She just smiles serenely. “Don’t forget the halo.”
As I shimmy into the dress in my room—and Laura was totally right, my boobs look amazing—I can’t push away the part of me, however petty, that hopes Darryl is there tonight. Maybe Laura’s right. If he sees me dancing with someone else, he’ll get the message that we’re over. It’s not like anything else I’ve done has worked, even though he’s the one who cheated.
As if on cue, my phone screen lights up. Darryl again. I can’t believe that at one point in time I thought this was sweet. Supportive.
Now he makes me want to claw my hair out.
You’re coming tonight, right? I miss my angel.
For some reason, the most annoying part about the message is the way he knows I’m dressing up as an angel. I’ll never be the devil, and maybe that’s part of the problem. He doesn’t believe we’re truly over because he’s used to getting exactly what he wants and I’m not forceful enough to get it through his thick skull that we’re not a couple anymore. Just because he’s an arrogant football player who believes he’s going to marry his college girlfriend and have her follow him around his whole career like half the men in the NFL…
I put on the wings, looking at myself in the mirror over my bedroom door with a frown. They look ridiculous, big and fluffy and not something I’d normally want to wear in front of other people. I grab the halo and put it on too. Somehow, it ties everything together. With some winged eyeliner and matte lipstick for edge?
Darryl will be drawn to me like a moth to a lantern. But hopefully other guys will too.
3
JAMES
I tug at my collar as I follow my brothers up the drive to the frat house. Every lamp in the house must be on because light is spilling out like a jack-o-lantern, and I swear I can feel the bass of the music under my feet. As Cooper puts his hand on the door handle, about to pull it open, I stop him. I take a deep breath as I continue to adjust my collar.
I’ve had a lot of teammates over the years. It’s important to start off on the right foot, especially with the leaders of each group of players. I met most of them through the minicamp earlier this month, but that was formal. Work. They all knew where I came from and what I’ve accomplished, so we put our heads down and got started on season prep. But a social situation like this? That matters more. They might follow my calls on the field because they want to play a good game of football, but for me to actually get to know them and earn their trust, we have to connect socially. I have to get to know each of them, both as individuals and in connection to the team. What are they studying? Who’s going to join me in the league next season and who has other post-graduation plans? Who’s a rookie, who’s coming off an injury, who has a partner I need to remember the name of? I know I can prove myself to them on the field, I’ve been doing that my entire life, but this is a make-or-break moment. I don’t do many parties during the season, so this is it.
And right now, I feel like an ass in my suit.
“We look like a couple of mafia dons,” I say. “Are you sure this is the theme?”
If I go in there in a black suit with a black silk button-down, the top buttons undone and my hair slicked back, and everyone else is in shorts and t-shirts, I will murder my brother. He even convinced me to wear the gold chain I usually only bring out for special occasions. The one consolation I have is that he looks just as ridiculous.
Coop runs his hand through his hair and hits me with a grin. I have no idea how he manages that shaggy mess. He uses his status as McKee’s star defenseman to get away with pretty much everything. “You look good, I promise. What’s more devilish than a bunch of hitmen for the mob?”
“He’s not lying,” Seb says as he adjusts the heavy watch on his wrist. That clunker looks straight out of the 80s. “It is themed, like every other party this frat throws. It’s mostly to get the girls to dress as skimpily as possible.”
Coop claps Seb on the back. “And I for one am ready for some eye candy. Can we go in? Or do you need another moment to angst?”
I stand up straighter. “No, let’s go.”
As the door swings open, I’m hit by a wall of sound. There are people everywhere—and fortunately everyone is dressed as stupidly as we are. Beer pong, a dance floor, strip poker, a bunch of couples making out, a threesome getting going in the corner… seems standard, as far as frat parties go.
A bunch of dudes who must be from the baseball team wave to Seb, who heads over to the beer pong match. A girl wearing the tiniest skirt I’ve ever seen makes eyes at Cooper, who is more than happy to follow her onto the dance floor. If I had to bet, she’s a puck bunny who came to this party hoping to hook up with him specifically. Which leaves me standing in the doorway, scanning for anyone I know from the football team.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles when I realize someone is staring.
Fuck, she’s pretty. An angel in white, complete with feathery wings and a golden halo. She’s leaning against the far wall, watching the mob of dancers, a red solo cup dangling from one delicate hand. Her hair, a strawberry-blonde, falls in waves around her face, framing big, dark eyes. Her heels make her legs look long and supple. I almost take a step forward, magnetized by the way she’s looking at me, but then I hear my name.
I turn to look for the source of the voice, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl shift and head for the dance floor.
“Callahan,” the voice says again. I recognize it now; it belongs to Bo Sanders, one of the offensive tackles and a fellow senior heading into the league come fall. He’s so tall he practically towers over the rest of the partygoers. Case in point: I’m 6 foot 2, and I have to look up to meet his eyes. I can’t wait until he’s fucking squashing the opponents’ defensive lines. With him in my corner, I’ll have days to make my passes.
When he reaches me, he presses a beer into my hand and claps me on the back. “Nice to see you, man.”
“Sanders,” I say, clapping him back. “Fuck, you’re rocking the suit better than half the boys here.”
He’s in a deep red suit, complete with a handkerchief folded into his pocket. The color looks great against his deep brown complexion.
“This is my pregame fit,” he says. “Primetime, baby.”
“Forget pregame, you look draft ready. Everyone else here?”
“We’re in the next room playing poker.”
I groan. “Not strip, I hope.”
“Like you have anything to worry about,” he practically shouts over his shoulder as I follow him through the crowd. The music is thrumming inside me, loosening me up.
I’d like to say I’m beyond noticing every look we get, but I’m not there yet. It comes with the territory, being the number one ranked college quarterback in the country, not to mention the fact I’m good-looking. Most everyone knows my face and my skillset. And the female attention isn’t something to complain about. As we squeeze by a large group, a girl sticks a scrap of paper with what must be her number on it into my waistband.
Tempting, but the bigger part of me wants to go back to the dance floor, find that little strawberry-blonde angel, and ask her for a dance.
“Callahan!” someone else practically roars as Sanders nudges me forward. I recognize most of the guys in the room, which sets me at ease. There’s our kicker Mike Jones, and Demarius Johnson, one of the best receivers in the college game. Darryl Lemieux, another key receiver in my weapon arsenal. Jackson Vetch, the rookie who will be my backup QB.
Not that I’m planning on giving him a minute of gametime. He can take over next year when I’m in the NFL.
I settle down next to Darryl on the couch. He’s part of the poker game, but he’s not paying attention; he’s grouching about his girlfriend. Or wait—ex-girlfriend?
“You can’t help if she doesn’t want to be with your ugly ass anymore,” Sanders says, which earns a laugh from the rest of the guys. I agree; what’s the point in pining over someone who doesn’t want you anymore?
But Darryl is my new teammate, which means I’m on his side.
“I’m sure she’ll come around and realize what she’s missing,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t even worry about it.” I take a long sip of beer, relishing in the crispness. Even if everyone else gets shitfaced, this is the one drink I’m allowing myself tonight.
“You know what?” Darryl says. “Fuck her. She’s no better than any of the other girls I’ve had.”
“Her tits are nice,” says Fletch, one of the D-men.
“She was stuck up,” Darryl declares. “Always so fucking busy. It’s like she left me no choice but to look elsewhere.”