Chapter One

Chessly

T he first semester of my junior year at Mountain State College settled nicely into its regular rhythms.

Then I met Finn McCabe.

Usually, I attended the Homecoming bonfire with Piper Maxwell and Saylor Davis—friends I'd made during freshman year when we all lived on the same floor in Hanover Hall. We did our best to coax our fourth partner in crime, Jamaica Winslow, to join us, but she'd made it as clear as glass she had zero interest in sports or any of the trappings that went with it. She never attended football games and couldn't be dragged from her books for such a waste of time as a Homecoming bonfire.

But Jamaica had recently started hanging out with Callahan O'Reilly, starting tight end for the Wildcats, and he'd bribed her other best friend, Axel Benson, to make sure she made it to the bonfire. Axel had commandeered me as his second in case she tried to bolt before Callahan could finish up with the football team's bit and join us.

That was how I ended up catching a ride back to the dorms with Finn after the team tossed the effigy of the Tigers onto the bonfire and all the fireworks had faded into the night sky.

"You sure you don't want to ride with us?" Jamaica asked for the third or fourth time since Axel and his boyfriend Drake had "abandoned" her, "forcing" her to catch a ride home with Callahan. Sometimes my friend could be a bit of a drama queen.

"I'm sure I want to avoid being up close and personal with the PDA I saw in front of the dorms last Sunday morning." I didn't even try to hold back my grin at my friend's wide-eyed response. Everyone in the lobby of Hanover had seen the lip-lock Callahan had laid on Jamaica before she let herself out of his truck the previous weekend. They'd practically steamed up the entire courtyard in front of the lobby.

"You'll be a gentleman with my friend—right, Finn?" Jamaica narrowed her eyes at the man in question. Clearly, his size—he was a defensive end—didn't intimidate her in the least.

Then again, she'd made her demand from the safety of the circle of Callahan's arm.

"Aren't I always a gentleman?" Finn sounded utterly perplexed, but I didn't miss the twinkle in his whiskey-colored eyes.

I kind of hoped he had his fingers crossed behind his back. After all, we'd spent the better part of the evening covertly eye-fucking each other at every chance we'd got. The way he looked at me left tingles on my skin that had nothing to do with the late-October chill in the air.

"I'm counting on it. Chessly is good people, not some jersey chaser with a dubious agenda." My friend's tone held all kinds of warnings.

Finn shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, and I wondered at what Jamaica wasn't saying.

"She'll be fine. Promise." Finn saluted her with two fingers in what I supposed was his version of Scout's honor or something. To me he said, "My truck is over here." He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and nodded in the direction of some vehicles parked in the next row of the parking lot behind the stadium.

The autumn breeze coming off the mountains carried a definite shiver of winter with it. Even dressed in my jeans and my favorite fleece-lined hoodie, I was missing the heat the bonfire threw off when we were standing near it. I didn't know how Finn couldn't feel the cold while wearing only his game jersey and jeans.

Stepping over next to him, I said, "Thanks. "As we started walking toward his ride, I called over my shoulder, "Don't keep Callahan out too late. He has a big game tomorrow."

Snickering at the not-so-discreet bird Jamaica flipped me, I double-timed my stride to keep up with Finn's long-legged amble. When we came up alongside an old blue Chevy that had weathered some hard times, he kind of ducked his head and opened the passenger door for me.

"Your chariot, milady." Under his breath he added, "Such as it is."

His deceptively ambling gait around the front of his pickup threw me because a second later he joined me in the cab, sliding in gracefully behind the wheel. For such a big man—he stood north of six foot six and must've tipped the scales above 250—he moved with the grace of a panther.

Clearing my throat to cover for ogling the guy as he slid his key into the ignition, I pulled the seat belt across my chest and buckled it. "You have wheels. That's a big step up from having none." I glanced around the inside of his truck. Though Spartan in terms of state-of-the-art bells and whistles, the interior was clean—a plus I also appreciated.

"You don't have a car?" he asked as he carefully pulled out of his parking space and headed toward the front of the lot.

"Nope. Haven't managed that yet."

As we waited in a line of vehicles to exit the stadium parking lot, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and slid side-eyes my way. I couldn't help the tiny smile that quirked the corner of my mouth. From the way he was acting, he was casting around for something to say. It kind of tickled me that this great big man who had his way with opposing offenses every Saturday afternoon was nervous sitting in the cab of his truck with me. I could have rescued him, but I wanted to hear what he came up with.

When we reached the stop sign, he had a decision to make. Clearing his throat, he said, "Where am I taking you?"

"To Hanover. You know where that is?"

"The all-women's dorm?" A wisp of a chuckle escaped him. "Yeah, I know where that is."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Are you a player off the field too?"

Though I'd been eyeing him all evening, maybe I needed to rethink my interest.

He hunched his shoulders, and his mouth flattened into a line. "No. I just meant that's where Callahan's girl lives." The car in front of us inched into traffic, and he slowly pulled the truck forward for his turn. "Do you live on Jamaica's floor?"

"No. I'm the RA on the floor above hers."

That tidbit seemed to relax him. His shoulders dropped as he eased us out onto the main road. "What year are you?"

"Junior."

With a nod, he added, "Physics major."

My brow shot up. The kind of mesmerized stare he'd given me when Jamaica had introduced us had made me think he hadn't heard that part.

"And you're bio-chem."

Simultaneously we said, "Science nerds."

The awkward tension that had filled the cab of his truck from the minute we climbed into it evanesced with the grins we exchanged.

