Chapter Two

*Caroline*

While blotting my dress with napkins that Jess pushed into my hands, I take in our group and see Connor Dimpleshitz, Margo’s man. He’s chatting with some of his nerd friends, and I say that because out of the four guys, three wear identical Regional Chess Champions shirts. Digging up resolve, I flash a big pretend smile. Fresh guys—I can get behind that. They check me out with a bit of fascinated wariness, and I almost claw and purr at them, but my heart isn’t invested. Pre Noah Stark Caroline would have. She was outgoing and always ready to party, but she hasn’t reared up yet. She might have teased them for their matching shirts or enjoyed a long conversation about the intellectual benefits of chess on the brain. She might have hooked up with one of them if they agreed to her rules: no kissing on the lips and no sleeping over.

The truth is, sex for me is a carefully thought-out plan with the right guy selected. The moment I arrived at Ohio state I set those guidelines in place to keep my heart safe, and I only broke the kissing rule once, but that was way back in freshman year, and I don’t think Dean even remembers that night at the toga party. Not surprising since we were both trashed and didn’t exchange names. Plus, he never brought it up during the three weeks we were hooking up last fall—rules emphatically in place.

Not once did he kiss me. Not once did he ask me to stay over.

“Glad you came out, Caroline. We’ve missed you,” Connor calls out, grinning as he raises his dark beer, and I throw up a wave.

“Dean and company should be arriving any minute—or at least that’s the word from social media,” Jess whispers in my ear.

She needs to not bring his ass up.

“Haven’t thought of him in ages. Can’t recall a thing about the guy. Is he well?”

Her eyes squint at me. “They did win the national championship against UT two days ago, so yeah.”

“Good for him. I hope it brings him the millions he wants in the NFL someday.”

“You didn’t watch the game?” Her mouth gapes.

“Nope. I had better things to do. Went to the dentist, washed my hair, took a few dogs on a walk to earn some extra money.” I avoid her eyes and take in the packed area. Bodies jostle around the bar, bumping and moving like molasses as co-eds do a loop from the end of the bar to the pool tables. This place is everyones go to bar in town. 

My eyes narrow in on a huddled group near the back of the room.

Welcome Back, Wildcats! has been printed on a huge white banner and put up on the wall. Jersey chasers on dick patrol linger underneath it, waiting for their idols. My lips tighten.

“Yeah, the piranhas are circling.” She takes a sip of her drink, her gaze darting from me to them.

"I couldn't give a shit less." I say, in a voice that definetley portrays anything but that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown and give me a searching, almost worried look, reminding me she's been told everything that I've been through concerning Noah Stark— Jess and I were roomates freshman year and I drunkly poured my heart out to her about everything that I went through in highschool. Scared that college would be just another repeat of the awful three years I went through after moving to Pennsylvania.

“Right. Forget him. How was your summer break?” she asks.

“It’s been almost four years, and Ma’s still upset I didn’t stick around and marry a nice Italian guy across the street. Pop and my two brothers are rowdy as ever.” I manage a smile. “I did miss them though. Paulie’s kids are adorable, and Mattie’s still living at home and going to law school. He’s the one dealing with Ma’s meddling right now, not me, so halleluiah for that.”

She cocks her head. “Nice. You look pale.”

I don’t glance at her, keeping my eyes carefully focused on a point on the bar behind her. “I’m fine,” I say, but the truth is, I haven’t gone a day without thinking about Noah. 

I just.... I don't understand why my brain is so obsessed with him. He's never uttered a nice word to me. 

Anger flares, building and growing. Remembering what a girl said to me whenever she caught me staring at him the first day of sophmore year.

"Don't waste your time newbie. You'll never be his type."

“Not his type, indeed,” I mutter. Deep down I’m still that chubby girl in middle school with thick legs and huge boobs. Chubby Care, Bouncing Boobs, Thunder Thighs—those nicknames stick in my throat like cement. Most days I’m past those old insults; I’m not normally one to wallow in adolescent self-pity, but when your thighs still touch and the guy become obssesed with at first sight vowes to destroy you in front of everyone. It hurts, the names were gone in highschool, but thats beacuse no one spoke to me besides him. Three years of no friends, three years of only Noah throwing insults at me.

Jess frowns as she looks at me—again. Digging up some of my old flair, I paste on a big smile, catch the arm of a passing waitress, and order a round of drinks for the table: a shot of tequila for me, prosecco for Madame President, and a Guinness for Connor. The other guys decline my offer. Maybe they’re still wary of me, but I barely notice. My senses are heightened and taut, tight as a wire as I try to keep one eye on the door and one on my friends, hoping I look casual and not anxious.

Come on, football players! Let’s get this over with so I can get my ass home and put on regular clothes, raid my fridge, and watch Big Bang Theory.

Three tequilas in and only half an hour has passed. Plus, I’m still sober. I glare at my shot glass, contemplating an entire bottle. Why does each moment that passes feel so dang slow? Still, I look back up and give the group a sweeping smile. Here I am, happy as a clam, it says.

The front door of the bar creaks open, and I pause mid-sip. The music is loud, tons of students going back and forth, yet somehow the noise of the door skates down my spine like a ghost brushed past me dragging chains.

I feel the electricity in the room before I lay my eyes on him.

He blows in like a king ready to receive his subjects.

At six foot three and almost zero body fat, he’s tall and lithe and tightly muscular—and beautiful. Can a man be beautiful? Fuck yeah. His thick, dark brown hair has grown out, and the top strands are swept back off his forehead, carefully styled, the sides cut shorter. The lengthier hair on top is edgy looking, totally different from how he wore it last fall in a short fauxhawk. Douchebag Extraordinaire has lighter colors interwoven, giving it depth and accentuating ice-blue eyes.

Another change? He’s sporting dark scruff on his jawline, giving him a slightly dangerous look.

I suck in a gulp of air. I never pictured him with sexy facial hair, and it’s…it’s…

It’s nothing. My heart is pure, hard steel.

The lights from the ceiling bathe him in a spotlight as he presents the entire bar with that famous sexy grin, the one that melts your insides and makes girls fall at his feet.

He turns when someone calls his name, and my eyes eat up the line of his profile, strong and defined and chiseled. His nose is straight and patrician looking, his cheekbones high and sculpted, carving out a perfect face. And even though it’s January, his face is sun-kissed from playing football outside for months at a time. He’s a damn Adonis.

Piercing, intense eyes are set underneath dark brows. His lashes are long and thick and you’d think it would make him look feminine, but nope. All it does is call attention to the hint of laughter there, as if he knows something you don’t, as if he’s playing you.

Which he is.

Noah Stark is a player.