One of the girls in nice. Mindy. She’s the one who offered to keep me company while Gage is practicing. The rest of them scan me like I’m a barcode and decide, apparently, that I need some work. “Oh my God, that skirt,” says one of them–a pretty, raven–haired girl with a dozen hoops in one of her ears. “Are you wearing it that long on purpose?” 

Mindy smacks her in the shoulder. “Shut up, Krissy. Leave her alone.” Her lips tilt up in a smile. “You’re risking the wrath of Gage Weston. He’s extremely protective of her.” 

“How did you manage to reel that one in?” asks Krissy. “He’s got a reputation for being ice cold with women. Barely gives them the time of day. Unless he needs to blow off steam, of course, then he just grabs whoever is available-” 

“Krissy,” Mindy says through her teeth. 

My stomach lines itself with lead. I have the urge to leave. Run. But I suck it up and stay put. I’m not going to let the comments 

bother me. Of course Gage was with other women before we 

met. He admitted as much. And he’s the star quarterback of a division one football team. No one could expect him to live like 

one of the priests back at the monastery. Not to mention, he feels guilty enough about his actions that he wanted me to 

punch him in the face. “It’s okay, I assure Mindy, smiling at her. “Really.” 

They fall into a conversation about one of the female. 

professors who was caught with a male student in the parking lot. After hours. They talk about lipstick brands and their plans for the upcoming weekend. Mostly, I watch Gage. I’ve seen football played on the small television the priests watched at the monastery before, but never paid too close of attention. But Gage…my boyfriend…he’s extraordinary. I find myself holding my breath when he has the ball, tucking it into his large hands- hands that are so gentle, yet so commanding with me–and fires it off, spiraling it perfectly down the field into the waiting hands of another player. 

He turns his head toward the stands after every drill, every play, 

though I can’t see his eyes from this distance, shaded as they 

are by his helmet. My palms begin to sweat every time he 

glances in my direction, a low thrum starting between my 

thighs. My blood hums, nipples erect. The more I register his sinewy arms and the lines, bulges and musculature outlined in his white football pants, the more I can hear my breaths, loud 

and shallow in my head. 

Wow. He’s really good. Male grace and fearlessness in every movement. At one point, he removes his helmet and dark, sweaty hair lands in a mess around his intense face, his cheekbones colored with exertion and my mouth goes dry as a 

desert. Is that how he’ll look while we’re… in bed together? 

I want to fuck you. 

He said that to me in the classroom. In those moments, the possibility seemed very real. Imminent. Gage on top of me. Inside me. But now, watching this big, strong god avoid tackles and leap over bodies on the field, I cannot imagine him and I together like that. I cannot. He’s like Achilles in battle, ripped from the pages of my Greek mythology text. I’m, like, a random servant girl in the background. It doesn’t make sense: 

And now he’s frowning at me from the sidelines. 

Someone is calling his name–a coach–and he turns reluctantly. Puts his helmet back on. That’s when I realize one of the girls is prodding my arm. Krissy, right? Based on her exasperation, she‘ s been trying to break through my Gage stupor for quite a while. 

“Sorry.” I resist the urge to hide behind my fall of hair. “I got lost 

in thought.” 

Krissy laughs. “Look at that blush, girls. Anyone want to guess what she’s thinking about?” They break into moaning sounds and obscene gestures with their fingers. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that you’re fantasizing about your 

boyfriend.” 

I shift on the metal seat, hands wrestling in my lap. Isn’t this how girlfriends talk to each other? If I ever want to make friends 

or at least be accepted, I need to stop being so scandalized. “Guilty as charged,” I mutter, making them laugh. 

Most of them, anyway. Krissy isn’t laughing. She looks almost 

calculating. “Yes, but is he fantasizing about you?” She squints 

down at my clothing. “You might be leaving a little too much to 

the imagination for that.” 

“Krissy…” Mindy says in a warning tone. “Leave her alone. I’m 

telling you, he’s-” 

“I’m just trying to help her out.” She crooks a finger at me. “Come here. Let’s do something with this outfit. It’s not totally beyond saving. And I have some makeup in my bag.” 

My instinct is to say no. I may have grown up sheltered, but I’m not stupid. It’s easy to see Krissy doesn’t have my best interest in mind. But if I’m going to be around these girls a lot, if I’m going to fit in and not be a social outcast, I have to try a little. Make an effort. And maybe….maybe there is a part of me that wants the help. No one has ever aided me in picking out clothes or putting on makeup or styling my hair. I grew up without a mother. What I had was a distracted guardian–and I was grateful for her. But now? My lack of polish is so glaring compared to these girls. Not to mention, people are going to compare me to Gage: They’re going to wonder what the hell he’s doing with a girl who barely brushes her hair and wears clothes meant for a man. Maybe a little makeover wouldn’t kill me? 

7 Stella 

I swallow hard and slide toward Krissy on the metal bench. 

“Okay…”