Give Me You (3 page)

After cleaning the field house and grabbing shakes at a local diner despite O’Brien’s protests as if he found milkshakes to be personally offensive, we head to the stadium for orientation. I spilled some shake on my shirt so I’m cleaning it off with a napkin when O’Brien nearly slams us into a concrete kiosk covered with flyers.

“You been drinking?” I ask, placing hand on the dash.

“Not today,” he answers while jerking the truck roughly into an empty parking space.

All eight of us head toward the stadium arguing about which entrance we were told to go in.

“It’s B8, dumbfuck,” Michael argues with Dean, who informs him it’s C8 we’re supposed to be looking for.

“Oh shit, I forgot about this,” I interrupt, tearing a flyer off the nearest kiosk. “You know we have to decorate a team float for Homecoming? Coach said the shit is mandatory.”

“No way,” Michael huffs out, snatching the flyer from my hands. “Ah, there’s free pizza at least.”

“Wow, fatass. Way to find the silver lining,” Austin says, smacking Mike in the arm. The two of them trade shoves but O’Brien says nothing and keeps walking so I jog to catch up.

He’s checking out his phone when we walk into the arena. So maybe he does have a girlfriend after all.

Or not. A glance at his phone once we’re seated reveals the recipient of his attention.

Mom, his screen says.

Awesome. Anger issues and a mommy’s boy. Boy did I luck out in the roommate department.

A few cheerleaders are posted around the edges of where we’re seated and I give them an appreciative once over. A well-endowed brunette winks at me and I grin back. I turn to tell O’Brien to relax and enjoy the view but there is murderous rage on his face.

Shocker.

“Dude, you look like you’re thinking about murdering someone. Care to share?”

His eyes don’t meet mine when he answers. “Nah, I’m fine.”

Whatever. I’m not his mommy or his babysitter so I move on with my life. Austin starts spouting some bullshit about claiming the brunette cheerleader so I tell him to get real and reach over O’Brien to land a solid thump on Austin’s arm. O’Brien shoots me an irritated glare and I grin innocently.

Landen O’Brien is his own brand of crazy, that’s for damn sure. But he’s a striker, and in my experience, they’re all kind of nuts. And since he’s the striker and I’m the goalie, I figure it’s best to hang out on his good side. No use getting Captain Rage-y Pants good and pissed off before letting him kick balls at my head.

My phone buzzes with a text alert and I glance down to see a message from Lucas Taite. Apparently there’s a party tonight at the house Blackburn and a few of the upperclassman share. Thank goodness. I was trying to figure out how in the world I was going to show O’Brien a good time and get him to lighten up a little.

He seems even more on edge than usual, as if he expects a tripwire to be waiting for him at every turn. I’m in the middle of texting a few of my female options for the evening when the circus act that is welcome to college begins to wrap up. Before I have time to even tuck my phone away, O’Brien is up and mowing a path through the marching band.

What the fuck?

Apparently people from Colorado are nuts. Though he mentioned being an Army brat so maybe all the moving around prevented him from learning any of the acceptable social behaviors necessary for functioning properly in society.

“O’Brien,” I call after him, noticing a few of the other guys side-eying us suspiciously. They all see him at practice—they know he’s a time bomb.

Glancing up ahead of where he’s moving to I see a wide-eyed blonde who looks like the zombie apocalypse is upon her.

Tick, tick. Boom.

Oh good, so he’s like a stalker or something then too. That’s great.

Go to college,
they said.
Meet new people,
they said.
It will be fun,
they said.

They were full of shit is what they were.

“O’Brien! Christ, man,” I yell, horse collaring him from behind before he can run after the random chick.

“She hates me,” he mutters under his breath. “I came all this way for her and she fucking hates me.”

Now see, if I was the cry on my shoulder kind of guy, I’d inquire further about the obviously doomed situation the poor man is in. However, I am me.

“Forget her. Let’s get some booze for Taite’s party tonight and see about getting ourselves laid by women who don’t run like hell when they see us coming, shall we?”

O’Brien shrugs, a strange look in his eye that makes me question if dude has any prior felony offenses I should be inquiring about.

“Stop-N-Shop will sell to us. Let’s go.” I thump him on the back as we head out of the arena. Oh to hell with it. I might as well ask. We live together, after all. “So…that chick a friend of yours or did she just forget to renew the restraining order?”

O’Brien gives me an irritated look. “We dated…sort of. In high school. When I lived in Georgia.”

Speaking of girls from high school, Kelsie Trenton is attending college here as well and I owe that girl a few orgasms. Or a text, at least. I fire off a few lines inviting her to Taite’s party.

“Ah. So that was peaches.” Commenting on the scent in his truck had nearly brought me face to face with his violent side earlier so I decide to drop it. “Looks like she doesn’t want to get back together. Tough break, man.”

