College is easier than high school.

There, I said it. I know it’s not supposed to be.

But all in all, college is easier because I can set my own schedule, nap between classes, and because everyone is ostensibly an adult. I don’t have to ask permission to use the restroom, and no one hassles me if I dart into class a few minutes late. There’s no lunchroom or classroom seating politics, and so far I haven’t encountered a single godforsaken group project.

There is, however, one pretty glaring similarity to high school: Football players and cheerleaders are royalty. And the rest of us are simply peasants.

Normally, I don’t give a shit about this fact, because I’ve always been of the opinion that if your greatest achievement is risking head injury, your crown is temporary. But with Trishelle on the cheerleading squad, I’m sort of thrown into the thick of the scene.

Trishelle has already started waking up early to wash and style her hair, wears makeup to class, and is wearing ever-higher heels, something she’s never worn given how devastating a rolled ankle would have been to her gymnastics career.

“Look! We’re the same height!” she says gleefully one evening, walking up to me after studying herself in the full-length mirror that hangs on our bathroom door. We’re technically in a dorm, but all student housing here is apartment style, so we’ve got our own bathroom, own bedrooms, and a teeny tiny kitchen area with an even teenier tinier living room.

“Wow, this is freaking me out,” I say honestly. I’m not tall, but Trishelle has never been able to look me in the eye before.

“I want to get up to five inch heels. That’s the dream,” she says, turning her feet to look at the three inch ones she’s currently wearing.

“That’s the dream?” I ask teasingly, prodding her. “Sorry, law school! I’m wearing five inch heels now, so everything else is just whatever.”

To my surprise, Trishelle scowls at me in a not-kidding way. “Look, I like being able to do stuff like this for once. I know it’s sort of vain, but don’t mock me for it.”

My eyes widen. “Sorry— sorry. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you, really.”

Trishelle sniffs, then leans in to pick at her mascara. I think she’s really pissed for a second, but then she sighs and gives me a defeated look. “I’m just so bad at this stuff. The other girls on the squad— even the new ones— are just so good at being the whole cheerleader package. I feel like they only let me on so I could do some tumbling passes in front of them and make them look good.”

“Hey,” I say, shaking my head. “You had a great tryout and you did a lot more than just tumbling. Besides, most of them have lots of practice being the whole cheerleader package— I’m sure there’s a learning curve.”

“Speaking of auditions— when’s yours?” Trishelle asks, adding more bronzer to her already flawless makeup.

“Four weeks for non-theater majors. If you’re actually in the department you do it in your entry level classes.”

“You know what would be great practice for that audition?” Trishelle asks casually. I shake my head, and she answers. “Come to this party with me.”

“Why would that be great practice?”

“Because, Anna— you’ll be experiencing something new! You’ll be forcing yourself to be brave and uncomfortable! You’ll be getting into character as a…as…I don’t know, as a girl who goes to parties with her friend because her friend is scared shitless of a college football party. Please?” Trishelle asks, turning to grab my hand.

I hesitate, and I know Trishelle suspects I’m weighing my hatred for big parties against my love for her. And that’s true— I am. But I’m also weighing my hatred of big parties against the strange, stomach-twisting desire to see the guy from her cheerleading tryouts again. He’s been in my head ever since; sometimes, he’s the asshole whose friends mocked Trishelle…but other times he’s the quiet loner who looked at me in a way that made me feel very…desirable? Strange? Turned on? Confused?

“I’ll go,” I say with a sigh that’s about fifty percent exaggerated, hoping to hide my budding excitement. Trishelle squeals in delight, and immediately starts ordering me around— obviously, I can’t just go to a party like this. I’m a cheerleader’s friend, after all, which means I have to be every bit as primped and polished as Trishelle is. I draw the line at wearing high heels, though. Heels are the actual worst thing in the world. Trishelle and I compromise on some designer flats.

“Besides, wearing them will mean you look really tall next to me,” I point out. Trishelle rolls her eyes, but I know she’s pleased.

