Mia Hill. College bound with an athletic scholarship. A go-getter with big dreams and a fully thought out plan to make sure they come true.
But with her father's release from prison looming and the inevitable stresses of adulting, everything she wa...
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In college, there's one word that can change the energy of an entire room. Especially one that's full of football players. And especially on the heels of an amazing win.
It's a word that makes everyone go crazy. Makes them louder, more obnoxious, more excited. It takes a party from almost there to full swing in a mere half second. And that word is–
"SHOTS!"
Yep, that's it. That's the one.
The team house goes wild and everyone crowds the bar in the living room. Well, they call it a bar, but it's basically just a random slab of countertop sitting on top of stacked concrete squares. My dad would call it an OSHA wet dream.
There's a girl on every barstool, each sporting the jersey of the guy hovering nearby, and Rhodes is filling shot glasses with whiskey. When the girls all lean their heads back, it doesn't take long to realize they're not doing regular shots.
"Hell yeah! Spit shots!" Mitchell shouts as he walks in with Mia's roommate on his arm. He looks over at her and winks. "We got here just in time."
She giggles as they make their way to the bar. They're cute and all, but the sight of her in his jersey makes my stomach do something weird and my eyes travel the room for Mia. I don't see her anywhere, but that's probably for the best if she's still wandering around in Tubman's fucking jersey.
I take a long swig of my beer, glancing back at the bar just as the guys all down their whiskey and proceed to spit the shot into their respective girl's mouth. It's nasty and hot, gross and intriguing all at the same time. A huge crowd pleaser, too, as everyone cheers and another group calls next.
Without permission, my gaze is shifting all around the room again, trying to find Mia. That indescribable pull towards her making itself known, despite my irritation. But instead, all I catch are a few other sets of eager eyes trying to make contact with mine, beautiful girls silently asking if I'll be the guy who spits a shot into their mouth.
I'm not interested. I don't even feel like celebrating the win. And if I was going to spit a shot into anyone's mouth tonight, it wouldn't be any of these jersey chasers. The only girl I'd even consider doing that with is the one who randomly showed up in someone else's jersey today, so that's awesome.
I shouldn't be this out of sorts about it. It's not like she's my girlfriend. It's not like inviting her to the game lays some kind of claim on her. It's not like fucking every other day means we're a couple.
In fact, part of our agreement is that we aren't in a relationship. She didn't do anything wrong, technically, and I'm not supposed to care about this shit at all. Except, here I am... upset that she showed up to a game wearing a number that wasn't mine. There's a good chance I'm just being a butthurt, jealous idiot right now.
"Mia!" Lindsey shrieks. "You have to do a spit shot with us!"
I immediately follow her eyeline straight to the girl in question, my traitor heart ticking away like a time bomb in my chest, elated by the mere anticipation of seeing her.
