“This one is mine,” the guy says as he approaches a door. He didn’t look back at me once as he walked us to his room— he was totally confident I’d follow him.

I’d roll my eyes at his football-player-ness again, but I have to admit, I’m grateful to be away from the rest of the partygoers. It’s quiet up here, and the low lighting makes my head stop spinning. I hurry a few steps to catch up to the guy, who is opening the door to what I presume to be his bedroom. I pause at the door, wondering what my mom would say about me going into an upperclassman’s bedroom three weeks into my freshman year— and then actually laugh aloud at the idea that this guy would have any interest in me, the pizza-covered Papa Pig’s delivery girl.

“What?” the guy says, spinning around to face me. I’m in the doorway of his room, and his sudden concern startles me— he almost looks like he actually cares what I think.

And that is surprising.

“Nothing,” I say, “it’s nothing.”

“Okay…” he says, unconvinced. He walks over to a dresser and begins digging. I look around his room. It’s massive, and surprisingly tidy for a guy’s room. The bed isn’t made, but there aren’t piles of clothes laying around or ancient plates crusted with food— both of which, in my short time as a college student and delivery girl, I know are the norm for guys’ bedrooms. He’s got a handful of framed photos on his dresser, a pretty bare desk, and a Berkfield-colors rug on the floor. There’s a door that I suspect leads to a shared restroom, and tiny closet that has no door.

As my shock and embarrassment wears off slightly, I’m once again reminded that this guy isn’t just a big, tall, muscular football player.

He’s also objectively gorgeous. My mouth goes slightly dry and I tell myself I’m just overheating from my pig getup.

“Here you go,” he says, and pulls something from the drawer. “Take this one. It’ll be long enough to cover your shorts.” I think he’s going to toss me the green garment he’s pulled from the drawer, but instead he walks toward me and places it in my hands. I look down at it— it’s a football jersey.

“Don’t you need this for…football playing?” I ask.

“It’s not a real jersey. It’s one of the replicas for appearances and photoshoots and stuff.”

“Right,” I say, like I knew this was a thing.

“I’m Sebastian,” he says, as if I’d asked. I can tell he’s not entirely sure he needs to give me this information— most of the football players at Berkfield need no introduction, after all.

And I know I’ve heard that name somewhere. Sebastian.

But I don’t remember exactly how or why. I think he might be sort of a big deal here, but then again, I’m not really a sports fanatic like most of the other students around these parts.

“Ashlynn,” I say, and hold out my hand to shake his. It’s only once I’ve thrust my hand toward him that I realize it’s still pizza-covered. I flinch, but Sebastian simply looks amused, then takes my hand in his. His palm is so big my hand practically vanishes inside his.

As we touch, I notice a jolt of heat and electricity shooting directly up my palm and through my arm. It travels down my spine and suddenly I’m feeling a distinct tightening in my lower belly.

Like, very, very low down.

A tightening and a clenching.

I take a deep, steadying breath and swallow, licking my parched lips.

“The bathroom’s right there,” he says, motioning to the door I’d suspected was the restroom. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Thanks,” I say. Except, my hand is still in his, and for whatever reason, I’m not pulling away. It might be because his eyes are on mine, and they’re making me feel a little…hypnotized. It might be because he has such insanely piercing eyes, or that they’re so dark, or maybe it’s just because this guy— Sebastian— is the only seemingly decent person in this entire house— but I’m suddenly finding myself shaky with gratitude. The tears that had been threatening to fall due to the spiciness of pizza sauce are now actual tears over the fact that I’m covered in now-freezing pizza, that my boss is going to be furious, that I humiliated myself in front of two dozen beautiful people—

“Hey— it’s no big deal. You’re fine. Go change,” he says. He turns me gently, and urges me toward the bathroom. I try to sniff some sort of gratitude, but instead I collapse through the door. I shut it behind me, locking the door to both Sebastian’s room and the bedroom adjacent. I strip off my clothes and leave them in a greasy pile on the floor, then turn on the sink to try to rinse the sauce out of my hair.

“So, Papa Pig’s, huh? You must be a freshman,” Sebastian says through the door. I think he might be leaning on it, because he sounds so close I jumped at first, thinking perhaps he’d somehow gotten in behind me.

“How’d you know?” I ask back, threading my fingers through my hair.

“Only freshman work for that place on account of the pig nose,” he says.

“Did you?”

“No one on the team has time for a job,” Sebastian answers.

“Lucky you,” I say with a sigh. The grease isn’t coming out of my hair. I see a container of all-in-one face/body/hair wash (the dudebro-ist product of all time) in the shower, and grab it, quickly lathering it into my hair. It smells like Sebastian’s room— well, it smells like Sebastian, I suppose. Spicy and sweet and masculine. It’s a nice smell.

“Being on the team is a job in and of itself. There’s no free time,” Sebastian says with a touch of defense in his voice. “Training and appearances and games and meetings…”

“No pig noses, though,” I point out. I flip my hair back. It’s drenched, but it’s clean, and that’s something. I’m grateful I cut my back-length hair to a long bob before college— I’d figure going so short would mean more time between cuts, which meant more money saved. I hadn’t anticipated “easier to wash in a guy’s sink” as another perk to the cut.