The party is in a house just off campus— a palatial place that’s on the same road as all the fraternities. I think it is one of the frats, at first, but Trishelle explains it’s actually the men’s varsity house. Male varsity athletes from all sports are allowed to apply for housing there, and the perks are amazing. There’s a live-in chef, a cleaning service, and a pool in the back. The lawn is beautifully landscaped, and uplighting makes the party-goers standing outside seem to glow. This is not the crowd Trishelle and I hung out with in high school. No wonder she didn’t want to come here alone; this place is intimidating as hell.

“Hey there!” Trishelle calls out to a few of the glowing girls on the front lawn. They smile at her and hug her tightly, then begin to speak fast. Trishelle’s voice changes, when she speaks to them; it becomes sassier, more Southern, more sarcastic…more like their voices. I linger behind her, smiling occasionally, as if I’m in on the conversation but just electing not to actually contribute to it. After a few moments, they turn away, effectively dismissing Trishelle. She turns back to me, gives me a nervous smile, and then we walk through the front doors.

Music is pounding inside, though I couldn’t tell you the song; all I hear is the rattle of the bass. I suppose it was a given, as it’s literally a house occupied by varsity jocks, but all the guys here are huge. Like, not just muscles, but height, width, and personality. They look carved, all hard lines and deep muscles, and speak with loud voices and wild hand gestures. It’s clear to me that they’ve never been told to sit quietly, to play nice, or to cross their legs; they occupy every inch of the world they can grasp, and are clearly reaching for more. I find myself thinking of the guy again, about how he not only occupied every inch of his world, but owned it— and managed to do so without making a fuss.

His quiet confidence was sexy as hell, much as I hate to admit it.

Trishelle gets us drinks that taste like pure (cheap) liquor, and I keep my hand balanced over the top of my cup— I don’t trust these guys in here any farther than I could throw them. Trishelle seems more and more at ease with every sip and every passing second.

She knows plenty of girls here, and she wades into their world slowly, but knowingly. I, on the other hand, have no idea who to talk to or what to talk about, especially when Trishelle vanishes with a group of cheerleaders (they say it’s an emergency, but based on their hazy grins and giggles, I suspect it’s not a serious one). I stand alone, trying to decide if I’ve already had enough to drink or if I just feel a little dizzy from the heat and humidity in here. Trishelle has been gone almost a half hour already— I said I’d wait here for her, but screw that. I sigh and head back outside.

The air out here is cooler and thank god, doesn’t taste like schnapps; I gulp it in, then sit down on one of the brick steps leading off the wide, plantation-style porch. I feel my heart start to chill a little— I didn’t realize it was pounding from the crowd and heat and music in there. I have never been a fan of these sorts of parties, but Trishelle has always had this sort of fascination with them. In high school she was always desperate to get invited to these, like she thought getting drunk on cheap beer was a magical, nineties-movie-type experience. I keep waiting to figure out what the appeal is, but tonight hasn’t shown me anything new.

“Have a drink with me, Anna Milhomme,” a voice says, almost at the same moment that the speaker lowers himself on the step beside me. Shit.

It’s him. The guy from tryouts. Only now, instead of a few rows of bleachers between us, there’s just a foot or so of brick. He isn’t smiling, isn’t frowning, doesn’t look nervous or excited or anything in-between. Just like before, he’s unreadable.

I try to breath the air that isn’t glimmering in the scent of him, and force a small smile, noting the cup of beer in his hand. “I guess, technically, I could have a drink with you,” I say. “Since I’m drinking and so are you, by coincidence.”

I note happily that despite sounding like a dork, my voice isn’t shaking the way my insides are.

“A technicality,” he says, nodding, considering my words. “Sure. It’s just a technicality that you came to a party at my house, wearing that outfit,” he pauses to motion up and down my body approvingly, “and happened to sit right by the front door, so there’s no way I’d miss you.”

“Practically everyone is inside,” I argue, rolling my eyes. “I had no way of knowing you’d see me here.”

