BLINDSIDED BY FALLING FOR HIM

"Small World" The first time I saw Jaxon Cole, I hated him on principle before he'd even said a word. That's not entirely fair. He said several words within about ninety seconds of meeting me, and every single one of them made the hatred feel more like foresight than prejudice. "This is Sloan?" he said to my brother, like I wasn't standing right there with a duffel bag digging into my shoulder and three weeks of nervous energy about starting college finally catching up to me all at once. "This is the prodigy you won't shut up about?" For a moment I was proud and happy that my brother talks about me until he opened his mouth "Don't," Marcus said, already laughing. "She still bites, you know." "Good. I like a challenge." I looked him over — tall, obnoxiously put-together for someone apparently just walking across a parking lot, a smirk that suggested he'd never once in his life doubted whether a room wanted him in it and decided on the spot that I was going to enjoy disliking him. "You're the friend who broke his hand punching a vending machine," I said. "Marcus told me about you. Sophomore year. Over a bag of chips." Damn did i just say that with confidence when i was not even sure if he was the one Something flickered surprise, maybe, that I'd come armed. "It was Doritos. And they were stuck." "Sure they were." "Wow." He looked at Marcus. "She's worse than you said." "Told you," Marcus said, way too proud of himself, tossing my duffel into the trunk like this was all very funny and not the actual worst possible way to start my first day on campus. "Jax, this is my sister. Sloan, this is Jax. He's harmless. Mostly." "I'm going to remember this conversation," I told Jax, sliding into the back seat, "the next time you try to be charming at me." "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, and the way he said it like a promise he had no intention of keeping should have been my first warning. We didn't see each other again the rest of that day. Marcus dropped me at my dorm, Jax disappeared into whatever version of his life existed off my radar, and I told myself it didn't matter that this was a school of thirty thousand people and the odds of running into your brother's ridiculous friend more than once a semester were basically nonexistent. I had bigger things to think about. Syllabus week. A playbook the size of a phone book. The particular, specific pressure of being the only freshman, the only woman — who'd walked onto this team with a starting job already half-promised to her, if she could prove in three weeks of camp that she deserved it. I did not think about Jaxon Cole again until eleven days later, standing in a film room that smelled like turf and old coffee, while Coach Reyes cleared his throat in front of forty-three athletes who were all, without exception, staring at me like I'd grown a second head. "Some of you have heard the rumors," Coach Reyes said. "I'm here to confirm them. This is Sloan Whitaker. Freshman. She earned her spot on this roster the same way everybody in this room did camp, film, and an arm I'd put up against anybody we've got." A pause, the kind coaches use like a weapon. "She's QB2 behind Marks, and by October, I expect that competition to be a real one. Any of you have a problem with that, my office is down the hall." Marks leaned toward the guy next to him and muttered something low enough that Coach shouldn't have caught it except he did, his head turning, mouth already opening to ask what exactly was so funny. He never got the chance. A low, disbelieving laugh cut through the room first the kind that carried, the kind that was clearly meant to and every head, Coach's included, swung toward the third row instead. I found the sound before I found the face, and my stomach dropped straight through the floor. Jaxon Cole was sitting in a Wolverines practice jersey, cleats up on the seat in front of him, looking at me like the punchline of a joke he'd just figured out. "You," he said, not even bothering to lower his voice. "You've got to be kidding me." "Cole." Coach Reyes's voice went flat in warning. "No, it's — " Jax was still staring at me, and the smirk from eleven days ago was back, sharper now, recalibrating in real time. "Small world, Coach. Real small." Forty-two other players turned to look between us, and I understood, with the sinking, humiliating clarity of someone watching her own life rearrange itself without permission, that whatever this year was going to be the pressure, the scrutiny, the fight to prove I belonged in this room I was going to be doing it two feet away from my brother's obnoxious best friend, every single day, whether I liked it or not. "You two know each other?" Coach Reyes asked, already sounding like he regretted the question. "He's my brother's friend," I said, at the exact moment Jax said: "I'm her problem now, apparently." Coach Reyes looked between us for a long, assessing second, and something about his expression, thoughtful, calculating, the exact look he got before he changed a play call made the back of my neck go cold. "Good," Coach said. "Then you already know each other well enough. With the competition coming up, I want you getting as much practice as possible. You'll be sharing an off-campus house this season, so Jax can help you train whenever you're needed. I expect you two to make the most of it." My head snapped toward him. "Wait. We're what?" Jax's smirk didn't move. But his eyes did — flicking to me with something that wasn't quite a challenge and wasn't quite an apology, something I wouldn't have a name for until much later. "Copy that, Coach," he said. "I'll take real good care of her." I already knew, with total certainty, that I was going to hate every second of it. I had absolutely no idea yet how wrong I was.