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The first week of each new semester was always the longest. New classes, new schedules, new teachers—trying to figure out the new routine.

But the best thing about the first week? It ended with Labor Day weekend; a reward for trudging through. You could feel it in the air. Campus was bare, people were packing up their cars with umbrellas and chairs and ice chests.
Southern Florida had its perks: it was very close to the beach. Downside was those of us in collegiate athletics usually had to wait until Sunday.

My weekend was starting with headshots. Then for my own practice, I wanted to crash the women's golf practice on Saturday to get back in the swing of things—pun intended. At least it would end with the sun and the sand.

"Why are we still at school on Friday afternoon?" Gus complained when I walked into the bright marble foyer of the athletic administration building.

"Is taking pictures of hot guys now considered school?" I brushed past him, smirking at the two unbuttoned top buttons of his baby blue shirt, into the closet to get my lighting umbrellas and backdrop.

"It should be extra credit," I heard him mutter to himself. "Barlowe, eight. Danton, seven. Elliot, ten. Hall, eight. Mitchell, nine. No nine and a half. Scott, nine. Thacker, eleven. Thompson, ten. Vasquez, ten."

Shit. Double shit.

I hadn't heard from Tate all week. And I had definitely unexpectedly expected to. Even with his crazy schedule, we used to talk regularly. Now we were not not dating, and I'd surprised myself by how many times a day I found myself checking my phone—the number is something I'd rather not admit.

I set up two large photography umbrellas across the foyer from Gus. I unfolded the gray backdrop and laid it down flat to try to get the creases out before screwing the metal poles of the frame into each other. I heaved one end of the canvas over the top of the rectangle, reaching up high to try smooth it out.

"Gus, give a short girl a hand, please," I called over my shoulder.

He looked up from his camera through his brown curls, and his eyes immediately dropped to my ass. "Did you master the StairMaster this summer? Your ass looks amazing, but maybe don't reach up that high in that dress. Unless..." He raised his eyebrows. "Who are we crushing on this year?"

I came down on my heels and ran my hand over the back of my tiered light blue sundress to cover the bottom of my butt cheeks. "No one," I said firmly.

He gave me a skeptical look and put his camera down. "It's senior year. Isn't this supposed to be our last hurrah or something?"

"Adulthood." I shuddered like the mere mention of the word caused an allergic reaction.

Gus rose and flattened out my backdrop. "Exactly." He pointed to one side, instructing me to pull it tight with him. "It won't ever be the same again."

We snapped the canvas around the poles together, the creases pulled out tight and his depressing words hanging in the air.

I tried to let their effect roll off of me. The end of one thing was the start of another, and my 'another' wasn't depressing. Hopefully.

Gus interrupted my thoughts and lightened the mood. "I'm hoping for a love triangle... or better yet, a threesome."

"One baseball player, one soccer player, and one photographer." I smiled, and my eyes slid playfully to his tripod. "Just don't forget that."

"Oh, kinky." He bumped me with his bony hip. "I like it."

"Right on time," I replied, bumping my hip into his as Patrick Vasquez, Southern Florida's catcher, marched his tree trunk thighs up the steps and threw open the glass door.

"Let's get this over with, Gus. The beach is waiting for me." Pat sat down on the stool in his tight baseball uniform and covered his dark hair with his hat.

"You're lucky you play a spring sport," Gus replied, trying to steamroll his smile and turning away from me.

"Remind me again in the spring when everyone's on spring break and at Mardi Gras," Pat grumbled. "Unless you'll wait for me."

Gus shrugged, wasting zero time. "I might if you ask me nicely."

Pat's lip quirked up on one side. "I'll remember that."

I retreated back to the closet to let them flirt in private. I sat on the stool in the corner and adjusted the legs of another tripod before I heard more voices trickling in and a body filled the doorframe, darkening the closet.

"What is with you and trapping me inside small spaces?" I asked matter-of-factly.

Matt blinked, his voice coming out sincere. "I wanted to see if you needed any help."

"No thank you," I said, rising from the stool and picking it up. "I got it."

I hoisted the tripod underneath my arm and motioned with my hand for him to move out of my way. He hesitated before swinging his body open like a door, allowing me to slide past him in his football jersey.

My eyes connected with Tate's when I rounded the corner, my body going from icy cold frustration to basking in the heat he was radiating. He had the sleeves of his white button down rolled up and a black sports coat hanging from his hand. He gifted me a smile, assessing the load in my arms and reaching for the heavier stool.

