Chapter One
DREW
I saw her first.
That fact matters to me.
Maybe it shouldn’t.
Definitely caveman logic—maybe the offensive coordinator is right and I do, in fact, approach life like a man trying to tackle fate with his bare hands.
Doesn’t matter.
I saw her first.
The preseason athlete mixer is the usual kind of nonsense—expensive on accident, casual on purpose, and packed with beautiful people pretending this is all normal. Somebody rented out a stretch of beach just south of campus and scattered bonfires, string lights, coolers, and enough branded towels and sponsored surfboards to make the whole thing feel like a marketing team discovered salt air.
Athletes everywhere.
Basketball boys with model faces and too much confidence.
Soccer girls with long legs and killer calves.
Volleyball players who look like they could ruin your life and then block you at the net.
Swimmers, rowers, tennis kids, a few baseball guys already acting like minor league legends.
And me.
Drew Travers.
Wide receiver.
Junior.
Built like a problem.
I’m in one of my hoodies with the sleeves hacked off because God made my biceps too jacked for standard fabric and I refuse to apologize for that. The hoodie used to be black. Now it’s more like charcoal with ambition and frayed edges. I took kitchen scissors to it sometime last year and never looked back.
“What?” I told Jace the first time he laughed. “My arms are an elite campus resource. Why hide them?”
I grab a beer from the ice bin, hook the neck between two fingers, and scan the beach like a man with excellent priorities.
That’s when I see her.
Tall enough to matter.
Tan enough to look like summer itself picked a favorite.
Deep brown hair with caramel in it, long and glossy even in firelight. The kind of hair men want to ruin with their hands and women probably ask about in bathrooms. Lean, athletic body with curves in all the places a man like me stops pretending he believes in God’s fairness. Tiny little gold hoops in her ears. White sundress. Cowboy boots, because apparently the state of Texas itself showed up and put on lip gloss.
Beauty queen hot.
But not sweet.
I can tell from here.
She’s standing near one of the driftwood tables with two other girls, head tilted, one hand wrapped around a plastic cup,and there’s something in the set of her mouth that says if you say the wrong thing, she’ll cut you with it and sleep beautifully after.
