11. Austin
AUSTIN
“ Y ou’re gonna break your teeth clenching your jaw like that,” I tell Nathan, grinning as I nudge his shoulder with mine.
He doesn’t look at me, just glares across the room.
Jeez. What a mood kill. Parties are supposed to be fun, and to let loose, but I don’t think Nathan has ever heard that word in his life. Which is ironic, since everyone loves him. He has the girls in a chokehold, not that he ever pays any attention to any of them.
I follow his gaze across the living room, and there’s Ryan, with one arm wrapped around Isabella’s waist, whispering something into her ear. She laughs, leaning into him like they’re the only two people in the room.
It’s kind of adorable.
Nathan, however, doesn’t seem to think so as he takes a slow, furious sip of his drink.
I let out a laugh. “Want me to go shove him into the fridge or something?”
He shrugs, his eyes still fixed on them. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
I pat his back. “What are teammates for?”
Before I can make good on that fake promise, Logan slides in at my side, with a red solo cup in hand.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Ryan licking Isabella’s ear again?”
“No one is licking anyone,” Nathan snaps.
“Yet,” I add.
Logan snorts into his drink.
“I hate both of you,” Nathan mutters, shooting us a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
Logan just winks. “You love us. Besides, it could be worse. She could be dating Cole.”
We all look around until we spot him—Cole—leaning against the back door, half hidden in shadow, hood up, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes burning a hole through the room.
Logan raises a brow. “Why does he look like he’s planning a murder?”
“Because he probably is,” I say. “Just a question of who gets it first.”
I follow Cole’s gaze and spot Aurora standing in the corner—tight dress, killer heels, swaying seductively to a slow R&B song.
“I’ve got a pretty good guess,” I say with a low laugh.
Logan lets out a whistle. “Oh boy. We’re all screwed.”
Those two hate each other’s guts. They can’t be in the same room without going at each other, which I don’t really mind. It’s entertaining as fuck watching them.
Logan downs the last of his drink in one long gulp. “Be right back,” he says, already slipping away.
I squint after him. “Where you going?”
He jerks his chin toward the kitchen, where some blonde in a denim mini skirt is flipping her hair and giving him the look.
I let out a laugh. For a rookie, he’s got game—more than I have tonight, honestly. It should make me nervous. I don’t want to lose to a rookie, but whatever. Let him have it.
“Need a wingman?” I offer.
Logan scoffs, shaking his head. “Nah. You’d drag me down.”
My jaw snaps open as he starts to walk away. “Your fucking loss,” I yell. “I’m a fucking phenomenal wingman.”
He doesn’t look back.
Pfft. Drag him down? Lucky for him I’m not interested in that girl, or I’d swoop in just to prove a point. Rookie wouldn’t stand a chance.
I glance over and see Nathan still hasn’t moved, his drink gripped tight in his hands.
Only now he’s not watching Ryan anymore.
He’s watching Logan.
Jaw tight, eyes narrowed—the exact same look he had before. Except now it’s aimed somewhere completely different.
I nudge him. “What? You think Logan’s gonna murder someone too?”
Nathan finally blinks, like he forgot I was there. “What? No. I just…”
He trails off, lifts his bottle, and takes a long sip.
Weird.
But I’m not about to pry, not with half a keg left and a living room full of distractions waiting for me.
I lean back against the counter, letting the noise of the party wash over me—sweaty bodies pressed close, shitty lighting flickering, music pounding.
This is what weekends are made for. No assignments.
No coach breathing down my neck. No pressure.
Just noise, beer, and the sweet relief of forgetting for a few hours that I’ve tanked half my semester.
The music shifts, a faster hip-hop beat thumping through the walls. More people flood in from the backyard, and the heat in the house spikes another ten degrees. I catch sight of some guy doing a keg stand in the hallway, and someone next to me starts chanting.
It’s sweaty. It’s dumb.
And I fucking love it.
I should dive in, join the chant, refill my drink, lose myself. But instead, my eyes scan the crowd, and my stomach drops.
I’m doing it again.
Looking for her.
I don’t even know if she’s coming. She said she would, but maybe she changed her mind.
“What are you looking at?” Nathan’s voice pulls me back.
I blink, tearing my gaze from the door, seeing his brows knitted together. “Nothing. Just… invited Maisie.”
He raises a brow. “Maisie?”
Right. Forgot the guys don’t really know her. Which is kind of nice. I like having her all to myself.
“My tutor,” I add.
