“He’s a dick,” Dillon mutters. “I’m glad he’ll be gone soon. I’ll have next year all to myself.”

I refocus, doing my best to shake it off and be my normal, goddamn fun self—which is quite a feat these days. It doesn’t matter that he’s got an agent. I’m fine.

I slap Dillon on the back. “You’ll make a great QB1.”

“Gonna miss your ass though.”

I laugh. He won’t. He’s got so many friends I can’t keep up with them. I’m more of a small-inner-circle guy, with tons of acquaintances I talk and laugh with but don’t open up to. “Maybe I’ll come back and try to finish my degree if I can’t wrap it up this term.”

He gives me a look. “You’ll get it. Nobody’s got drive and ambition like you.”

Yeah, but other wide receivers are beating me—according to the media.

Maybe I need another workout. I grimace when I realize my muscles need downtime.

I stick my hands in the joggers I threw on after my shower and pose, showing him my profile. “You think this face could sell cars? Is it pretty enough to rack up some commissions?” I give him a grin.

“You’re the prettiest boy on the team after me, but you aren’t going to end up selling cars.” He punches me in the arm. “If you do, it’ll be at one of those high-class Maserati places and girls will be crawling all over you.”

“Hmmm.”

He watches me open my door and toss my bag in. “You wanna get out of here and grab a drink at Cadillac’s? Or hit up The Purple Iris? I hear they’ve got a good band tonight. We’ve got the weekend before classes start and then it’s game on.”

I shake my head. “Told Coach I’d be in bright and early tomorrow to train.”

“You’re a machine, but all work and no play can be borrrring.” He pauses as if he’s going to say something else but stops.

“What?”

He looks away then back at me, rubs his neck. “Saw Charisma on campus earlier today. Seemed like some kind of sorority meeting. She looked hot, had on this black dress and these big heels—”

“Are you trying to piss me off?” My hands ball up.

“Dude.” He takes a step back. “Bros before hoes. I know the code and all. I just thought you might want to know. I didn’t see her with anyone, but then, it was a bunch of girls. You don’t care though, right?” His gaze searches my face. “You were a bit of a bear after that party last fall, and well, you kinda look like you might be headed back down that road again.”

Because ditching her was like tearing a limb from my body. Three times we had sex, and you’d think it wouldn’t mean much, but it had, and that was the problem.

I picture her smiling and laughing with her sorority girls. See, she’s happy, I tell myself, even though there’s a tug inside me that says she’s not, that maybe she’s hurting—

“That ship sailed. I’m done.”

He lets out a low whistle. “I’ll be honest, done doesn’t sit well on your face. I get you’ve got football putting the screws to you, but, man, she’s in your head. You think I didn’t see how you were looking at her at Cadillac’s? Like you’ve got an itch and only she can scratch it. You need to forget her and come out with me.”

I get in my car. She is in my head. Her note is sitting on my nightstand right now because I’m a dumbass who can’t let go of what she wrote.

“Come on, man. Dani and the girls will be there. I’ll invite my cousin Mary if you want. You know, she’s been asking to meet you, and I keep putting her off.”

I crank my truck. “Maybe next time. I want to be fresh tomorrow.”

He shakes his head at me. “I’m gonna hold you to that. Me, you, and some hot girls—it’s going to happen.” He grins.

“Yeah. Soon.” Just let me figure out football first.

8

On Sunday, I’m ready to eat my arm off by the time I pull into the parking lot of Piggly Wiggly. It’s the night before classes start and I’m stocking up.

After grabbing several packs of SlimFast, I find myself standing in front of the pasta aisle, salivating over an image of Ma’s ravioli in my head. Who am I kidding? Dear Diet, you’re boring and tasteless. Instead of losing weight, I’m going to look into those stretching machines and see if I can just get taller.

Feeling frustrated, I zoom past several aisles, aimlessly grabbing salad mix, low-carb chips, and diet soda.

I pass by the cupcakes in the bakery, and my mouth waters at the smell of sweet sugar. I shove on past, muttering under my breath. I glance down at my shirt, which reads I Just Finished My First Marathon (Just Kidding—I’m On My Third Cupcake), then roll my eyes.

