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DAMON

I take a seat in the back of the already packed lecture room.

It’s a small classroom, unlike some of the huge lecture halls I’m used to, but I shouldn’t be surprised.

I can’t imagine “The Good Life on a Buck a Day,” also known as Tightwaddery, is one of the more popular classes.

Hell, the only reason I took it is because I needed electives, and I figured it was an easy A.

Lifting the paper coffee cup to my lips, I take a sip, scanning the room for familiar faces.

Shit. Who am I kidding? I’m not searching for just any familiar face; I’m searching for hers.

Ever since I saw Avery, my ex-girlfriend?my ex- everything ?after our quarterfinal win a week ago, I’ve been on high alert.

The image of her in a tight sweater and jeans, golden curls spilling over her shoulders as she smiled, is etched in my brain, and even though I have it on good authority through old friends that she’s transferring to Ann Arbor, I still can’t believe it.

At least, not until I’ve laid eyes on her myself.

At about a four-hour drive, Ann Arbor is a haul from our hometown of Pittsburgh, so her presence here in the campus hangout, Bradd’s, must mean the rumors are true: she’s now a student at Ann Arbor. And I’m fucked.

With nerves jumping in my stomach, I take one more lap around the room with my gaze, only relaxing back into my seat when I confirm she’s nowhere to be found.

Shaking my head at myself, I nearly laugh.

I’m being stupid. Paranoid.

With over fifty thousand students and a three-thousand-acre campus, even if she is a student here, the odds of her being in one of my classes?especially this class?is slim to none.

I have zero reason to believe I’ll run into her again.

The bar where I saw her was purely a coincidence.

As one of the most popular hangouts for local students, it’s not a surprise she might find her way to Bradd’s.

Reaching down to my bag on the floor, I pull out a notebook and pencil.

I’ve had Professor Karr for several classes before, and I know how much he values taking notes as well as punctuality.

He’s also a stickler for attendance. Not that I make a habit of skipping classes, but still.

Even if this class is a cakewalk like I expect, these next few weeks are going to be fucking crazy.

With only two more games to go, I’m this close to a College Football Playoff National Championship title.

“Is this seat taken?”

I freeze at the familiar sound of the voice coming from my right. It’s feminine and soft, a voice I’d know anywhere, and for a second, I wonder if I somehow conjured her from my thoughts.

My grip tightens on the pencil and notebook in my hands.

Time slows as I stare down at the desk in front of me, knowing I need to acknowledge her but not wanting to.

What would she do if I ignore her? Would she give up and go away?

The Avery I used to know would. Yet, somehow, I find my gaze slowly lifting to hers, as if I need to see her with my own two eyes, to confirm she’s really here, standing beside my desk in this weird-ass class, rather than a figment of my imagination.

There was a time when I hoped and prayed this day would come, that she’d come to her senses and seek me out.

If that’s even what this is. I have no idea what Avery Astor could want from me after all this time.

I gave up on whimsical dreams and wishes long ago, choosing instead to focus on the fact she really had dumped my ass and accepted admission at a college across the country?Harvard, to be exact.

I blink up at her, and seeing her again is like a gut punch. The air wheezes from my lungs at the sight of her standing beside my desk, her hazel eyes locked on mine.

Not much about her has changed, that much I can assess in the seconds I let my eyes drift over her—same confident posture, same eyes that once undid me with a glance.

The silky blonde curls I used to run my fingers through spill over her shoulders.

The shapely mouth I once knew by heart curves into the softest of smiles.

My heart hammers in my chest as she clears her throat. I’m still staring, and realize I haven’t said anything.

“Hey, QB,” she murmurs, her voice soft.

I flinch at her use of my nickname from high school. The memories it invokes latch onto my heart and squeeze.

I glance away from her, unable to look at her any longer, the urge to flee needling beneath the surface of my skin.

Frantically gathering my things, I reach down for my pack when the door at the front of the classroom slams closed and Professor Karr rushes inside, his clipped stride eating the ancient linoleum.

