My Crush

Now, the one I actually asked – which I never f*cking did since I never f*cking had to – said no, thanks the way you'd turn down being spritzed in the perfume aisle.

"Are you in this sorority?"

"Hell no," she said and quickly added,

"'Not that there's anything wrong with sororities at all. I'm just not interested."

"Right. Because you're bored."

I turned, pressing my arm against the wall and crossing my arms to look at her as we spoke. She didn't mimic my movement. Shocker.

"So you have friends in the sorority."

"My roommate."

"Your roommate isn't a friend?" I took another sip of beer.

"She's my best friend."

Her brows pulled together as she looked around, maybe trying to find her roommate/best friend. I fought the urge to reach out and iron her frown away. She looked like she'd knee me in the balls if I touched her.

"Do you want a drink?"

I asked. I don't know what the f*ck possessed me to ask that question. Maybe I was as bored as she was.

"I don't drink at parties."

I opened my mouth to ask another question when a shout pulled her attention from me.

"Lyles!"

I looked up at the sound of Prescott's voice and realized he was heading straight toward us.

My stomach sank. God, if "Lyles" was Prescott's girlfriend, I wasn't sure what to do. I hung out with Prescott often enough to know he didn't have a girlfriend, but maybe she was someone he was trying to get with. In that case, I wondered if he was serious or if she'd just be a f*ck to him.

We had an off-limits policy regarding anyone the guys were serious about. If any of the guys wanted to get with one specific girl and they said, "Dibs," the rest of us had to back off.

It was a stupid tradition implemented before I started playing here and would continue long after I left. Each year, the captain of the hockey team picked a random number, and that was the amount of women each player on the team had to f*ck that season.

If you didn't participate and bowed out of Dibs, you had to put $100 in the pot.

If you failed to reach the number of women, you also had to put $100 in the pot. Aaron was our captain this year, and he chose the number 10. Since I always met the goal, I'd never had to put a dime in that pot.

Press threw a peace sign at me as he jogged the last steps to close the distance between us. I watched as he wrapped little Wednesday in his arms and twirled her around once. She didn't laugh, but she was smiling. It was a nice f*cking smile.

"I can't believe Marissa convinced you to come."

He pulled back and took her in from head to toe.

"You look good, but you always look good."

I snorted. They both looked at me. I took a swig of my beer and looked away. It wasn't that she didn't look good. She was f*cking gorgeous. But she was wearing a t-shirt with Harry Styles' face that was so big that it probably fit me loosely.

The bagginess of her clothes practically screamed,

"Don't come near me."

I wondered if I would have noticed her if this had been any other night and she hadn't been standing in my space.

My attention vacillated between Prescott's hand on her shoulder and Aaron, already drunk and about to do a keg stand. I kept my eyes on him while I listened to their conversation.

"How are you?" Press asked her.

"I'm good. Banks. You know." She shrugged.

"The semester is almost over. Maybe you can come and party for the next month before we leave."

"Maybe."

Liar.

Her interest in partying sounded like my interest in chess — non-existent.

"You know I'm here for you, right?"

He lowered his voice as he pulled her into another hug.

"Thanks."

She pulled away, setting both hands on his chest to establish distance.

"I was actually on my way out, but I'm glad I got to see you, Pres."

"What? No way, Lyles. Come on, you haven't been to any of my games, you haven't come over, and whenever I've gone to your place, you have never been home.

You can't just leave," he said, touching her shoulder again. Jesus. Pres was handy.

"Why are you standing out here anyway?" He glanced at me.

"Wait, you two know each other?"

"Nope," she said.

"Haven't even met." My brows rose.

I mean, technically, she wasn't wrong. We hadn't formally introduced ourselves, but she made it sound like we didn't have a conversation.

I already knew four things about her: she liked Harry Styles and Pocahontas, didn't drink at parties, and was bored with life.

I couldn't tell you four things I knew about any other woman at this party, and I'd fucked some of them, so that was saying something.

"Oh." He looked between us.

"Lachlan, this is Lyla. Lyla, this is Lachlan."

"Pleasure to meet you, Lachlan." She faced me and extended her hand for me to shake. The way she did it amused me, but I didn't let it show as I took it.

Her hand was tiny and fragile, and her touch sent an odd electric jolt through me. It made me keep her hand in mine longer than I should have.

