Chapter 3 The Cheerleader

I snuck out wearing exactly what I wanted: ripped jeans, Chuks and my white t-shirt. Cara protested for all of five minutes before realizing she was wasting her breath.

Just because I cheer professionally in tiny fucking skirts and crop tops doesn’t mean that’s how I actually like to dress.

People always assume cheerleaders live in full glam twenty-four seven, but honestly? The second I’m off the field, I want comfort. Sweaters. Jeans. Cold weather. Quiet bookstores and oversized mugs of coffee. Northern California spoiled me with chilly mornings and fog rolling over the coast. Fall and winter are my favorite seasons. I love walking barefoot across cold sand while freezing water nips at my toes. There’s something peaceful about it, like the ocean is reminding you how small you are.

“Here!” Cara shouts over the music, shoving a red Solo cup into my hand.

I stare down into it suspiciously.

Warm beer.

Absolutely disgusting.

Normally, I’d never drink from some random open container handed to me at a frat party, but this is Cara. She’d never let anything happen to me.

Right?

Whatever.

I tilt the cup back and force the entire thing down my throat in one go.

“Natalie Marie Bennett,” Cara gasps dramatically before bursting into laughter. “Are we really doing this tonight?”

“Only if you stop using my full name,” I mutter, scowling at her.

She grins unapologetically, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder. Her long lashes flutter against her cheeks like little butterfly wings, framing those annoyingly perfect baby-blue eyes. Sometimes standing next to Cara feels criminal. Men practically trip over themselves looking at her.

Brody stands beside her with one massive arm wrapped protectively around her waist. He’s huge. Like genuinely huge. Cara told me he plays offensive line, meaning he’s one of the guys responsible for protecting the quarterback.

I know football.

Comes with the territory when you cheer professionally.

Though I tend to avoid football players whenever possible. Most of them are entirely too broody and self-important for my taste. Then again, maybe that opinion comes from dating one who turned out to be a complete cheating asshole.

Matteo Hurtle.

Star quarterback. NFL golden boy. Human disaster.

Every away game apparently came with a different girl, and somehow he still managed to keep his image spotless. Coach Roberts nearly murdered most of the team for breathing wrong, but Matteo always slipped through the cracks because he won games and smiled pretty for the cameras.

The best quarterback in the NFL depending on who you asked.

Or the worst.

I grab another drink from Cara, sipping this one slower while trying not to gag at the taste.

That’s when I feel it.

The strange sensation crawling across the back of my neck.

Like someone’s watching me.

My skin tingles all over, sharp and electric. I can’t decide whether it’s a good feeling or a bad one.

The frat house itself is exactly what I expected and somehow worse.

Huge plantation-style architecture with towering white columns outside and expensive furniture ruined by sticky alcohol and frat boys with no survival instincts. The air inside is hot and thick with sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled liquor. Rap music blasts through oversized speakers hard enough to make the floor vibrate beneath my feet.

Everywhere I look, bodies are pressed together.

Girls wearing practically nothing grind against shirtless guys in the middle of the makeshift dance floor while others stumble through the house already drunk out of their minds. Near the staircase, two brunettes are aggressively making out while at least six guys stand around watching like it’s live entertainment.

Honestly?

This is exactly why I spend most of my time in libraries.

“Nat!” Cara suddenly grabs my arm. “This is Archie,” she announces loudly, practically shoving some guy in front of me.

Tall.

Of course he’s tall.

At this point, I’m convinced the entire male population of Blackwood Ridge is genetically engineered in a lab to be over six feet. Archie has dark hair, sharp green eyes, and that polished preppy look rich boys somehow master naturally. Black polo. Expensive watch. Tight khakis. There’s a hint of tattoo peeking beneath one sleeve, though not enough to tell what it is.

He smiles politely.

I’m still not interested.

“This is my best friend Nat,” Cara says proudly.

“Nat, huh?” Archie studies me carefully. “You look familiar.”

I shrug awkwardly.

“What’s your major?”

“I actually go to Oakbrook University,” I start explaining. “I’m double majoring in—”

“She’s a cheerleader for the San Francisco Sharks,” Cara blurts out before I can finish.

I immediately want to die.

Because the second those words leave her mouth, every guy standing around us turns to stare.

And unfortunately, “every guy” appears to include most of the football team.

I can physically feel their attention settle on me, heavy and invasive, crawling across my skin. My stomach twists instantly.

This is why I hate when people lead with cheerleader.

It becomes the only thing they see.

Not the student. Not the girl obsessed with historical archives and ancient texts. Not the person who’d rather spend six hours cataloging manuscripts than partying.

Just the blonde in the tiny uniform.

Ironically, the uniform itself makes things easier. When I’m performing, it feels like stepping into another version of myself. Loud. Confident. Flirty. Untouchable.

But standing here in regular clothes while a dozen strangers stare at me?

I suddenly feel painfully exposed.

The questions start almost immediately.

“What’s it like cheering professionally?”

“Do you know Matteo Hurtle personally?”

“Are NFL parties really insane?”

“Do players actually hook up with cheerleaders?”

I answer carefully, trying not to sound rude while also giving away as little information as possible. Cara keeps handing me drinks between conversations, and I keep taking them because the alcohol dulls the sharp edge of my anxiety enough to make breathing easier.

By drink four, I know I’m already in dangerous territory.

The room feels warmer now.

Louder.

My thoughts slightly fuzzy around the edges.

Cara finally notices I’m overwhelmed and grabs my hand. “Come on.”

She drags me toward the dance floor before I can argue.

The bass pulses through the room so hard it feels alive beneath my skin, vibrating through my chest and down my spine. The music is overwhelming in the best possible way, drowning out my thoughts completely.

For the first time all night, I stop overthinking.

I just move.

The alcohol buzz crashes into me all at once, warm and dizzying, making my body feel loose and light. I close my eyes for half a second, letting the rhythm pull me under.

Then suddenly—

A large, warm body presses against my back.

Strong hands grip my hips firmly.

I gasp softly but don’t pull away.

Instead, my body reacts automatically, grinding back against him with the beat of the music.

“Fuck,” a deep voice murmurs near my ear.

The word sends heat racing through me.

“I’m Wade,” he says, his voice rough and low against my skin.

Then his lips brush that one sensitive spot beneath my ear—

The exact spot that makes me completely unravel.

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