2. Hunter

"Let's take it from ‘rock steady.'" Tossing my water bottle to the side, I hustle back to the grassy practice area, then tighten my ponytail and wait for the others to meander over.

I'm met with a cacophony of less-than-enthusiastic grumbles from the other girls, but I shrug them off. As head cheerleader, it's my job to lead by example and create the Lake Chapel spirit our squad is known for.

"Line up. Come on, ladies! Let's see some hustle."

Once they're all in formation, I nod toward one of the JV girls to let her know she can start the music. It's a cheer we've been doing since middle school, but I want it to be perfect for the showcase.

By the time we finish up the fifth run-through, the May humidity has gotten the best of me and I have to wipe sweat off my brow. Then, after another swipe, this time over my upper lip, I rest my hands on my hips and focus on catching my breath.

"Grab some water, then we'll stretch," I announce to my team.

More grumbles.

I swear I'm surrounded by sourpusses.

I get it. The season ended months ago. Senioritis is oh so real, especially when the sun is shining and we're just a few weeks away from graduation.

But a big-name college sports reporter who's been following our high school's football team for years is coming into town this weekend, so the athletic department is throwing together a spring showcase.

A friendly scrimmage between Lake Chapel High School and our closest rivals, South Chapel, has devolved into a weekend-long event, complete with a pep rally, a signing, and a festival to round it all out on Sunday. All because the media is obsessed with our quarterback.

"Heads up!"

I dodge to the right as a football whirls past my head. This is not my first rodeo.

The ball bounces a few feet away, close enough to the other girls that they squeal and scream.

With a huff of annoyance, I run after it and scoop it up. Turning, I toss it underhand to the starting quarterback for Lake Chapel High School.

"Sorry about that." Decker grins mischievously, then eyes the group of girls who are now on their feet and apparently not so scared of the football after all.

Behind me, they're inching closer, tittering and whispering as they crowd my back. The energy is suddenly much more lively and bright than it was a few minutes ago. I can't imagine why.

"Thanks for doing this." Decker lifts his practice jersey up to wipe the sweat off his brow.

An audible gasp escapes from one of the girls behind me at the sight of his sweat-drenched abdomen.

"I know it's a pain to get the full squad together just for a friendly scrimmage—"

"We don't mind!" Clarissa chirps, all bubblegum sweetness and pep now that Decker Crusade is in the vicinity. Wasn't she just complaining about being hungover?

I fight back an eye roll, but Decker, clearly catching on, grins at me, eyebrows raised.

Decker and I have been pals for years. He's one of the good ones. Maybe a little too serious sometimes, but still good.

"Are you done for today?" he asks.

"I am," I confirm with a nod.

"Us, too." He jerks his head toward the parking lot. "Come on. I'll walk you to your car."

A disdainful scoff comes from behind me, making Decker's grin go impossibly wide.

I take a deep breath in, centering myself. Once I'm sure I won't burst out laughing, I turn and regard his unofficial fan club. "Why don't you lead the girls in stretching, Clarissa? It'll be good practice, seeing as how you'll be captain in a few weeks."

Without giving her time to argue, I spin and jog over to our pile of stuff and scoop up my bag. Once my water bottle is stashed inside it, I fish around for my keys.

Decker waits for me silently, then we fall in step together as we make our way to the parking lot.

"You guys looked good out there," I say, hip-checking him playfully.

He doesn't miss a step. "Thanks. Most of the seniors are planning to play at the collegiate level, so we've been lifting and conditioning together all spring. Honestly, though, I'll be glad when this whole media charade is over."

Based on the way his jaw ticks, it's pretty clear he's less than thrilled about this weekend's festivities. Even though he's the reason it's all happening in the first place.

"Have you decided about next year?" he asks, popping the football up in the air, throwing a perfect vertical spiral that he catches easily.

He's not prying, but I stiffen all the same.

He's been declared for Lake Chapel University since our junior year of high school. Everyone I know has decided where they're going.

I, on the other hand, still have no idea where I'll end up, and the deadline to decide is next week.

Cheeks puffed out, I sigh. "Probably Lake Chapel."