He arches a judgmental brow at me. What is it with everyone having very expressive eyebrows lately? “You think it’s smart getting involved with your tutor?”
I shoot him a look. “It’s not like that, okay? I can keep my dick in my pants. She’s just always working and stressed, and I thought she needed a night to chill.” I shrug. “Let loose.”
Nathan takes a slow sip of his drink, shaking his head like he’s already written me off. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” I say, maybe a little too fast. But Nathan’s wrong. Yeah, it’s fun to flirt with her, but I’m not about to fuck up this tutoring thing. She’s my only shot at getting back on the team.
Besides, she’s into someone else. Apparently, I’m not her type—which is bullshit, because I’m a catch. But whatever.
She might not come. Probably won’t. But damn, I hope she does.
I just want to see her. Out of the library, out of her hoodie, smiling—preferably at me.
I sneak another glance toward the door for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, and I forget how to breathe.
Holy shit.
For a second, I don’t think it’s real. My eyes are betraying me. They have to be.
Because Maisie Wilson—the girl who rolls her eyes and grumbles through every study session—is standing there in a tiny denim skirt that shows way more leg than I’ve ever seen on her, and a strappy pink top that hugs every curve, showing off collarbones and shoulders and all the things I didn’t even realize I was obsessed with until this very moment.
Her hair is loose, shiny, bouncing as she laughs at something someone said, and I swear to God, my chest actually fucking hurts.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She’s Maisie. My tutor. The girl who hands me worksheets and calls me out when I use the wrong your .
I shouldn’t be looking at her like this.
And yet…
I can’t stop. Can’t tear my eyes away no matter how hard I try. Fuck, she looks beautiful. I always thought she was cute as hell from the moment I first saw those siren eyes, but this? This is different.
I need to stop staring.
I force myself to look away and slam back the last of my beer, hoping the buzz will dull the weird tightness buzzing in my chest. But then I hear her laugh.
Light. Soft.
And it’s aimed at some guy in the crowd who’s clearly got her full attention.
My blood runs cold.
It’s just a laugh. Just a guy talking to her. But something about it feels so fucking wrong.
My eyes snap back, locking on her.
She’s standing way too close to whoever the fuck that is, laughing like they’re sharing some private joke. And that’s when it hits me.
Holy shit . I don’t like this. At fucking all.
My jaw clenches.
I can’t see his face—just the back of his head—but something inside me bristles.
Who the hell is that?
A weird, hot pressure builds in my chest, and before I even think about what I’m doing, I’m moving straight toward her.
She doesn’t notice me at first. She’s still smiling up at him, oblivious to the fact that I’m spiraling over here like a goddamn idiot.
I slide in next to her, closer than I probably should, and let my arm curve around her waist like it belongs there.
It doesn’t. I know it.
But the guy next to her glances up at me, gives me a weird look and that’s good enough for me.
Maisie startles, her whole body jerking under my touch as she spins toward me.
“Austin?” she breathes, eyes wide, looking up at me.
Fuck.
I’ve seen her a hundred times—across the library table, her sleeves pushed up, biting her lip in concentration, hair falling messily over her face as she tries not to laugh at my dumb jokes—but I’ve never seen her like this.
Her eyes are impossibly bright—an unreal kind of blue, like something straight off a beach postcard or through a perfect lens filter. Except there’s no filter here. Just her. Staring up at me, wide-eyed and blinking, full of surprise.
And then there’s her face.
Her round cheeks are flushed pink. A scatter of freckles dust her nose and cheekbones like some perfect little constellation. I wonder how many she’s got. Too many to count, probably. But damn, I kinda wanna sit and count every single one.
I feel the warmth of her body under my hand, soft and full in all the ways that make my brain glitch. My fingers spread slightly, instinctive, like my body’s trying to memorize the curve of her. There’s something about the way she fits against me that makes me grip tighter instead of letting go.
She smells so fucking sweet, like peaches or candy or some other thing I can’t quite place. Can’t think straight right now, not when she’s still looking at me like that.
Without even realizing it, my head dips a little closer, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo.
No clue what the hell I’m doing, but fuck it, I’m doing it anyway.
“Hey,” I say, voice low and rougher than it should be. Her breath catches. “There you are.”
She blinks fast. Her cheeks are flushed and so fucking pink it’s almost unfair.
“What are you—” she starts.
But before she can finish, I shift closer, brushing my hand along her side as I glance up at the guy she was with.
Huh.
Shorter than me by a good few inches. Blond. Dressed like he’s about to present a PowerPoint—pressed button-down shirt, stiff as hell.