let me play the exhibition game last night.”

“Well, all be damned. Don’t tell Mason or he’ll be pissed we missed it.” He looks to me apologetically. “Sorry for the language. My boy loves to watch Wes play. Thought we were gonna have an angry teenager on our hands this season, and trust me, that would have been good for no one.”

“Those your son’s jerseys?” I ask, pointing to the multi-colored, multi-numbered shirts.

“Sure are. Mason’s a baseball player, but he loves watching basketball.”

“Kid’s gotta wicked curve ball,” Wes adds.

Cal beams with pride. “Your table is open.” He nods toward the small seating area.

As Wes leads me to his table, I ask the obvious questions. “You have a table? What is this place?”

Wes throws his arm over the back of the booth, looking as comfortable as if this really is his table. “Cal’s wife owns a cleaning service and does some work for Joel’s family.”

He looks up sheepishly.

“Which means she cleans The White House.” I connect the dots.

He nods. “She started bringing by food, got us hooked on the grilled cheese and homemade pies. Z and I started coming here to get our fix. So, yeah, I have a table.”

He winks, and I’m a total goner. Instead of trying to impress me by taking me to a restaurant where we would have maybe shared a bottle of wine and asked about the daily specials, he brought me to a hole-in-the-wall bistro that requires him to drive off campus and where he has his own table. This feels so much more real.

Cal brings us menus and a pitcher of iced tea, which Wes pours for both of us before almost draining his own glass.

“Best damn iced tea this side of Kansas.”

I must be staring at him with a perplexed expression because he looks around and then asks, “What? Got something on my face?”

“No. I’m just trying to figure you out. What’s the game he mentioned?”

“Mason has a home game next week.”

“And you’re going?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“So, you help your teammates study, you tutor failing students in your spare time—”

“That one was not my choice, if I remember correctly,” he points out.

“You attend high school baseball games and support local businesses . . . you’re like a decent guy under that arrogant, egotistical exterior.”

He holds a finger up to his lips. “Shh, not so loud.”

“No, honestly. It’s hot.”

His mouth pulls into a big smile. “Well, if you put it that way.”

“What’s your family like back in Kansas?”

He visibly stiffens, but the smile only falls for a second before it’s back. “If I tell you we had Sunday dinners every week and I call my mom every day is that going to get me extra points?”

As if he needs them.

“Depends on if it’s true.”

A tall kid with shaggy hair desperately in need of a haircut brings our food to the table. Wes stands to shake his hand. “Mason, how’s it going? How’s the arm?”

Mason bobs his head and cradles his arm protectively. “Good. I’m starting next week.”

“I’ll be there.”

Mason’s face shows his excitement, but he gives a one shoulder shrug like he’s too cool for school.

“Mason, this is my friend Blair.”

I offer a wave. “Nice to meet you. Good luck next week.”

Mason does some sort of blush, nod, wave before he disappears into the back.

“Good kid,” Wes says as we dig into our food. “Parents too. They’re at every game, home and away. I know it can’t be easy working the hours they do, but they make it work.”

“Do your parents make it to many games? Must be hard being so far away.”

He doesn’t look up as he answers. “They’ll be there if we make it to the Final Four.”

All right, that seems to be a touchy subject. I let him lead the conversation after that, which includes him asking me the most random questions about myself.

How the coffee shop quotes came about, my favorite songs and books and television shows. I can barely get in a question back as he fires them off one after the other. It’s surface-level stuff, but one thing I learn for sure about Wes Reynolds is that, despite the lack of information he gives me about himself, he’s damn good at making me feel special and wanted.

Wes

I drive back to campus after dinner, but I’m not ready to end the night, so I park at the house and then usher her across the street to Ray Fieldhouse. Going inside would only lead to me kissing her, and trust me, I want that, but I promised this girl a date.

“Tell me something about yourself that has nothing to do with basketball.”

I gape. Something that doesn’t pertain to basketball. What does that leave? And when was the last time anyone asked about me without mentioning basketball? It became part of my identity somewhere along the way and separating it from me leaves . . . someone I don’t recognize.

“What were you like in high school? What are your parents like? What’s your favorite color? What do you want to do after college?”

“That’s quiet an interrogation. I’ll give you one. My favorite color is orange. I like the new addition to your bracelets, by the way.” I pull at the orange string tied around her wrist. One of about twenty on her arm. All of them are different colors, and some are faded and frayed, but the orange one looks new.

“Thank you.”

“What’s up with the bracelets? Do they stand for something?”

“A friend makes them for me. For us. Friendship bracelets. It’s sort of our thing. I started making them for us in middle school, and we’ve worn them ever since.”