LCU is the easy choice. It's our local college, a place I'm familiar with, and the campus is beautiful. But more than that, Lake Chapel University has a great prelaw program. I could live in the dorms if I wanted, and despite its proximity to home, it's a big school, so I'd meet a ton of new people.

Trouble is, in an effort to keep my options open, I applied to thirteen schools. I never expected to get into all of them.

Lake Chapel University would be the logical choice. But the allure of the West Coast—or even one of the Ivies I considered a long shot until the big fat welcome packets arrived in the mail—is ever-present.

If only I were braver. Bolder. More of a risk-taker.

I applied to all those schools, never imagining I'd get into half of them. They felt like pipe dreams, not possibilities.

But now I'm frozen with analysis paralysis. The deadline is looming, yet I feel no closer to a decision than I did in the fall when the first welcome packet arrived.

I wish I had a sounding board. A person who would truly listen, who would challenge me, or offer wisdom or guidance. Someone who actually gives a shit about my thoughts and feelings.

My senior year of high school, that I've spent years looking forward to, has been overshadowed by my parents' nasty divorce. I can't seem to talk to either of them without "picking a side" and upsetting the other, so I stopped seeking out their opinions entirely.

"A fellow Crusader, huh? Will you cheer?" Decker asks.

I wrinkle my nose. The very idea grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

"Probably not." If I'm sticking around Lake Chapel, I need to carve out an identity that's mine alone. I don't want to become just a facsimile of high-school Hunter. Daughter of Magnolia and Michael St. Clair. Head cheerleader. Straight-A student.

I want to be somebody new.

Who that person is, I'm not sure yet. But a little thrill shoots through me when I consider the possibilities of who I could become.

Decker slows as we reach my car, and once I've unlocked it with the clicker, he opens the driver's side door for me.

Cradling the football against one hip, he grips the top of the doorframe of my white Audi coupe with the other hand and arches a brow. "So probably Lake Chapel, but probably no cheerleading? Any other probabilities you want to share?"

He's just teasing me, but the words pack a bigger punch than I expect them to.

Stomach clenching with nerves, I cross my arms and lean against the side of my car. My back hits harder than I intended, and I wince.

With a sharp breath in, I meet Decker's kind dark brown eyes and force myself to be blatantly honest before I lose my nerve. "Do you ever feel like your whole life has already been decided for you? Before you've even had a chance to make any mistakes or figure it out on your own?"

Decker's eyes widen a fraction. He's shocked by my outburst, I'm sure.

That makes two of us.

"I just mean—" I backpedal.

"I know exactly what you mean," he says, cutting me off. The words are hushed, the confession just for me, and his expression goes soft. "I get it. More than you know. Hunter, what do you wa—"

"Yo! Crusade!"

Decker snaps up straight, his expression morphing into the self-assured mask he wears more often than not.

The moment is gone, the spell broken.

"I was hoping to catch up with you, man."

I turn to the guy calling out behind me and do a double take. Not one, but two gorgeous jocks wearing South Chapel colors make long strides across the parking lot to close the distance between us.

"Hey," Decker replies with a casual chin lift, as if we weren't just on the brink of an emotional heart-to-heart.

It may have been the realest conversation I've had in a week. It's not often I find a person who wants to talk to me about anything of substance.

"You both played well," Decker says with a nod to the boys he scrimmaged with tonight. Turning to me, he offers a quick apologetic smile.

"Hunter, do you know Greedy and Levi?"

"No," I say, pushing off my car. "I don't think we've met before. Hey, I'm Hunter St. Clair," I offer sweetly, extending my hand to the first boy to reach us.

He's got wavy blond hair and, even at first glance, it's obvious he possesses an effortless country-boy charm. His eyes are the color of well-worn denim. When he smiles, his whole face lights up, and a single dimple appears on the left side. He's got defined cheekbones and these full, plush lips. Despite the mud smeared on his cheek and the sweat trickling down the side of his jaw, he's striking. Beautiful even.

"Hunter?" He takes my offered hand in greeting, his warm, strong grip sending butterflies dancing in my belly. "Levi Moore. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Gosh, his eyes are magic. I can't help but grin right back.

