He gestures towards the bench, and two guys stand up. One of them, Sean Cabot, has a reddish farmer’s tan that accentuates his bulging biceps and a Huntston University ball cap pulled low over his forehead, which Coach McCoy promptly smacks off his head. Sean nudges someone in the first row, who stands to join them as Coach introduces the second guy.
Roman Bailey has dark brown skin, close-cropped black hair, and a wide smile. He’s laughing as he bends to pick up Sean’s hat, tossing it to the third guy when Sean reaches for it. Sean pushes Roman in a way that suggests they’re good friends, and Coach’s amused scolding tells me that, overall, this is a good-natured group of people. Coach McCoy certainly has an interesting sense of humor.
All my thoughts come to a screeching halt when Coach McCoy gestures to the last captain, drawing my eyes away from the two guys now grappling and towards the third guy. It’s the same person that was standing earlier, and I recognize him immediately. I even remember his name before Coach introduces him.
How could I ever forget?
My eyes roam over his tall, lean body. His black shorts show off his perfectly toned thighs that make my mind go south beforeI avert them to his grey team shirt, but the sight of his biceps isn’t much safer. The olive tones of his skin are deeper than I remember, but it’s possible he spent the summer somewhere sunny. I can easily imagine him jogging shirtless on a beach somewhere. There isn’t a hair out of place, his deep chestnut hair neatly coiffed and combed to the side, giving him a regal look. Like an athletic Disney prince.
Despite recognizing him right away, I don’t actually know Lincoln Beckett. I’ve only met him once andmetis a stretch. But after our short interaction in the strangest match of my wrestling career to date—certainly the most memorable—I sometimes think of him. I’ve always wondered what happened to him, if he was okay, or how deep the shock and fear I saw in his eyes had gone. I wondered what would have happened if I’d followed him when he stormed off the floor. I almost did, but I saw a few people follow him, and I figured it was best to let it go.
His dark eyes lock on mine and widen. I think he must recognize me too, which makes me smile. He seems taken aback by it, and scowls at me, which is both concerning and kind of cute. I raise an eyebrow, trying to have a mental conversation with a complete stranger, and his eyes turn stoney.
Something tells me he’s not happy to see me, but his reaction is…something.
It’s a start. I’ll take it.
CHAPTER 3
BECK
My pulse hasn’t returned to normal since orientation ended.
I pretend to listen while Coach splits the team into groups. The freshmen are herded off for paperwork and presentations, while the upperclassmen are left to mingle and explore some of the upgrades around the facility. But all I can see ishim.
Brody Miller. Standing here. Inmygym. Withmyteam.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real.How? Why?
I force my eyes away from him and walk away, angling myself towards whoever happens to be on the opposite side of the room from him. Sean and Roman peel away to help Coach organize the first-years.
Everyone is in high spirits, breaking off into smaller groups to catch up with old friends and discuss the year ahead. Cade and Fish run off to race up the new climbing ropes in the corner of the gym. There’s chatter and laughter all around me. I’m considerably less excited, and by the looks that my friends and teammates keep giving me, I’m not hiding it well enough. I’m on edge, trying to mask my nerves with a flat expression and indifference.
I might throw up. My lungs feel like they’re on the verge of collapse.
Why is he here?
What does he want?
Is he talking about me right now? Is he going to tell anyone about what really happened that day, why I lost so spectacularly?
Is he going to tell everyone my secret?
Brody’s grin looked awfully knowing when he saw me. And his eyes… The spark of recognition left no question that he knew who I was. He remembered every humiliating second of that match.
My stomach drops so violently I almost crumple to the ground.
He knows what happened to me that day. And now he’s here, not just in the same building, but on my fucking team.
I hover near the edge of the mats, pretending to check my phone just to look busy. Across the room, I hear him being introduced to more of my friends and teammates. His laugh is warm and easy, like he’s known everyone for years. He’s clearly the friendly, charismatic, never-met-a-stranger type. He doesn’t even have to try to get everyone to like him right off the bat.
The tension in my neck and shoulders bleeds up into the back of my head, a headache throbbing to life. I force myself to breathe as I listen to him laugh and joke around while other guys gossip about the new guy. I drink it all in greedily, because I need to know everything about him. More importantly, I need to knoweverything he’s saying without getting close enough to tempt fate.
So far, all I’ve overheard are discussions about where he moved from and his impressive stats. No one seems to know why he transferred, but they’re all excited to have another heavyweight champion on the team. I home in on their conversations while I do an internet search for his name. If he has better stats than I do, I’m going to be pissed.
There’s a ripple of laughter, and it feels like a reaction to my thoughts, like everyone here can sense my weakness.Hislaughter is the loudest. It grates on my nerves and makes my head throb harder.
I close my eyes, and instantly I’mback there. Flat on my back in the championship match, staring up into those blue eyes as every muscle in my body locked and betrayed me.