I tugged her a little closer to me, just to f*ck with her, to see if the look on her face would crack. Her expression never wavered, but I saw something shift in her eyes for a millisecond before she finally pulled her hand back. She continued looking at me, those curious eyes making me feel more vulnerable than I cared to admit. Finally, she stepped away and turned to Pres.

"Come to the country club on Sunday," Prescott said to her.

"A few of us are having brunch by the pool. Deidre always asks about you. She'd be so happy to see you."

"I haven't seen her in so long," she said, glancing at the ground and back up at him. "Come out with us," he said, smiling as he tapped the tip of her nose.

"Maybe I will."

She smiled at him.

F*cking smiled.

It looked real, too. I wondered what it felt like to have someone who didn't smile often direct something that magnificent at you. I wanted to experience it, even if it was just once. She patted Pres' chest.

"Well, I'm off, bitches."

That was so unexpected that I laughed. She walked away from us, holding a peace sign over her head. She never looked at me to say goodbye.

Technically, she had, since she'd said bitches, plural, but she didn't look directly at me. I watched her, waiting for her to look at me as she wove through the crowd. Surely, she'd look back at me. They always did. She stopped walking for a moment when some douchebag bumped into her, and I waited. This was the perfect opportunity for her to look back. She never did.

What the f*ck? "She's…" Pres shook his head.

"Something."

"She's antisocial."

"This coming from the guy who leans against the wall and watches the party like we're his peasants." Pres raised an eyebrow.

I grunted. "Who is she anyway?"

"Lyla James Marichal."

He stuck his hands in his front pockets and rocked on his heels.

"She used to be everyone's wet dream in Olympia High School." Huh. I didn't see it.

Antisocial, wearing huge clothing, and giving clipped answers? She'd caught my attention, but no high school kid would salivate over that.

I tossed my empty bottle in the recycling bin a couple of steps away and burped as I leaned against the wall again.

Lyla James Marichal. Funny. We had the same middle name. I imagined myself telling her and could picture the blank stare she'd give me.

"Marichal. The former baseball player who's mayor now?"

"Yep. That's her father. He's a legend around here." Preston pressed his back against the wall.

"Immigrant, pro athlete, self-made businessman, and now mayor." I nodded. I'd met him once, and he seemed nice enough. He was a major donor and heavily involved in all things sports at Fairview University.

Because I never left our college bubble unless I was driving home, I didn't rub shoulders with Fairview's elite.

Most of us didn't, but we'd heard crazy stories about the parties they threw. I'd been invited to Mayor Marichal's house a few times for his annual sports gala and turned it down each time. It wasn't my scene.

Wearing fancy clothes and sitting at a table with a bunch of stuffy assholes wasn't exactly my idea of a good time.

"Why was Lyla everyone's wet dream?" I asked, going back to that topic.

"I don't see it." Pres raised an eyebrow.

"She's hot as f*ck under those baggy clothes."

"How do you know?" I stood straighter and turned to him.

"She didn't always dress that way."

"Did you two ever hook up?" I asked and frowned at my own question.

"No." He chuckled, a low, almost defeated sound.

"Why is that funny?" I asked, "I thought she was everyone's wet dream?"

"She was." "But, not yours?"

"Nah, she was mine too, for a time." He shrugged.

"Even if I'd tried something, she wouldn't have given me the time of day."

That gave me pause. Prescott didn't pull as many girls as I did, but he was pretty damn close. I had to be missing something. I had never asked this many questions about anyone.

Certainly not a f*cking girl. Definitely, not one I knew wasn't down for my style of hookups. I needed to shut up. I was bored, though. I was bored, and we were just standing here anyway.

"I feel like I'm missing something,"

I said aloud.

"Weren't you the most popular guy at your school?"

I asked.

"That's what all the girls who went to your school say."

"Yeah, I guess I was up there."

"So…?"

"Lyles is different. She's the kind of girl that you don't let go of if you get her, which is near impossible as it is." He looked at me again, a serious expression on his face.

"Ever."

"Ah," I nodded. "She's the commitment type."

"Her?" He laughed. "Hell no." I stared at him.

I was definitely missing a lot of things here. He smiled, shaking his head as if Lyla James Marichal committing to anything was a joke. If that was the case…

"She's the girl you can't let get away," he explained.

I wanted to ask why but bit my tongue. I didn't care about forever or letting someone get away. I'd already had one important person in my life abandon me.