Not today, Satan. Not today.

Head to the alcohol! That will help. Do they make low-calorie wine? Yes, yes they do.

I walk past a few people and maneuver to the liquor aisle—then I see him.

Facing away from me, he’s bending down to check out the beer. From this angle, he could be any hot college guy at the grocery store, but the new, longer hair is unmistakable, and I’d know that frame anywhere.

That tight, muscular ass? Best on campus.

I don’t see Dani, and relief washes over me. I’m wary, though. She’s probably back at the makeup section a few aisles back.

He’s about ten feet away, yet his chiseled profile is enough to make me pissed, those broad shoulders enough to make my heart stutter. In his cart are packs of Big Red gum, a giant bag of Cheetos, protein drinks, and beer.

I look around to reroute my shopping and avoid him. The last thing I want is a replay of our bookstore argument a few days ago. Avoidance is the best course of action.

An older lady, maybe in her sixties, appears at the other end of the aisle, facing him. She seems distracted with her phone up to her ear as she talks to someone and bumps into his cart. I hear him apologizing as he moves out of the center of the aisle.

Her phone drops to the floor with a clatter.

Moving like lightning—as usual—he bends down, picks up her phone, and hands it back to her.

She doesn’t take it; her mouth flops open like a fish as she takes him in.

Yeah, he has that effect on most females, but this is different. This isn’t awe.

Blaze is still holding out her phone, and she snatches it out of his hand.

WTF?

Before I know it, I’ve eased in closer, moving slowly as I browse the Zinfandel selection, one eye on the pink wine and one on them.

His feet shuffle. Someone is antsy.

I pick up a bottle of something and pretend to study it.

“Mrs. Wilson…how are you? I—I—” he says softly.

She crosses her arms, seeming to gain back her composure. “Blaze Townsend. What are you doing here?” Her voice drips with a deep, thick Southern accent, someone who’s lived in Mississippi her entire life.

“Ah, I attend Waylon. Just restocking before class—”

“Of course, with alcohol I see.” Her eyes dart to his cart. “Are you even twenty-one?” She purses her lips and continues. “Why wouldn’t you be? You get to grow older. You have a life. Aren’t you the lucky one?”

My hackles rise.

“Yes, ma’am. Have you, um, moved to Magnolia?”

She sniffs and looks down a rather long nose at him. With faded blonde hair up in a French twist, cream slacks paired with a green sweater set, and a silk scarf that looks more expensive than my rent, she smells like old money. I picture her living in a plantation-style mansion, probably with a big porch and Greek columns in the front.

Her voice is cold. “No. Visiting some friends here for the week. They have a house on the lake. We’re retired now. Not much left for us to do in Alma. No grandkids.”

“Right, right. Guess Mr. Wilson isn’t mayor anymore.” He pauses, his hands moving from his legs to his cart, which he clenches like a lifeline. “I—I don’t get back to Alma much—”

“Don’t blame you.”

Her face is scrunched up, as if she smells something horrid, and I set the bottle back down on the shelf. Forget the Zinfandel; I’m outright staring now. FBI mode is on.

He hunches over the cart, leaning his arms on the side. “Right. I love Magnolia, so there’s no reason to go back.”

Bitterness flits over her face. “Good for you. You got the perfect life while my daughter is dead.”

He seems to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. My parents—”

“Your parents.” She spits the words out. “They deserve what they got for killing my Carry-Anne.”

What?

He bows his head and stares at the floor.

“They were useless druggies. Everyone knows that. Only they took her with them.” Her face compresses. “You might be a big football player here, Blaze, but everyone in Alma knows where you came from.”

“I…I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter. I think about her—”

She jabs an unsteady finger at him. “No, don’t think about her. She should be alive right now. She should be married and happy and having babies, but your parents ruined our lives and…and…here you are living yours.” She takes a breath, and her hand rests across her chest as if she’s protecting herself. “Why, you’ve ruined my day.”

“I’m…sorry,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice.