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  “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

  Swallowing thickly, my eyes dart to Ainsley in hopes that she’ll save me, but I realize she and Cade have left the table and are walking toward the exterior doors. She left her things here at the table, so she must be coming back. But for the moment I feel like a cornered and petrified bunny.

  Lance laughs and with exaggerated diction, says, “Okay, let me try this. I’m Lance…and you are?”

  His smile is both amusement and interest. My head is spinning, confusion wrapped around my every thought and word. It’s hard for me to speak to him knowing he’s part of the royal court at this school and I’m just an immigrant pauper. Wholly undeserving of his time or consideration. Or so I believe.

  That’s been one of the toughest things for me to get over since starting college. To truly believe that I deserve to get a higher education when no one else in my family ever has before.

  Those strawberries that Lance loves so much? Most likely, a member of my family or distant relatives – immigrants from my family’s home country of Mexico – laborers and farmworkers who endured grueling days out in the fields under the hot sun, picking those berries so that people like Lance could enjoy them. People who don’t realize the backbreaking work that goes into bringing their food from the farm to the table or the unlivable wages and terrible working conditions that affect them. Or the pain from harassment and sexual exploitation of young women. Some even within my extended family have suffered.

  While it was a showdown to make my father understand why it was important for me to go to college, he always wanted something better for me. Something that could elevate my life and keep me out of the industry most of my family came from.

  I’m not ashamed of who I am or what my family had to do to make a living in this country. But I know not everyone thinks the same thing about me. They only see my skin color and hear my accent, making judgments about who I am.

  Finding my voice, which still squeaks from nerves, I say, “Micaela Reyes. But my friends call me Mica.”

  Although I say it in barely a whisper with my eyes cast down, I can feel the change in the atmospheric pressure that surrounds us. There’s an audible gasp that leaves Lance’s chest. And when I finally peek back up at him through my lashes, he’s playfully holding his right hand over his heart and he’s got a weird – almost stunned – look on his face.

  I’m worried. We just studied strokes and embolisms in our nursing program and I wonder if Lance is having one right now.

  “Are – are you okay? Say something.”

  He huffs out a breath. “I can’t. You’ve taken all my breath away just by speaking your name, Mica Reyes.”

  The student center and café are busy and chaotic this time of day, but I hear nothing but the way Lance says my name. It’s not with the same rolled-R as I pronounce it, but with something else. A sensual quality. And yet, I get the sense that he’s also making of fun of me.

  I roll my eyes and I don’t know where it comes from, but I get up the nerve to push back. To find my voice and to flirt the way he’s flirting with me.

  I give him my best glare, folding my arms over my chest. “I said my friends call me Mica. We’re not friends.”

  He produces this wounded puppy-dog eye expression and drops down from his chair onto his knees and sits before me in a pleading manner, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. My eyes dart around the room, embarrassed by this strange turn of events.

  “Please, please, please be my friend, Micaela Reyes. I’ll do anything. Just tell me you’ll be my friend and you’ll make me the happiest guy in the world.”

  And then he throws his arms around me, hugging me tight, pressing me against him as a laugh escapes my lungs.

  “Oh, what a cute pink bunny rabbit. Just what I always wanted. My own little bunny rabbit…”

  Say what?

  “I will name her George, and I will hug her and pet her and squeeze her.” Lance squeezes me and then pulls back and pats me on the head like I’m a child. Or some kind of small play toy. Or bunny, apparently.

  I wave off his hand with an embarrassing laugh.

  “What the heck are you talking about? You’re a weirdo.”

  Lance jumps to his feet, laughing with a deep grunt. “Haven’t you ever watched Looney Toons? You’re my own little George. And we’re gonna be great friends. Just you wait. See ya round, Mica Reyes!”

  And just like that, Lance bounds off, without a care in the world, as I sit here dumbfounded as to what just happened, while everyone in the room is also staring at me in confusion.

  As if he can read my thoughts, Lance’s voice breaks through my memory.

  “Hey Georgie, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours? Doesn’t look like you’re studying much to me. I think you’re daydreaming over there about my lickable eight-pack and my amazing tight end.”

  Wiggling his eyebrows in a show of conceited hilarity, I can’t help but shake my head and roll my eyes to hide the truth. Because he’s kind of right.

  If it’s one thing I love about Lance over all other things – even that beautiful tight end of his –is his humor.

  While I know he uses it most of the time to keep people from seeing the dark sadness that hides behind his eyes, he has a natural born gift of making others feel good. Making them laugh at the world and making them feel special. Like they’re the only one in his orbit.

  Or maybe that’s just how I am when I’m around him. It’s a nice change of pace - that lightness of being with Lance. There’s a moment where I just feel normal – where the pressure in my chest is lifted and I feel like any other college kid on this campus.

  Which is something I don’t get when I’m with my family.

  Don’t get me wrong, my family has fun – and we celebrate everything together – but there’s also an underlying solemnness in our household. A weight and a burden that naturally emanates from the knowledge that we’re considered foreigners. That people treat us differently, as if we’re unwelcome in this country. Looked down upon because we’re immigrants.