"I've been playing against these two since our Little Dukes U-12 days," Decker explains. "Levi's an exceptionally talented tight end. Too bad he never wanted to be a Crusader."

Levi mutters a "hey now" and play-swings at Decker, but Crusade is quick to defend himself. The boys roughhouse for a minute, then football talk commences. I've officially lost them both.

The other guy steps forward and offers me his hand.

"I'm Greedy," he says with a cocksure smile.

Greedy. Decker introduced him that way, but…

"That's not your real name, is it?" I sidestep to inch closer and hold my hand out. "Greedy is an adjective."

"I could ask you the same thing. Hunter is a common noun."

He grasps my hand, and for an instant, my world is turned upside down.

I expected the sizzle from Levi.

I was absolutely unprepared for the high-voltage shock that rocks me to my core when I shake hands with Greedy.

I freeze, my cheeks warming as I study the man before me.

He's lean and lanky, similar in size to Decker, but with a soft, youthful boyishness and a sweet smile.

His eyes are the color of moss-covered wetlands: an earthy tone that isn't truly green or blue.

Angling in closer, he keeps my hand locked in his. "If you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine. Hunter's not your real name either, is it?"

I grin. Joke's on him. Hunter Annalee Charlotte St. Clair is, in fact, my real name.

"What on earth do you think Hunter could be short for?"

Greedy releases my hand but steps so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I don't know. Huntress? Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt?"

Even though we're no longer touching, his presence is so overwhelming my core hums in response to him.

If Levi's attention caused butterflies, then Greedy's feels like the deafening vibration of a thousand cicadas screaming in unison.

"That's not a bad guess," I admit. My tone is pure flirtation. I can't help it.

"Artemis it is," he replies without missing a beat.

"Decker."

The new voice breaks the revelry, and all four of us turn and find Kylian Walsh approaching. He's not a football player, but he's a mainstay at all the games. He's also one of Decker's best friends.

I don't bother saying hello. Kylian is callous on his best days and rude on his worst.

"Hey, Hunter," the taller boy trailing behind Kylian calls out. Nicholas Lockewood. His cheeks are red with exertion. His sweat-soaked shirt is draped around his neck, showing off the beginning stages of what looks like a neck tattoo.

His face flushes even deeper crimson when he catches me staring.

Kylian doesn't spare a glance to anyone but Decker. "It's time to go," he says, his tone clipped.

Decker turns to me and lifts a brow. "You're good?"

"I'm good," I assure him with a small nod. "See you at the bonfire."

He raps his knuckles on the roof of my car, then skirts around the bumper to follow his friends.

A charged silence blankets us as Decker walks away. I suddenly feel shy and a bit guarded standing next to my car with this pair of boys I just met.

Starving and in desperate need of a shower, I slip into the driver's seat and turn the car on. "Uh, it was nice to meet you," I tell Levi, then Greedy. I roll down the windows to help get the air circulating and buckle up. "See you around!"

Before either of them has a chance to say goodbye, I put the car in drive and navigate out of the parking lot.

I had no intention of stopping on the way home. But my car's AC is out, and the humidity is relentless tonight.

Having it fixed shouldn't be an issue. Either of my parents are more than willing to pay for it, if only to one-up each other in the arms race for my affection.

But being without a car—even for an afternoon—makes me twitchy. My dad has been in Europe since last fall. My mom takes off and stays gone for a few days at a time. If she leaves on a whim, I don't want to be stranded.

With my signal on, I turn into the QuickieMart and pull in to one of the last available parking spots. It's a popular meetup place for Lake Chapel and South Chapel students. They're open twenty-four hours a day; the lighting is good, so it feels safe; and the owner Marty lets people leave cars in the expansive dirt lot behind the building overnight. It works out well for him on the weekends especially, when people show up in droves to claim their cars as well as the donuts, breakfast burritos, and coffee he stocks each morning.

The station is teeming with people, as expected. Some I recognize, but a lot I don't. I'm not really interested in hanging out or socializing tonight. All I want is a big strawberry slushy. And maybe a Mallo Cup. I could go for some chocolate. My period must be coming sooner than I expected.