A glance at the clock tells me it’s 10:31 a.m., which means class has officially started.

Fuck.

I settle back into my chair and drop my bag on the floor, knowing if I even so much as think of leaving now that Karr’s here, he’ll call me out on it.

Among Karr’s penchant for taking attendance and punctuality, he’s also discriminating when it comes to athletes?as in, he enjoys giving us a hard time.

It’s like the man assumes we’re all slackers and is convinced that since we have scholarships, we need to earn our right to be here more so than our peers.

Beside me, Avery wordlessly slides in the empty seat as I bite back a hiss.

What are the fucking odds?

If I had the energy, I’d run the numbers, because they can’t be good.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to calm myself as Karr introduces himself, then launches into his diatribe on what to expect from this class while I squirm in my seat.

The sheer proximity of her is giving me hives, and it’s not lost on me that I won the fucking semifinals in college football with more grace than how I’m handling the mere sight of my ex.

I try to listen as Karr shifts gears and starts his first lecture, but absorbing his words proves impossible when I can feel Avery’s eyes on me, heavy on the side of my face.

In my periphery, I can see her pick up a pencil and start jotting down notes, which jolts me into action. I should probably do the same as Karr starts in on the lesson What is frugality? And why do we equate spending with happiness?

The irony of an Astor being in a course about frugality is fucking poetic.

With robotic movements, I copy down whatever Karr puts on the whiteboard, but it’s all gibberish. I can’t make out a single word because my thoughts are reeling.

Why the hell is she here? Why now?

It can’t possibly be for me, considering she’s obviously been on campus for more than a week and has yet to seek me out.

It’s not like I’m hard to find. Not to be cocky, but it wouldn’t matter whether there are fifty thousand students or five hundred thousand; all she’d have to do is say my name and anyone associated with the school would send her to the athlete apartments.

Hell, by now, the entire state and football fans across the nation, know my name.

It comes with the territory of being a star player in the Big Ten and one of the best quarterbacks in all of college football.

Yet I hadn’t heard a peep from her. No text telling me she was transferring schools.

No messages wondering if we could reconnect or have coffee.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Which can mean only one thing: Whatever Avery Astor’s reasons for transferring, they have absolutely nothing to do with me.

I let that sink in. It shouldn’t hurt, but the pinching behind my ribs doesn’t lie.

Each minute on the clock feels like forever as I watch the second hand slowly tick by.

An eternity later, Karr calls the class to an end, and I all but jump up from my seat.

Collecting my things in record time, I hightail it out of the classroom, barely acknowledging several congratulations on my first semifinal win last week from my classmates as I pass.

I all but sprint through the lobby, headed for the giant metal doors that lead outside. Pushing them open, I step out into freshly fallen snow.

White powder covers the ground everywhere, thick flakes falling from the sky like tufts of cotton as I tuck my chin down and head in the direction of my next class, when I feel a hand on my arm, stopping me.

“Damon, wait?”

I whirl around, certain it can’t be her, because it takes some serious balls to try and talk to me after all this time. But when I lay eyes on her again, I immediately want to pluck them out. Because looking at her hurts.

Hazel eyes. Smooth, soft skin. Golden hair like a halo.

I swallow as snowflakes cling to her long lashes above rosy-red cheeks that showcase the soft smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, barely visible beneath her makeup.

I clench my jaw until it aches, moving my arm so her hand falls away.

The first hint of emotion flickers in her eyes, but I can’t read her, and the realization stings. There was a time when I could read her every thought, where I could finish her sentences.

Not anymore.

This new Avery is a stranger to me, no more familiar than an actor on a movie screen playing a part. Then again, did I ever really know her?

“What?” I snap.

She winces, but I can’t find it in me to feel sorry for my biting tone.

“Can we . . .” Her gaze flickers to the coffee cup in my hand, the one I’m currently crushing in my fist. “I was wondering if we could talk. Maybe get a coffee and catch up?”

My jaw twitches, every muscle in my body as tense as a bowstring while I stare into the eyes of a stranger before I shake my head, turn, and walk away.