She never did pull punches.

I haven’t called her like I should have, but I needed distance from this place and everyone here. I tried in the beginning, but when she’d bring up school and the football games and her classes and everyday things about the day-to-day at Camden, I felt that pit of emptiness tugging at me, a dark hole of memories and people I didn’t want to think about. Her life went on—as it should have—while I was stuck wallowing in the past.

“But you’re here now.” She smiles, but there’s a wobbly quality to it.

“Yeah.” I give her a wan smile, putting as much effort into it as I can. Her parents were the ones who took me to the hospital last year. Nice people. Hardworking. Not rich. She’s a scholarship student like me and got into Camden because her math and science scores are insane. She lives here in Sugarwood while I commute from the group home. Before I turned sixteen, a nun brought me to school in an old yellow van.

She jumps when she hears her name over the intercom, talking fast as lightning. “Yikes! I need to run. My mom is here. Can you believe I forgot my laptop on the first day? I’m such a ditz! See you in class, ’kay? We have first period together, yes?” She gives me a quick hug. “You got this.”

But, do I?

Truly, I want to run and get back in my car and leave this place behind forever, but then I think about my little brother Tyler. Goals…must stick to them.

Before I can get a word out—typical—she’s gone and bouncing down the hall like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh.

I miss her immediately, feeling the heat of everyone’s eyes on me.

It’s funny how no one really noticed me during my freshman and sophomore year here. Nope. I was the girl who kept her head down and blended in as well as I could, trying to keep my upbringing off the radar…until the summer before junior year when I ran into Chance at a bookstore and he showed interest. Then when school started, I got it in my head to be a cheerleader. Mostly, I told myself it would look good on my college applications, plus I assumed it would take less time than soccer or tennis—but the truth is I did it for him. I wanted Chance and Friday night football games and parties with the in crowd.

Just.

Stupid.

The lockers seem a million miles away as I push past all the onlookers, my hands clenched around the straps of my backpack. Whispers from the students rise and grow and spread like a wave in the ocean.

And of course…

The Grayson brothers are the first Sharks I see, holding court with several girls as they lean against the wall. Knox and Dane. Twins.

I flick my gaze in their direction, keeping my resting bitch face sharp and hard, taking in the two guys, their matching muscular builds, tall with broad shoulders. They may look almost identical, but they’re like night and day. Knox is the cold one, never smiling, that scar slicing through his cheek and into his upper lip, disrupting the curve of his mouth and the perfection of his face. I swallow. Screw him.

I refuse to spend this year afraid.

His lips twitch as if he reads my mind, that slash on his mouth curling up in a twisted movement, and I glare at him.

You don’t scare me, my face says.

He smirks.

Thick mahogany hair curls around his collar and his eyes are a piercing gray, like metal, sharp and intense, framed by a fringe of black lashes. His scrutiny doesn’t miss much and makes me antsy—has since freshman year when I’d catch him looking at me, studying me as if I were a strange bug. When I’d get the guts to boldly look back—Like what you see?—he’d huff out a derisive laugh and keep walking. I’m beneath him. A speck. He as much as said so after our first game last year.

“What do you want?” he says with a sneer as I ease in the football locker room. Cold eyes flick over my cheer skirt then move up and land on the hollow of my throat. It’s not cool enough at night for our sweater uniform so tonight my top is the red and white V-cut vest with CP embroidered on my chest.

“Where’s Chance?”

He stiffens then huffs out a laugh and whips off his sweat-covered jersey along with the pads underneath.

His shoulders are broad and wide, his chest lightly dusted with sparse golden hair, tan from the sun, rippling with powerful muscles, leading down to a tapered and trim waist. He has a visible six-pack, and my gaze lingers briefly on a small tattoo on his hip, but I can’t tell what it is. He isn’t brawny or beefy-looking like one might expect from a guy blessed with his athletic prowess, but sculpted and molded and—

Dropping my gaze, I stare at the floor. I shouldn’t be ogling him. Chance is my guy.

I hear male laughter from one of the rooms that branch off from the locker room, maybe the showers, and I deflate, guessing that’s where Chance is.

Glancing up, I intend to ask him to tell Chance I came by to congratulate him on his two touchdowns, but my voice is frozen. Knox has unlaced his grass-stained pants and is shucking them off. His legs are heavily muscled and taut, unlike the leaner build of Chance. His slick underwear is black and tight, cupping his hard ass, the outline of his crotch—

“Like what you see, charity case? You can look, but you can’t touch.”

Anger soars, replacing my embarrassment. I know I'm just the scholarship girl at Camden, but why does he have to constantly remind me?

“Don't worry about me touching anything. I don’t like ugly.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I meant his superior attitude, not his face, but I see the moment when he freezes and takes it the wrong way.

He touches his face, tracing his scar while his jaw pops. “Get out. Only players allowed in here.”

I pivot and go for the door, forcing myself not to run. “Asshole,” I mutter.

His laughter follows me.

Rumor is he doesn’t kiss girls on the lips, but no matter how bad that scar screws up his face, he’s still the head Shark nonetheless.

Today, he’s wearing a fitted white button-up, his tie loose as if he’s already annoyed with it. He spends a lot of time in the gym, I imagine, working on that muscular body, maintaining that quarterback status. He holds my gaze for several seconds before dropping his and looking down at his phone.

I hear him laugh under his breath.

Some things never change.

Dane is a near replica except his face is Adonis perfect, his hair longer and shoulder-length, brushing his shoulders. He’s the same height as Knox, about six three, but his jawline is more angular, thinner. And his eyes? Oh, boy. They’re road maps, bloodshot as hell.

Yeah, they were both at the party.

Fear brushes across my spine and my body tenses. That night, someone (the person who picked me up) placed me on one of the couches on Piper’s front porch. Then he rang the doorbell and left before Piper’s mom came to the door. Sometimes, I wonder if that person might have been—

All thoughts stop, and my feet stumble when I see who’s next to Knox: Chance. I get a good look at how he pales, his blue eyes flaring at me as he shoves his hand into his sandy-blond hair.

That’s right, dickhead, here I am: Ava, version 2.0.

Gone is the girl he kissed like he meant it.

Familiar shame rises up inside me, and I battle it down. What happened was not my fault. Even though the drug test said I didn’t have any drugs in my system (only alcohol), I refuse to believe it. Or maybe it was just the alcohol. I don’t know, and it drives me insane.