It’s John Logan.

Yep, John Logan. AKA the star defenseman of the hockey team. I know this not just because Ramona has been stalking his friend Dean for months, but because his sexy, chiseled face was on the cover of the school newspaper last week. Since the team’s championship win, the paper has run feature interviews with all the players, and I’m not going to lie—Logan’s interview was the only one I paid any attention to.

Because the guy is smoking hot.

Like the blonde, he looks startled to find me in the hallway, and like the blonde, he recovers quickly from his surprise and flashes me a grin.

Then he zips up his pants.

Oh my God.

I cannot believe he just did that. My gaze involuntarily drops to his groin, but he doesn’t seem bothered by that either. He cocks a brow, shrugs, and then walks away.

Wow. Okay.

That should have icked me out. Forget the very obvious bathroom hook-up. The zipper move alone should have placed him directly in douchebag territory.

Instead, knowing he’d just fooled around with that girl in the bathroom evokes a rush of jealousy I don’t expect.

I’m not saying I want to have a random hook-up in a bathroom, but—

Fine, I’m lying. I totally want that. At least with John Logan, I do. The thought of his hands and lips all over me unleashes a flurry of hot shivers that shimmy up my spine.

Why can’t I fool around with guys in bathrooms? I’m in college, damn it. I’m supposed to be having fun and making mistakes and “finding myself”, but I haven’t done jack shit this year. I’ve been living vicariously through Ramona, watching my bad girl best friend take risks and try new things, while I, the good girl, stand there clinging to the cautious approach to life that my father drilled into me when I was still in diapers.

Well, I’m tired of being cautious. And I’m tired of being the good girl. The semester is almost over. I have two exams to study for and a Psych paper to write, but who says I can’t do all that and still squeeze some actual fun in there?

There are only a few weeks left in my freshman year. And you know what? I plan on making good use of them.

2

Logan

I’ve decided to ease back on the partying. And that’s not just because I got so trashed last night that Tucker had to haul me over his shoulder and cart me upstairs to my bedroom because I was too dizzy to walk.

Though that was a major factor in the decision-making process.

So now it’s Friday night, and not only did I turn down a party invite from one of the guys on the team, but I’m still nursing the same glass of whiskey I poured more than an hour ago. I also haven’t taken a single hit off the joint Dean keeps shoving in my direction.

We’re hanging out at our place tonight, braving the early-April chill as we huddle together in the small backyard. I take a drag of my cigarette while Dean, Tucker and our teammate, Mike Hollis, pass around the joint, and I’m only half-listening to Dean’s incredibly raunchy recap of the sex he had last night. My mind keeps wandering back to my own hook-up—the sexy-as-sin sorority sister who’d lured me into one of the upstairs bathrooms and had her way with me.

I might have been drunk and my memory might be a bit hazy, but I definitely remember fingering her until she came all over my hand. And I absolutely remember being on the receiving end of a pretty spectacular BJ. I don’t plan on telling Tuck about it, though. You know, since apparently he’s keeping a tally of my hook-ups. Nosy bastard.

“Wait, back up. You did what?”

Hollis’s exclamation jars me back to the present.

“I sent her a dick pic.” Dean says this as if it’s something he does every day.

Hollis gawks at him. “Really? You sent her a picture of your junk? What, like some kind of fucked-up sex souvenir?”

“Naah. More like an invitation for another round,” Dean answers with a grin.

“How the hell will that make her want to sleep with you again?” Hollis sounds doubtful now. “She probably thinks you’re a douche.”

“No way, dude. Chicks appreciate a nice cock shot. Trust me.”

Hollis presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

I flick my ash on the grass and take another drag. “Just out of curiosity, what constitutes a ‘nice cock shot’? I mean, is it the lighting? The pose?”

I’m being sarcastic, but Dean responds in a solemn voice. “Well, the trick is, you’ve gotta keep the balls out of it.”

That gets a loud hoot out of Tucker, who chokes mid-sip on his beer.

“Seriously,” Dean insists. “Balls aren’t photogenic. Women don’t want to see them.”

Hollis’s laughter spills over, his breaths coming out in white puffs that float away in the night air. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, man. It’s kinda sad.”

I laugh too. “Wait, is that what you do when you’re in your room with the door locked? Take photos of your cock?”

“Oh, come on, like I’m the only one who’s ever taken a dick pic.”

“You’re the only one,” Hollis and I say in unison.

“Bullshit. You guys are liars.” Dean suddenly realizes that Tucker hadn’t voiced a denial, and wastes no time pouncing on our teammate’s silence. “Ha. I knew it!”

I arch a brow and glance at Tuck, who may or may not be blushing under the five inches of beard growth on his face. “Really, man? Really?”