“Girl friend or guy friend?” I ask, feeling insanely jealous at the prospect of her having that sort of attachment to some other guy. It’s ridiculous because whatever we’re doing is casual. That’s all I have time for right now, no matter how cool of a chick Blair is or how much I wish I had more time to really get to know her and date her like she deserves.

Vanessa was right about one thing—Blair deserves all of it, all the romance, and I’m not that guy. Maybe after the season, but nothing can get in the way of getting back to the Final Four.

“Her name is Gabby. Wait, how did this get turned around? You’re supposed to be telling me about you.”

“I’d rather talk about you.”

“A question for a question then. Where in Kansas did you grow up?”

“Just outside of Kansas City. You?”

“I’m from Succulent Hill, it’s a couple of hours south of here. You have any siblings?”

I shake my head.

“I have an older brother. He lives in Phoenix and is married with two adorable kids.”

“What’s your greatest fear?”

She balks, thrown by the deep question. I can almost see the answer on the tip of her tongue, but she holds back. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who isn’t self-aware. What scares you?”

“Failing.” Her voice comes out quiet, barely a whisper. “And letting people down.”

Silence falls between us. I get that fear because it’s tied so closely to my own. What if I can’t get the team whipped into shape? What if Z is looked over for a big NBA deal because his team lets him down? Yeah, I get the fear of failure. Guilt washes over me for being such an ass about helping her with statistics. It obviously is as important to her as basketball is to me.

“Come on, let me show you something.”

The gym is empty and dark. I love it this way. I love it packed full of people on game day, too, but no athlete gets that without a lot of days and nights with only the echo of the ball bouncing off the wooden floor.

I lead her up the stairs to the very top and we sit on the blue plastic seats so we can take in the darkened gym.

She’s quiet and pensive, as if maybe she’s trying to figure out why we’re here. Or maybe she is counting down the seconds before she can make a run for it. Bringing a girl to a deserted gym probably is not on the top one hundred best first dates.

“This is my greatest fear.” I lift my arms on either side.

“Bad seats?” she jokes.

“Being a spectator and watching the game from up here, smart ass. It’s my final year, and I’m not ready for ball not to be the center of my life.”

It’s terrifying, actually. No, terrifying doesn’t seem like a strong enough word. Anxiety wracks my body when I think of being one of those guys watching from the sidelines, talking about the good ole days. As a kid, it felt so far away, but every day, I get closer to it all going away, and I don’t know what that looks like. Don’t even want to think about it yet. One final season. This is it. This is my moment to soak it all in. I can deal with the rest later.

“Have you thought at all about what you’ll do next year?”

I shrug. “Not really. I know I should be thinking about it, making a plan, but I just can’t. I need to focus on the season and the season alone, and when it’s over, I’ll figure out what’s next. Speaking of, I don’t know any way to say this that doesn’t make me sound like a conceited prick, so I’m just going to say it.”

She raises both eyebrows but nods for me to continue. “Dating isn’t really an option for me right now. Vanessa is right, you deserve more than anything I can give you.”

“So, this is our first and last date?” Her voice is filled with humor. Not what I expected.

“I like hanging out with you. I’d like to see more of you, but I can’t make any promises beyond that.”

“Vanessa means well, but what she wants for me and what I want aren’t the same thing. I’ve dated guys who promised me the world and didn’t make good on it. I appreciate your honesty, and I get it.” She grabs my hand and interlaces our fingers. I’ve avoided touching her too much tonight, because I’m finding that, with Blair, each touch only makes me want her more. “You have an incredible gift. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anything as much as you love basketball, and I can’t pretend to understand your fear, but I know the things I’m most scared of tend to be the things that push me the most. No risk, no reward. So that’s how I’m choosing to look at whatever this is between us.”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I shake my head. I don’t know what I’m doing on a real date, acting like a gentleman and talking about fears and life goals, but the time I spend with Blair feels so much more substantial than even the best of fucks I’ve had with other girls. “No. This is the nicest thing I’ve ever said to you. I think you might end up being the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She blushes, and I wonder if I’ve put my foot into my mouth or scored points. I stand and offer her my hand. “Come on.”

With her small hand cupped in mine, we walk back to the basketball house. It turns out this dating thing isn’t so bad. I’ve almost even forgotten about sex while I’ve learned more about what makes Blair tick. Nah, that isn’t true, but I did enjoy myself more fully clothed than I ever imagined I would.

Joel bounds down the stairs dressed to go out when he spots us. “Hey, it’s Bless.”

We share a confused look.

“Blair and Wes. Bless. You know, it’s like your couple name.”

Blair giggles. “I guess it could be worse, our couple name could be Weir.”

Joel slaps me on the back as he passes us on his way to the door.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” I warn. “We have practice in the morning.”

“Yes, Dad,” he calls and then, as if just remembering, he calls out, “Oh, hey, Blair, how’d your test turn out?”

She looks shell shocked, and I shoot Joel a glare.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you did great. Z and I both passed.”

He leaves, and Blair turns to me. “Grades are up? Up where? How do you know?”

“O’Sean posts them on the student portal before he hands them back.”

I lead her to my room and hand her my iPad so she can log in and check her grade.

Tension hangs heavy in the room while she pulls up her grade and then sighs. “I got an A,” she says like she almost doesn’t believe it. “Oh my God, I really got an A!”

I smile and say a silent thank you to the math gods. Then nix that because I did this. Props to myself. “Congratulations.”

She hands the tablet back to me and eyes me warily. “You weren’t going to tell me grades were up, were you?”

“I was planning on mentioning it about the time I dropped you off.”

She punches my arm playfully.

“I had faith in you . . . well, and in my excellent tutoring.”

I toss the iPad onto my bed and wrap my arms around her waist, drawing her against me.

“You were okay, I guess,” she says, her voice husky and tight as it travels straight to my balls.

“Admit it.” I lean down and let my lips linger just over hers. “Admit I’m a good tutor.”

Instead of answering, she closes the space between us and brings her mouth to mine. I consider pulling back and making her say it for all of a second before her soft tongue brushes against mine, I’m lost and exactly where I should be all at once.

She threads her arms up and laces them behind my neck, forcing her up on her tiptoes and putting her flush against me. Not daring to break away from her, I mumble, “I’m taking your non-answer as confirmation.”

She chuckles into my mouth in response and then pulls back, breathless and flushed and sexy as hell. “If I admit you’re a good tutor, will you wear those sexy glasses again?”

“You think my glasses are sexy?” She drops onto the bed, and I grab my reading glasses from my desk. If I’d known that tidbit sooner, then I’d have been playing it to my advantage already. “You mean, these glasses?”

Her eyes light up and her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She gives the faintest nod before sitting up on her knees and reaching for me. “You’re like the best of both worlds—hot jock meets hot nerd.”

“All I just heard was you calling me hot.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know it.”

“Oh, I know it.” I brace myself over her and look into her brown eyes, which dance with amusement. “I’m just happy to hear you agree. Makes my next play a little less risky.”

I kiss her and tumble us back onto the bed. My glasses are getting in the way. I’ve never made out with a girl while wearing them before, but then again, I've never had one react like this to my need to see clearly. Most girls are far more interested in the jock side than the nerd side. Or maybe I just never let anyone see anything but the jock. Until Blair, I wasn’t exactly winning girls over with my brain.

Eager limbs and mouths tangle together. Neither of us wastes any time giving into the electrical pull between us. I run a palm up and down the leg she’s draped over me, ankle to thigh and back. Blair hums as her breasts rub against my pecs, hard nipples poking through the material of her little black dress.

An angel and a devil sit on either side of my shoulder, or more accurately a little Vanessa and a little me. Vanessa’s warning about Blair deserving a gentleman isn’t lost. Sure, I’ve cleared my conscience by letting her know I can’t commit to anything serious, but she isn’t the kind of girl you sleep with and never call again.

Our kisses are frantic, and her hips rock into me, beckoning me to do something with the raging hard-on pressing into her. Trailing my fingers back up her leg, I let them slide under her skirt and to the lacy material of her underwear. No wait, it’s a thong. Christ, this girl. I cup her ass and growl. Mine. Serious or not, I’m serious about this ass.

When my fingers slide under the scrap of material covering her pussy, she falls back onto the bed, arching her whole body into my palm. Her eyes flutter open and lock onto me. “Oh God, I think I might come just watching you. The way you’re looking at me right now and with those glasses.”

She sighs, emphasizing how close she is, and my chest shakes with a silent laugh as I move one finger inside her. “Just watch me then.”

She does exactly that as her body trembles under my touch. I’m mesmerized by this girl. Her heart hammers in her chest, and she whimpers and pants, squeezing around my fingers and moaning loudly as she finds her release.

Her eyes close behind dark lashes, and she whispers my name on a sigh.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, hearing the wonder in my own words. Damn.

“Ditto,” she mumbles without opening her eyes.

Music starts to play from another room, and the bass vibrates the wall. “I think Z might be trying to drown out your sex sounds.”

Her eyes pop open, and she pushes up onto one elbow. “Oh my God, he can hear us?”

I shrug. “Well, I can sure as shit hear his music, so it goes to reason . . .”

“You could have warned me or, I don’t know, gagged me.”

A gag? As hot as that sounds, no way I’d want to miss out on hearing the way she responds to my touch. “I’ll remember that for next time. Speaking of, when can I see you again?”

She buries a smile into the crook of my neck. “Will you wear the glasses again?”

Hell, I’d forgotten I was wearing them. “Any time you want.”