I stick a pink Lake Chapel cheer cap on my head and grab my wristlet.

As soon as I rise out of the car, someone calls out to me.

"Hunter! Seriously? This has to be a good omen."

My ponytail swishes as I spin and zero in on the guys standing at a gas pump.

Levi and Greedy.

What are the chances?

"Hey." I approach the rusty white pickup they're standing beside cautiously.

Greedy gives me a cocksure smile. "Did you follow us here?"

I pull a face. "Cute," I deadpan. "I'm pretty sure I left the field before you guys."

Not just pretty sure. I'm certain of it. I have no idea how they got here before me, unless they took the back roads and went about double the speed limit.

While Greedy is leaning over the hood of the truck with his phone in one hand like he's scrolling, Levi's standing next to the gas pump, muttering under his breath as he fiddles with the gas cap.

"What's wrong?" I ask, tipping my head to one side. I take a couple of steps closer.

The easy-going and carefree vibe I got from both guys at the field is gone. Now, there's a tension roiling through them. Greedy's pinched expression screams annoyance. Levi's rigid jaw makes him look downright agitated.

The truck is in even worse shape than I thought now that I'm inspecting it up close. It's rusty and at least twenty years old, with worn tires and a dent in the back fender.

"Had a little mix-up," Greedy offers with the wave of his hand.

Levi bristles and shoots a glare in his friend's direction. "By ‘mix-up,' he means he pumped diesel into the gas tank."

Oh. Shit.

"I'm assuming your truck doesn't take diesel?" I ask Levi with a grimace.

He releases a pained groan and rubs at the back of his neck. "It's my dad's truck."

As I take a step closer, the worry rolls off him in waves. I want to hug him. Console him. Help him somehow.

"Bro, we'll figure out how to fix it. He'll never know. Maybe if we drive it to an auto shop—"

"You can't start the engine!" I shout.

At the same time, Levi doubles down on his concerns. "I'm so fucking screwed. He's going to kill me. Literally kill me." His voice trembles with fear, his light blue eyes frantic when he meets my gaze.

"Hey," I soothe, rounding the hood—and Greedy—to step closer to Levi.

Swallowing audibly, he regards me, his gorgeous face screwed up in a look of sheer panic.

I reach for his arm on instinct. I'm desperate to make this better. "Don't stress," I say. "I'll help."

He dips his chin and focuses on my hand where it rests on his forearm. Then he lets out a heavy breath. "I can't afford to take this truck into a shop." He looks to the vehicle, then back at me, squeezing his hand into a fist and then stretching it out again, causing the tendons in his forearm to flex beneath my touch.

"Leev."

I startle at the sound of Greedy's voice so close. He's behind me, and I can feel the heat of him at my back.

When he speaks again, his breath tickles the little hairs on my neck. "I'm the one who goofed. I'll pay for it."

I prop my hands on my hips and tip my head, taking Levi in. Then I turn back to look at Greedy.

"Neither of you knows anything about cars, do you?"

Their blank expressions confirm my suspicions.

"You really are lucky I showed up. If you start the engine, the diesel will make its way into the fuel line and combustion chamber. We've got to drain the diesel, rinse the gas tank with regular gas, drain it again, then fill it back up."

"Holy. Shit. How do you know that?" Greedy chuckles, his brows arched to his hairline like he's impressed.

Lips pressed together, I consider how I want to respond. Do I brush it off like it's common knowledge for an eighteen-year-old cheerleader to know the ins and outs of car maintenance? Or do I tell these virtual strangers the deeply personal reason I read car manuals and cookbooks and every brochure or flyer my dad came across for years?

One more glimpse of Levi's still forlorn, desperate expression gives me my answer.

I can trust them. I like them. They need help, and I can be that person right now.

"When I was little, I had a speech impediment." I hold my breath, waiting for one of them to interject or make a douchey comment.

Neither says a word, their focuses intently set on me.

I sigh, relieved they aren't, in fact, asshats, and go on. "My mom hated it. She put me in pageants, tried to force me to answer questions and perform on stage, thinking that would help."