  It feels as if there’s already been a wall built to keep us out and some rude and intolerant people stare at us as if wondering how we got in this country with them.

  My father has a love/hate relationship with America. He is patriotic to a fault and is so grateful for the opportunities the country has provided our family. Yet he’s also a staunch believer that our Mexican heritage is to be revered and he’s proud of his ancestry. Proud of the hard work and manual labor that he and my brothers, uncles, mother, aunties and cousins do to make our way as American citizens.

  But that pride can turn ugly when he’s pushed or feels slighted.

  It's because of my father that I could never bring a white boy home. A gringo. They wouldn’t understand why I’d look outside the Mexican community. No matter how infatuated or in love I might be.

  My face flames red as Lance continues to stare at me, poking fun at me for daydreaming. It’s not a hardship to stare at Lance’s sculpted and muscular body.

  We may not have ever gone all the way, but there have certainly been moments where I’ve allowed my curiosity and lust to take advantage of those opportunities to learn what he feels like. I’ve had to attend Mass and confession immediately following episodes where my hands have freely wandered every inch of his chest, arms, and perfectly rounded ass during our private make-out sessions.

  “I’m not thinking any such thing. Estás loco,” I lie, telling him he’s crazy for even considering it. Even though he’s absolutely correct. “How are the Spanish flashcards working out for you? Would you like me to quiz you?”

  His smile turns dirty. “I’ve got an idea…we could play strip-quiz. For every question I get right, you have to shed some clothing.”

  “Dios mío,” I lament, trying to squash the internal butterflies in my tummy. “How did you actually last this long without bringing sex into the conversation?”

  “I didn’t say anyth
ing about sex – you brought that up. Which means you were thinking about my sexy, hot body just now. I knew it!”

  He snaps his fingers and then waggles his pointer at me. “You’re such a little liar. You’re really just a dirty little girl hiding behind those sweet angel eyes.”

  No, not really.

  He just seems to bring out that naughty girl within me.

  One who really wants to do dirty things with him but knows I can’t.

  Little Red Riding Hood, meet the Big, Bad Wolf.

  5

  Lance

  “Hey, bro. How’s it going?”

  My friend, Cade, reaches for my hand as we go through our typical man-shake that we started our first year of college. God, that seems like a lifetime ago.

  Cade called me yesterday to see if I wanted to get in some one on one time on the court at the campus athletic center. I quickly agreed since today is Saturday and I don’t have any classes; the timing was perfect.

  “Yo, Griff. How’s the shackles treating ya?” I laugh and shove his shoulder with mine, giving him a hard time about his newly engaged status.

  It’s crazy to think my best friend is now settled down with the woman he’s going to spend the rest of his life with. I’m happy for them, but it freaks me out a little. We’re all still so young, in my humble opinion, and there’s still so much partying to be done.

  I lace up my shoes as Cade does some stretching on the side of the half court we reserved in the large arena gym. The perk of being revered college athletes is free gym time whenever we want it. And since it’s the summer quarter, there isn’t much happening this time of year.

  A few students saw us in the locker room on the way out and stopped to chat for a bit, asking us questions about the past championships we played in. Word will likely get out soon enough that we’re both in here today and a crowd will form. It always happens. Especially when Cade’s around. He was the big man on campus. I’ve always been the dopey sidekick to the big stars.

  Which my dad never fails to remind me of.

  Cade laughs. “Shit, man. My life is fucking perfect. I can’t believe how lucky I am. Shackles or not, life is good. And hey, how about you? Last I heard, you went home with Mica. What’s up with that? You were fucking blitzed out of your mind, demanding that she was the only one who could put you to bed. Man, you were wasted.”

  Cade laughs, shaking his head judgmentally. Cade has never said a thing about my benders, but he and Ainsley are extremely protective of Mica, so I get where he’s coming from.. They don’t want me to mess around with her or unintentionally hurt her.

  It’s so clear to see that Mica is that perfectly unblemished glass rose and I’m the marred concrete block that could easily crush her with simply the weight of who I am and the heavy baggage that exists inside my dark soul.

  Anger suddenly twists inside me and I feel the ire growing and gurgling in my belly. Cade hasn’t come right out and said it like my dad would, but it’s clear he doesn’t think I’m good enough for Mica. And it rankles me that there’s this underlying condemnation of me. So, my tone is defensive when I speak, causing Cade to stare at me wide-eyed as I stand.

  “I didn’t take advantage of her that night, if that’s what you think. I’m not a fucking rapist, man. Just because I was drunk doesn’t mean I tried anything with her.”

  He waves his hands dismissively. “Whoa, dude. I didn’t say that. I would never think that, dude. Calm down. I just know that you were really wasted that night and when you’re drunk, you get a little…”

  “A little what?” Okay, I’m totally acting like a dickhead right now, but I can’t help it.

  “I don’t know, just uncooperative. Argumentative. Defiant.”

  He swipes the ball from my hands, pivoting and dribbling it a few steps before reaching up with a layup.

  I stand there for a moment and watch him, wondering if that is what he truly thinks of me. And how I’m perceived by others. But then I shake it off, because I don’t give a fuck.