He looks unconvinced, and finally there’s at the smallest thread of emotion in his face— amusement. “So you did know it was my house, then?”

“No.”

“You didn’t know the house for varsity male athletes was the house I would live in?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows.

I scowl, because if I say no, it sounds like I’m stupid, and if I say yes, I admit to knowing he’d be here. Which…I did figure he would be. Or at least, I hoped he would be. And while I didn’t come outside just so he’d spot me, I have to admit, I’m glad he did.

My stomach is twirling, which feels totally at odds with the irritation for him in my head. I’ve never felt this dizzy, sloshy feeling of lust for a total stranger, and certainly never for a total stranger who seems delighted to pick on me.

“Why are you out here alone?” he asks, but it’s not pitying; it’s a question he seems to really want to know the answer to.

I shrug. “My friend Trishelle disappeared, so I came out for some fresh air. Why are you out here alone?”

“For the same reason you are: I’m not into crowds.”

“Says a football player. Don’t you play for an enormous crowd every weekend? Isn’t that how football works?” I joke.

He almost laughs, but doesn’t— which feels like a victory anyhow. “You don’t hear them, on the field. You have your teammates with you, but you’ve got a helmet between you and the world. Most of the game is in your head. You’re alone.”

I fall silent— I hadn’t been expecting such a poignant response. I glance down at my drink just to get away from looking at his eyes for a second. He hasn’t really looked away from me since he sat down, and his still confidence makes that feathery feeling in my stomach intensify. I remember what he said about my outfit, and find myself wondering if he watched me before he sat down. If he stared at me from a distance the way he’s staring at me up close now. Guys have never stared at me like this, not really; I didn’t fit the high school standard of pretty.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Now he looks especially amused, but it’s an emotion you can only see from this close proximity— it’s all in his eyes and the corners of his mouth rather than his cheeks. “Tyson Slate,” he answers. “Why don’t we take our drinks somewhere else?”

“Such as?”

“Somewhere more alone,” he answers. I flush with surprise at how forward he’s being— but also with more than a little disgust. I literally just learned his name, and he’s trying to get me “somewhere more alone”? Clearly, guys don’t get the same safety video that girls do at orientation.

“I don’t think so,” I say, trying to bridge the gap between being mean— because I do like this guy— and being clear that I’m not the type to skip away with him.

He doesn’t look offended, but nods slightly. “You want to stay at the party.”

“Not exactly.”

“You don’t want to leave with me.”

“We just met. But besides, my friend asked me to come with her tonight. I can’t just bail on her.”

His— Tyson’s— eyebrows lift. “This is, I assume, the same friend you attended cheerleading tryouts for?”

“Yes. Trishelle. We went to high school together,” I say, like that’s a complete explanation of why I’m here with her.

Tyson nods. “I’ve seen you twice, Anna Milhomme, and both times you’ve been supporting a friend who is, as best I can tell, nowhere around. Which surprises me, because given how fast you were to put my asshole teammates in their place and turn me down, you seem only too happy to let your friend walk all over you.”

Now my eyebrows lifts, and lips curl to a frown. Fuck this guy. “Like you said, Tyson Slate,” I answer, using his full name the way he keeps using mine, “you’ve only seen me twice. Don’t think you can summarize who I am in two meetings, especially when you clearly didn’t understand me well enough to know that I’m not some football groupie who will prance off alone with you to get some STD you’ll be totally unapologetic about.”

He looks amused again, and I hate him for it— but he also looks like he’s nearly hungry for me, and I love it, and I hate that I love it, and ugh this guy is the worst. I roll my eyes and add, “And the staring. What’s with the staring? Did your mom not teach you not to stare? Or is it just that your dad didn’t teach you to respect women?”

It wasn’t a nice thing to say, but I didn’t think it was particularly horrible either— but suddenly Tyson’s face is full of emotion, so much so that it freaks me out. I edge back and fall silent as his eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. He stands up, towering over me, his shadow darkening my face.

“Wow, that was fast,” he says stiffly, then turns and walks away.