I shudder at the memories. I still have nightmares about scented body glitter roll-ons and downing Pixy Stix for "extra sparkle" before being ushered onto a stage.

"That tracks. I could see you as one of those little pageant princesses," Greedy quips, one elbow propped up on the hood of the truck and one leg crossed over the other.

I hit him with an unamused glare. "It didn't work."

I leave it at that. They don't need to know that it had the opposite effect, and that I became so fearful of speaking in public I refused to talk at all for half of third grade. This wasn't supposed to be a personal trauma dump. I have a point to make.

"So once my mom gave up that ridiculous notion and my life no longer revolved around rehearsal and pageants, I spent a lot more time with my dad. He traveled for work during the week, but the weekend was our time. He loved tinkering with old cars, so I'd help. Or we'd make a complicated dessert from a Julia Child cookbook. I would read the instructions from the manuals and the recipes aloud, and he'd do the work."

My dad was always so patient and encouraging; genuinely warm and empathetic. It's mind-boggling that he and my mom ever got along at all. Those are some of my very best childhood memories, working on cars and cooking with my dad. And along the way, I picked up a slew of useful skills.

Levi nods, blowing out a long breath. "Okay. Good. This is good." There's a levity to him now that wasn't there before. "You think you can fix this?"

"Think?" I ask with a smirk. "I know I can fix this." I readjust my hat and pull my ponytail through the back, ready to get down to business. "Come on. We need supplies."

I lead the boys over to my car, pop the trunk, and grab my cheer bag.

It takes us nearly an hour, but eventually, I manually siphon out the diesel with the resistance bands I use for stretching. Then I do it again with the regular gasoline we pumped into the tank to rinse out the remaining diesel. Greedy pays for all the fuel, as well as the containers we buy inside the station to siphon it all into.

As I get started, he offers to hold my phone and wristlet for me, then not so subtly asks if he can put his number in and text him mine. For future car emergencies, he claims.

He buys me an extra-large strawberry slushy when we're all done, which I slurp down the second we pay at the register.

"Thirsty?" he teases.

I was thirsty when I pulled in an hour ago. Now I'm parched to the point of dry mouth. I'm also desperate to wash away the bad taste in my mouth. I didn't suck down any fuel while siphoning—thank god—but I can practically taste the stench. I can't wait to get home and shower.

"Ravenous." I arch my brows at him playfully and take a long pull on the red plastic straw.

His attention drifts to my mouth, and his eyes darken. Then that playful grin flattens into a scowl. His focus is hard, set, and so heated it feels like a living, breathing energy between us.

Mesmerized, I slowly drag the straw out of my mouth and lick the tip as I release it.

Greedy's eyes shoot up to meet mine, his mouth slack as he watches me work the straw. I lick my lips, the bright summertime sweetness of strawberries casting away the lingering scent of fuel.

In my periphery, a man enters the QuickieMart, headed straight for us. Greedy shifts closer and shelters my body between his and the rows of candy near the checkout. His body is so close, and yet he inches even closer and grasps my hip with one hand.

He doesn't shift back after the man passes. Nor does he move his hand.

Why is that so hot?

I peer up at him through my lashes, fighting back a grin.

"Thirsty, Greedy?"

He groans. "You're killing me here, Artemis."

I snort. It's the most unladylike sound imaginable. My mother would be appalled, but I'm so amused, I hardly have it in me to be embarrassed. "That's a truly awful nickname. Please don't call me that."

Chin dipped, he edges a little closer. "What should I call you, then?"

I bite into my bottom lip and tip my head back. I can feel the warmth of his hand through my thin tank top. He holds me with just enough pressure to convey a fondness and obvious interest. "You can just call me Hunter," I suggest.

One brow cocked, he scoffs. "No way. Levi calls you Hunter. Decker Crusade and his buddies call you Hunter. I'm sure all your friends call you Hunter."

"And?" I press. We've known each other for all of two hours. It's not like he's asked me out or made any real effort to get to know me. For him to presume—

"We're going to be a lot more than friends, you and I."

He doesn't give me a chance to refute that claim before he tips his head and takes a step back, headed for the door. "See ya around, Temi."