God I hate awkward conversations about this shit. I’ve never seen a guy so worked up over a chick. Personally I find it pointless and irritating. Why all the stress? There are a million of them out there. Hell, panty droppers swarming from every direction basically surround us. Is the poor guy vision impaired as well?

Walking with the human equivalent of a caged bull, I decide then and there to use my most essential skills and abilities to help a brother out. I text Kelsie a reminder to bring along some hot friends to Taite’s party tonight.

Landen O’Brien needs to get laid. Like yesterday.

“C
an we go?”

I’ve only been at Southern California State University, SoCal I’ve learned it’s called, for one week since I signed up for early move in. Classes don’t even start until tomorrow. My roommate moved in early as well, a gorgeous but very introverted blonde named Layla.

I like her—at least I
think
I like her. She’s kind of hard to get to know, then again, maybe I am too. Up until now she’s seemed really sweet though so I’m trying not to take out all my trust issue bullshit on this innocent chick from Georgia. But her aquamarine eyes are wide with panic in the middle of freshmen orientation and I’m questioning her sanity at the moment.

She seems desperate to leave even though we just got here.

One second we were discussing smokin’ hot athletes being introduced during orientation and the next she’s bolting upright out of here seat like she’s been electrocuted.

“Huh?” Maybe I misheard her. The entire arena is bursting into song, singing the alma mater, which I had every intention of learning.

“I need to go,
now,”
she repeats and nope, I heard correctly the first time. Her gaze is unfocused and she teeters left. She did something similar when we were getting coffee earlier. I can’t remember seeing her eat today. I make a mental note to grab a pamphlet on Anorexia at the Student Union next time I’m there.

Holy mother…if she passes out I don’t know if I’ll catch her in time. I grab my purse and both of our
WELCOME TO SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA STATE UNIVERSITY
bags and sling them on my shoulder.

“Sure, let’s go. You all right?” Girlfriend pales six shades, and I wish I had a cheeseburger or something to give her.

“I’m fine. Just not feeling so well.”

That much is obvious, but I just shuffle behind her as we make our way through the crowded aisle. We’ve just reached the end when she turns in the opposite of he direction that I expect. At first I think someone from the marching band has called her name, but then I see him.

Day-um.
Six foot several inches of lean muscled dark-haired soccer player is calling her name and looking at my roommate like she’s something to eat and he’s a starving man.

Suddenly I’m the one who’s hungry.

I freeze, watching the drama unfold and kicking myself for being selfish enough to wonder why no man’s ever looked at me the way he’s looking at her.

What’s even more alarming is that she ignores him. Layla takes off like someone has screamed ‘Fire!’

I gape at the broken man-boy, who looks utterly destroyed, before taking off after her.

Did she not hear him? ‘Cause I gotta say, if that perfect male specimen was mowing down a marching band and calling my name, I would’ve jumped his fine ass like a spider monkey on crack. Well, the old me would have. I’m turning over a new leaf and all.

“Um, Layla?” I quick step it in my knock off McQueen ankle boots the best that I can. “Was that fine piece of soccer hotness just calling your name?”

She doesn’t look at me as she responds. “Huh? No, I doubt it.”

She picks up the pace and so do I. Pretty sure half the female freshman population just saw him. Girl’s nuts if she thinks I really believe she didn’t. I watch her facial expression closely in an attempt to figure out why she’s lying to me. We haven’t met anyone else yet. Who would I tell?

Finally she cracks. Sighing, she glances in my direction and offers a quiet “Maybe.”

I nod. “And you’re running like your panties just caught fire because…?”

“Because,” she says, looking like she’s having a difficult time swallowing. “Because I do not want to see him.”

Uh huh
. She can sell that lie somewhere else because I ain’t buying it.

“Listen, Speedy. You’re gonna have to slow down a little. These boots ain’t made for sprintin’,” I inform her. She sighs but thank the gods of fashion, she slows a little.

“I kind of know him, or I used to, a long time ago.”

“Uh huh. Looked like he was pretty interested in a reunion.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not,” she snaps.

Whoa.
Girl does have some gusto then. I’m kind of glad to see it—she appears so frail, it’s good to know she’s got some chutzpah underneath. I also kind of feel like I’ve been slapped on soccer boy’s behalf.

I let her be, give her what seems like much needed space to gather herself when we get back to the dorm, but when she lies down across her bed, I lower myself onto mine.

She fidgets with her dark purple comforter, tracing the swirly floral pattern with a finger. I figure I’ll just wait her out. She’s got something to say, and I’ve been where she is. Hurt, caught off guard, deeply wounded. I recognize the look and I think of the many
many
nights I spent wishing I had someone to talk to, someone who would listen and not judge me, and I can’t leave her like this. Even if she doesn’t want to talk at least she’ll know she’s not alone.

“He was just a friend,” she breathes out.

“But…” I prompt because that was not a
friendly
look he was giving her. That was a
I’ve been roaming the Sahara for years and you are my tall cold glass of water
look.