“Can’t you come up with something else? I’ll sing in the cafeteria if you want me to. Tap dance in the quad.” Does this school have a quad? If they do, I’ll find it and—
“Sing in the cafeteria?” Someone scoffs. “The Gammas do that during sorority pledge week.”
“And none of y’all get in trouble?”
Ronnie taps her foot, sole clicking on the pavement from impatience. “First of all, the longer we stand here debating this, the longer it’s going to take once we’re inside. If you want to draw it out so it takes an eternity, that’s your problem, not mine. Secondly, it’s not the end of the world.” Her blood red nail points to the house. “March inside and find a guy, ask him on a date, and bring his sorry ass over so we can make sure you’ve completed your mission. After that, you can run home and crawl into bed and forget the entire thing ever happened.”
My mission.
Ha!
“The guy doesn’t even have to know what you’re up to.”
But I will know what I’m up to, and the dozens of them will know what I’m up to.
My gut clenches.
See, the thing is: I don’t have to do this.
I know I don’t.
Logically and realistically, I know I can walk away right now and go home—that would be the right thing to do.
Nothing will happen to me other than…
…these girls not accepting me as one of them.
Treating me like a bottom feeder for the remainder of my time here.
And while I don’t need to be their best friends (let’s face it, who wants friends like this), it will certainly make life easier.
Crap.
Crap, crap, crap.
“We can’t stand out here all night. My feet are getting sore.” Tamlin flashes her gams, feet buckled into heels that have to be four inches high. How she walks in those is beyond me. “Don’t tell me I wore these shoes for nothin’.”
Tamlin is from the south, too, but her accent is thicker than mine.
“Fine.”
“Remember,” says a vaulter named Clarissa, “he has to be ugly. Like, you wouldn’t want to bang him.”
Ugly.
“Would you please not use that word?” My good conscience shivers. “I’m not here to bang anyone, let alone a guy inside this house. I’m here for a degree.” And I’ve almost got it.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, move it along Miss Smarty-Pants.” Ronnie nudges me toward the house. “Blah blah blah, study, study. We get it.”
Having had enough, I stalk toward the door, long hurdle runner’s legs taking the pavers in stride, stomping angrily up the ramshackle steps.
As if I wasn’t nervous enough, one of the boards is rotten and needs to be replaced, causing me to misstep and almost trip the entire rest of the way forward.
The front door swings open before I can reach for the knob, noise and bright light blinding me.
Behind me, ten members of the university’s women’s track team press against my back, smiles pasted on their faces, simpering salutations streaming from their mouths.
“Well, well, well, look who it is,” a tall guy says, ushering us inside. “Ronnie Baker, fastest girl in town. Haven’t seen you out in an age.” He leans down to kiss her on the cheek.
“Aww, Nate, fastest girl in town? You’re so sweet.” She reaches up to itch the bottom of his stubbly chin. “Where’s the keg? Back deck or kitchen?”
His mammoth hand points. “Back deck.”
She blows him a kiss. “We have a curfew this weekend so we won’t be staying long. Training starts Monday.”
“But you’re here now.” He wiggles his eyebrows and slides an arm around her waist. “Let me have one of the rookies get you something to drink.”
Nate’s arm rises, and he cocks a finger until two brooding lummoxes amble our direction; he promptly gives them instructions to fetch ten cups of their finest cheap beer on tap.
I assess them.
Both tall.
Both average.
One smiling, one frowning.
The girls watch me watching the boys, smirks aplenty.
My head shakes. No. Neither of them will do because, dress them up? They’d be passably handsome.
Unfortunately for me, I have to stand here awkwardly scanning the room like a creep, eyes darting here and there, narrowly avoiding eye contact with a few dudes trying to meet mine.
Not today, bro. Not today.
Not him.
Not him.
Not that guy. Or that one.
Not the guy behind the makeshift bar dealing cards to a few girls.
And most certainly not the freshly shaved prep with the pink polo shirt standing in the corner—way too good-looking.
Every single one of these guys seems too confident.
Too big, too cocky.
Too in shape to be unattractive.
I won’t lie, one of the things that attracts me is a guy who takes care of his body the same way I take care of mine; he doesn’t have to be perfect, but if he’s not eating slop for every meal and exercising?
I call that a win.
Why would they bring me to a house full of athletes? It’s just setting me up for failure! These guys are all attract—