“Kinda weird, huh?” a deep Bama-accented voice said from beside me.

Dropping my poms in shock, I laid a hand on my chest. Catching a flash of a Crimson shirt, I looked up, blocking the blinding sun from my eyes with my hand, and suddenly lost my breath.

“S-sorry, what?” I asked in a quiet voice, tipping my neck right back to be able to see the guy’s face.

When shade hit, he appeared. Austin Carillo, wide receiver, number eighty-three.

Carillo stepped closer to me from his secluded spot beside the players’ tunnel and the stands. “This. The quiet after the storm.” He gestured to the empty stadium with a wave of his hand. “It’s my favorite part of the game.”

I followed the action of his hand. “Not the three touchdowns you scored?”

The corners of his mouth hooked up in a reluctant smirk. I’d seen Carillo around campus from time to time over the past three years, and I think it was the first time I’d ever seen him crack anything close to a smile. I wasn’t surprised. He was like me—darker, quieter, kept to himself.

Austin Carillo was the Italian bad boy of UA: six-foot-four, beautifully olive skin, piercings galore, black ear gauges, neck-to-toe tattoos, dark hair and the darkest of brown eyes.

I felt myself blush. If I had a type, he’d be it. But I didn’t date, and from what I’d heard, neither did he.

“Nah. It’s this. The replay of the game in my mind, the making of memories on this field.”

A sense of peace floated over me at what he described. “I know exactly what you mean,” I replied wistfully and inhaled the smell of greasy food, churned-up grass… victory.

Austin glanced back to the tunnel and, without another word, began to saunter away. I stared back out onto the gridiron and sighed in relief… I’d done it. I’d actually made it through a game unscathed.

The voice within hadn’t had the strength to spoil it.

“It’s about f**kin’ time, by the way!” I suddenly heard and looked behind me, straight at Carillo.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked in confusion, checking around us to see if anyone else was here.

Austin smirked in a deliciously dark way and gestured to my hair and face. “Yeah, I’m talking to you. It’s about time a pompom chick ’round here broke the mold. It’s good to have another one of us freaks on this team.”

One of us freaks? I thought, but all I could do was watch him disappear into the locker rooms. My heart pounded in my chest, and lifting my hand, I ran my fingers over my black hair and lipstick, and I felt a flutter in my chest… one of us freaks…

Seeing the cleanup crew enter the stadium, I quickly bent down, plucked a piece of grass from the field, and held up the single blade. It was my tradition. A piece of memorabilia from every game I’d ever cheered… But this would be my first in four years.

The symbol of my new life.

Picking up my poms, I headed to the locker room. I couldn’t wait to get home and write, telling Daisy all about it.

Chapter Two

Austin

“Woo-ee, boy! Four point two on the forty-yard dash! Keep getting these times and you’ll be in the first or second-round draft, no doubt,” Coach Cline, my sprint coach, shouted as I crossed the forty-yard line.

It was a few days after the Mocs game, and football practice was kicking my ass.

I bent over, catching my breath, when I heard, “Carillo, Coach’s office, now!”

Straightening up, I looked over the field to see Defense Coach Moore waving me over to the office.

I looked over at Coach Cline. “What’ve I done?”

His brows furrowed and he shook his head. “Ain’t got a clue, son. Now get on over there and find out. We got more drills to run.”

In less than two minutes, I was at Coach’s office door, and I rapped twice on the polished wood.

“Come on in, Carillo,” Coach called from behind his desk. If he wasn’t on the field, you’d always find him behind his desk.

I entered the room and took a seat opposite him. Coach looked up from the mountain of paperwork on his desktop, removed his glasses, and gently rubbed the area around his eyes.

This wasn’t looking good. He was anxious.

“What am I here for, Coach?” I asked in a wary voice.

Dropping his hands, he leaned forward, elbows on his desk, looking me right in the eyes. “Got a call from the dean today.”

“Okay. And why does that concern me?” I asked tightly. I hadn’t done anything wrong in over three years here at the Tide. I had nothing to hide. Especially from Coach.