  I stopped giving a fuck when my younger brother Landon died, when my mother died, and when my father started blaming all his problems on me.

  Finally, I step into motion, pushing my legs forward and jumping up to block his next shot. It hits the rim and I rebound it, dribbling back to the center line.

  “That’s not true,” I complain. “I’ve been told I’m a funny ass drunk. I make the girls laugh and then they drop their panties for me. Women like funny men.”

  “Yeah, man. You’re funny, all right. Funny looking,” he retorts, stealing the ball from my hands again and going up for a dunk.

  “Fuck that noise. I’m the hot stud now on campus, bruh. You’re just an old, retired ball player who has a ball-and-chain and wears a lab coat with a pocket protector at work.”

  I steal the ball back from him and this is how it goes between us for the next twenty minutes; each of us throwing out well-played and well-timed cuts about each other. It’s who we are and how we do things. This is how we’ve always been.

  Friends, guys, basketball players. The slams and smack talking are all part of the game we love to play. And there’s never any hard feelings, because the truths – while there – are covered up with carefully crafted barbs that are meant to be funny, not hurtful.

  When we’re finally breathing hard and need to take a break, we walk back over to the sidelines and grab our water bottles and towels. Sweat pours from my head down my face and into my eyes. I taste the saltiness on my lips and smile. I’ve missed this easy comradery that I have with Cade. And for a moment, I’m nostalgic over the last four years and miss my other friends – Carver and Van.

  “You heard from Carver recently?”

  Carver is one of the only guys from our class that went pro. He’s now up in Seattle playing for the Puget Sound Pilots – he’s the year’s rookie sensation – and is now back together with his long-time love, Logan. He’s promised us courtside seats when his team is down in Phoenix playing the Suns the next time they play. It will be different watching from the audience instead of being in the action with my buddy, but I’m so fucking happy he’s living his dream.

  Cade nods his head. “Yeah, I think they have a long road trip coming up and then it’s playoff season. Doesn’t look like he’s getting too much playing time, but he’s still walking away with points on the board each game. He and Logan are doing great. Edwards says he may even pop the question soon.”

  I shake my head. What is the deal with my friends getting hitched so soon? Fuck if I know. Of course, I didn’t grow up with the best family dynamic and my parents had a shitty marriage even before my brother died, so it’s no wonder I have a tainted view on the whole thing. I think the only reason they ever got married in the first place was because my mom was pregnant with me.

  “I haven’t seen Van around much either. How’s things with him and Ky?”

  Cade grabs a seat, throws back some Gatorade and sighs. “Fuck, it’s weird seeing Ky getting all fucking doe-eyed with Van. I still have the urge to punch him whenever he puts his hands on her.”

  We both laugh at this because Cade would never hit our good friend Van, regardless if he was dating Kylah, who is Cade’s younger sister. They hooked up last winter and have been going strong ever since. In fact, she moved in with him recently and he’s now working for some accounting or financial firm.

  “Van’s the best guy there is for Kylah. He’ll take care of her. Just like you take care of Ainsley. You’re good dudes.” And I mean it. They are loyal and solid guys.

  No response from Cade has me turning toward him to find him bent over at his waist, his elbows on his knees, head tilted toward me.

  The conversation has come full-circle it seems when he returns the topic back to Mica. “Tell me the truth, bruh. What’s the deal with you and Micaela? I think Ainsley’s a little worried.”

  My brows furrow – uncertain as to whether I should be offended or not. “Why would she be worried? About me or Mica?”<
br />
  Cade snorts. “Hell if I know. The thing is, we all love Mica. She’s a sweetheart. And dude, your track record with women isn’t stellar. She’s not your usual type and she’ll never be that girl. You can’t use her and kick her out. She’s one of us.”

  Scoffing, I pick at the label on my bottle, clenching my jaw from the implications of what Cade’s just admitted.

  Finally, I decide to give in and share it all with him.

  “Listen, I’ve been asking Mica out since the first time I met her, but she keeps turning me down. I mean, what the hell? Do I smell?”

  I raise my arm and sniff at my pits. Okay, I do right now.

  The laughter from Cade is annoying enough for me to snap his shins with my wet towel. He shuts up for a second and then laughs again.

  “Shut up, motherfucker. I seem to recall someone else being turned down originally from Ainsley.”

  Cade looks thoughtful for a moment and then shrugs. “Yeah, but she gave in pretty quickly after that. But you? You’ve known Mica for how long now? A year and she’s been turning you down since then? That’s hilarious!”

  I grumble. Rejection really sucks – especially when it happens every time.

  The most recent letdown was just Thursday morning. We’d been studying and when I looked up, she was staring at me with this dreamy look on her face. She was so beautiful, her dark skin so petal soft, her lips berry ripe and her gorgeous eyes revealing what I thought was desire.

  So, I did what any red-blooded guy would do when a hot girl is looking at him like he hung the stars. I asked her to go out with me. What’s the harm in just a date? Technically, in my eyes, we’d been dating the entire summer if you counted the time spent making out at parties or studying together.

  Her normally bright eyes went dim, as her chin dipped down and she shook her head.

  “You know I can’t, Lance. Please don’t make this awkward between us.”