We rolled along at about five miles per hour below the speed limit. Apparently, Finn wanted to spend some time with me. The idea warmed me far better than the seemingly nonexistent heater in his truck. When I glanced at the dials, I noted he didn't have it turned on. Coupled with the fact he was wearing only his game-day jersey and no hoodie, jacket, or even an undershirt, I figured this guy's motor never stopped. I clamped my thighs together as thoughts of what that meant sizzled my brain.

As though he'd read my mind, he reached over and flipped a dial. The scent of dust filled the cab. "Sorry. I don't use the heater in this much." His sheepish tone pulled my eyes to his face, the dash lights revealing a dull red hue high on his cheeks.

"Guess you run hot."

Finn chuckled as I clamped my hand over my mouth.

"Sorry. That didn't come out right."

We pulled up to a red light and stopped. "From what I've heard tonight, I get the idea you always say what you mean."

The atmosphere inside the cab kept shifting, and I was struggling to keep up. My cheeks, already heating beneath my hand, flamed to red-hot as I recalled how rude I was when Jamaica introduced us earlier this evening in the bar at Stromboli's. I'd heard from my friend that Finn entertained jersey chasers—specifically Tory Miller and her posse of mean girls—on the regular, so my comments were admittedly harsh. Then I'd met him in person, and the only excuse I could make was self-defense in the face of how freaking hot he was. Until this evening, I'd never come up close and personal with Finn McCabe, so I had no business stereotyping him like that.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said at Stromboli's about your taste in women and who you hang out with. I was way out of line."

He smiled over at me. "No offense taken."

His genuine smile momentarily stunned me. Did I mention how gorgeous the guy was?

We rode a couple of blocks in silence, the awkwardness different now as if each of us was aware of the other. He broke first.

"Why physics?"

"It's a good premed major for sports medicine."

A sly smirk tipped up the corner of his mouth. "You maybe want to work with football players?"

I shrugged. "Possibly." Before he could chase that thought, I asked, "Why bio-chem?"

It was his turn to shrug. "I want to help cure childhood cancer."

"Any particular reason?" I slapped my hand over my mouth again. "Sorry. Sorry. That was super-personal."

His warm chuckle filled the cab of the truck. "Relax. My major isn't because of some childhood tragedy." He sobered. "I saw those commercials on TV of those little kids hooked up to machines with tubes stuck in their arms, and it bothered me that they couldn't play with other kids their age." He turned down a side street, taking the long way to my dorm.

Hiding a smile at his not-so-subtle extension of our conversation, I said, "So that's the truth about Finn McCabe. You're a big ol' softy."

The terrified expression on his face as he pretended to look for eavesdroppers cracked me up. "Shh! Don't say that out loud. Everyone knows I'm a badass defensive lineman."

I pretended to zip my lips shut and toss away the key. "I wouldn't dream of revealing your secret...Softy."

"And you absolutely cannot call a 280-pound lineman ‘Softy,' especially not in front of his roommates. Do you have any idea what that kind of nickname could do to a man?" He shuddered.

Tapping a finger to my lips, I added, "You're also more sensitive than I imagined. I mean, the way you blow through the line when you blitz would cause a person to think you have no feelings at all, and yet here you are, all Mr.Soft and Sensitive."

Pulling into the horseshoe drive in front of my dorm, he put the truck in park and turned in his seat, a wicked twinkle in his gorgeous whiskey-brown eyes. "I can show you soft and sensitive, if you're interested."

Now it was my turn for a full-body shiver. "Um." I bit my lip. "We only met tonight."

His eyes strayed to my mouth, and involuntarily, my tongue slipped out and soothed the indentation my teeth left behind.

With a subtle move, he unclicked his seat belt but otherwise stayed where he was. "And we're getting to know each other, yeah?" The low rumble of his voice rippled through me.

"I think so."

Wait. Since when was I ever anything but assertive? How had the tables turned? How had he gone from Mr.Bashful with pink cheeks to Super Hottie coming on to me with that heated stare?

How was it possible Finn could initiate that relentless pulsing between my legs with only his eyes and his voice?

Someone pounded on the window beside me. The only reason I didn't jump through the ceiling of the truck was that I was still buckled in.

"Finn! Hey, Finn!"

Even above the rumble of the truck's engine, I recognized that evil, high-pitched voice. Slowly turning my head, I came face-to-face with the biggest nightmare of my life.

"Finn! What do you think you're doing?" she demanded loud enough for the entire dorm to hear, even the rooms upstairs in the back.

Giving my attention back to my ride, I caught a guilty expression crossing his face for a split second before he shook his head and leaned forward to see around me. He gave her a one-finger wave.

Knotting my hands in my lap, I asked, "How do you know Tory Miller?"

"She and her friends like to hang with the team." His eyes darted to mine when he clocked the disdain in my voice. "Callahan keeps telling me not to let her hang out with us, but she's harmless."

Narrowing my eyes, I said, "Harmless, huh? You should listen to your friend."

Tory had made her way around the front of Finn's truck and was now banging on the driver's window. "Finn McCabe! You can't be serious."

"Sounds like you have something else to do." I unbuckled my seat belt. "Thanks for the ride."

When I grabbed the door handle, Finn stayed me exiting his truck with his hand on my arm. That one touch sent sparks cascading through my blood, but I ignored them.

"Wait. Can I get your number?"

"You said you weren't a player, but that out there"—I nodded to the cacophony still going on outside his driver's window—"tells a different story. I don't have time for players. Or for guys who hang out with girls like Tory Miller."

Pushing the passenger door open, I stepped out into the chilly October breeze, and I didn't look back as I marched into the dorm. I thought I was wrong about him—had given him the benefit of the doubt—but Jamaica was right: I needed to stay away from Finn McCabe.