“True. But the pig nose looked cute on you,” he says.

I freeze, unsure if he’s teasing me or not.

Of course he’s teasing you, I nag myself, stooping to bundle my own clothes up. The jersey is big enough to look like a dress on me— in fact, looking at the way it hangs off my body, it’s hard for me to imagine a person filing it out. Sebastian does, though, I suppose.

He’s number 11. I wonder what his last name is— the faux jersey doesn’t have his name on it. I run my fingers across the vinyl “11” for a moment, then stoop to pull my panties back on. I can go sans bra, but I’m definitely not walking through this house sans bra and panties.

Although, suddenly, the thought of being without panties in front of Sebastian crosses my mind and I feel my nipples stiffen.

I bite my lower lip and feel my cheeks flush.

“You okay in there?” Sebastian asks.

“Yeah, just— yeah,” I say, wringing my hair out and finger combing it as best I can. I take a look at myself in the mirror, adjusting where I can, wiping the remains of my mascara from under my eyes. I bundle my clothes under my arm, then swing the door open. Sebastian is standing right in front of it— in fact, he’d been leaning on it, because I nearly smack him in the face with the door.

“Easy killer. You’ve done enough house damage tonight.” He swings an arm around my shoulders as I exit the bathroom. It’s so familiar that it startles me— and it startles me even more how much I like it. Everything about Sebastian is confident and strong and big, and it’s hard not to want to lean into him. I’ve never been into football players, but then, I’ve never been up close to one.

I’m shocked at how good it feels to be snuggled up to him momentarily. I inhale deeply through my nostrils, smelling him.

Wondering if this is what it’s like to be a ball player’s girl.

“I’ll walk you out the back,” he says. “They’ll freak if they see you in my jersey.”

“Who’s they?” I ask as we start toward the door, walking rather slowly. Am I crazy for thinking he might like having his arm around me? Of course I am. I look like a drowned pizza rat. But he’s watching me in a certain way that makes my heart race, and I don’t flinch when he reaches up with his free hand and moved a soggy piece of my hair off my forehead.

“I don’t want them to think you and I were up here doing something else that might mean you wearing my jersey.”

Oh. I flush, hard, because of course he wouldn’t want anyone to think he’d slept with the Papa Pig’s girl. Clearly, I’m misinterpreting the way he’s looking at me. It’s not that he’s charmed be me— it’s that he pities me.

“Well, I should go.” I feel myself almost tearing up. I hate to admit that I actually was starting to hope that he was interested.

Pathetic.

Sebastian gives me a curious sort of look, then steps closer to me. “You look good in my clothes on, Ashlynn,” he says, voice low.

“Thanks.” I try and sound casual.

He steps closer still. He leans his head down, and my stomach clenches; I rise up onto my toes before I think twice about what I’m doing. “I think you’d look good without my clothes on, too,” he says.

“Thanks,” I repeat again, realizing that maybe I was right the first time.

Because he’s looking like he’s going to kiss me.

And my heart feels like it’s going to burst through my ribcage with it’s pounding.

I inhale a deep trembling breath as his mouth comes down closer. His breath smells sweet, his skin is flawless, the five o’clock shadow sexy and so-touchable. He’s going to kiss me, and I want it so, so badly— I want to kiss this football player, so badly. There’s a phrase I never expected to think.

He mouth meets mine, and I feel a series of explosions in my chest as his soft, strong lips press against me, hungry and searching, his tongue brushing against my bottom lip. I go unsteady, taking a balancing step backward, too stunned and dazzled and overwhelmed to fully take it all in.

“Right,” Sebastian says, drawing back swiftly, frowning. All the parts of my body he was touching go chilly, now that he’s gone, and I blink, unsure what’s just happened.

“Anyway, keep the jersey. I’ve got others.” His voice has gone almost icy— what happened? I blink again, sure I’ve either hallucinated the kiss, or am actively hallucinating this moment.

“Wait,” I say faintly. “I—“

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Sebastian cuts me off stiffly. I try to shake my head and object, but my body doesn’t seem to move— and that’s when I realize why Sebastian thinks I’m not interested.

He kissed me, and I didn’t kiss him back. I stood there, enjoying it, reveling in the taste of his mouth, but I didn’t kiss him back, or touch him, or respond. Christ, it was probably like kissing Snow White.

He opens the bedroom door and stands in the threshold, waiting for me to cut through. I swallow, too unhinged to say anything, too worried I won’t be able to say something even if I try. So, I stoop, gather my Papa Pig’s uniform, and shuffle past him, throat thick and eyes swimming.

I didn’t kiss him back. I wanted to, but I just stood there. Surely he knows he has that effect on women? I can’t be the first girl who hasn’t flung herself at him, if only on account of some kind of situational paralysis.

My body seems to unfreeze as I make my way down the steps, through the house, back to my car. I consider, even, turning around and rushing back to his room, to give kissing him another try— but he looked so cold. By the time I make it to my car, my body and mind are fully functioning again. Which means I’m perfectly able to berate myself for the ride back to Papa Pig’s.

The hottest guy you’ve ever met, who was turned on by you, who gave you his clothes, who took you to his room— that guy tried to kiss you. And you blew it.