"Hey," he said with even more warmth. He looked over my shoulder, nothing registering on his face, to where I was sure Matt had appeared before he leaned down close to my ear. "You okay?"

Tate created an ASMR within me that I hadn't remembered feeling since the very first time he spoke slowly into my ear. The tickle of his breath cascaded down my neck, through my spine, and out the end of my fingertips, which caused me to involuntarily brush them across the back of his muscular forearm.

"I'm fine. Thanks," I breathed out softly before finally snapping out of it. "How are you?"

"Long first week." Tate took a step back and placed the stool in the center of my setup. "Not used to the grind anymore. I've been up since five a.m."

Tate's schedule used to look like this:
5:30 a.m. - Wake up/light breakfast
6 a.m. - Gym

8 a.m. - Classes
Noon - Lunch
1 p.m. - Practice/play
6 p.m. - Dinner
7 p.m. - Study/fun
10:30 - Bedtime

Crazy was what it was, and somehow he could stick to it—which is why he would've gone actually crazy without me. I wondered what his schedule had been like the past year.

"I hope you left a day for fun this weekend."

"Maybe." Tate's right eyebrow twitched. "No plans."

"Aw, you're not coming with us to the beach?" Matt interjected with fake pity.

I turned toward him standing too close and listening to our conversation with a slight frown pulling the corners of his lips down. His eyes were expressing the opposite emotion.

"Of course he's coming. He was kidding."

Triple shit.

It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself—something about his punchable face made me say it.

I couldn't see Tate's face. Was it anger, shock, confusion, or something else he was expressing? Or was he just intensely staring at Matt, who was intensely staring back?

After a quick second, I felt Tate in my hair behind my ear. "I wouldn't miss it," he whispered only loud of enough for me to hear.

What the hell was I thinking?

As long as Matt was doing whatever he was doing with Alice, I was going to be subjected to him over and over.

And he'd definitely figure out I lied about Tate eventually.

| ⛳️ |

I took seven athletes' photos without the slightest complaint until Matt sat his annoying ass in my stool and gave me his sleazy smile.

It took eight tries of him coming around the camera to inspect his headshot on the screen before he smiled smugly and gave me a finally look like it was my fault.

For the record, they all looked the exact same.

As soon as he was satisfied, Matt pulled off his jersey to reveal a skin tight athletic cut off shirt and threw it over his shoulder before he walked out into the Florida sun. I gave the same look to his back when he finally left me in peace.

Tate took one photo in his purple and gold striped tie and black sports jacket and shook his head when I asked him if he wanted to see it.

"I trust you."

I looked down at my tiny screen. I wasn't sure it was possible for him to take a bad picture. "It's perfect," I smiled.

"Perfect," he repeated, standing and loosening his tie. Taking off his jacket. Rolling up his sleeves. It was almost slow motion.

His slightest innocuous movements underneath a dress shirt were somehow way hotter than Matt's, who did everything intentionally. Matt had a cocky side, parading his muscles out in the open even when it wasn't called for. Tate had silent confidence. You knew when you looked at him that underneath his polo and golf pants he had hard lines and muscly angles and defined pecs, but he didn't need to show you.

So, I stood there daydreaming about what I knew was underneath the crisp white fabric covering Tate's upper body—from seeing him in a swimsuit, of course.

"I'm sorry about that," I said suddenly when he stepped toward me and I realized I'd get to see him in a swimsuit very shortly and that I'd been staring at his torso for longer than was socially acceptable.

Both of Tate's eyebrows flattened into a straight line before they sprang back up in happiness. "Don't worry about it. I haven't been to the beach since we went to Key West. It might not top that, but it will be fun."

Nothing would top that.

It had been a spur of the moment trip. We'd spent our days snorkeling and day-drinking or jet skiing and dolphin cruising. We'd spent our nights pub crawling and karaokeing or lying in the cold sand and sitting by a bonfire.

I get it—we acted like a couple. I understood why people thought we were, but it just hadn't ever been anything more than a friendship.

But now we were less than a friendship. We were in this weird thing—between-ish-ship—where we were more than acquaintances but less than true friends. Talking, but not really, insecure, and not sure how to act. I wasn't mad at him—I was sure he had his reasons for pushing me out and ghosting me. Of course, I wanted to know why, but I also knew I had a better chance of finding out if I let Tate tell me in his own time. Tate always held everything close to his chest. So maybe we could get there.

"Do we need to, like, set some kind of rules for this?" I asked him quietly.

"Ah," he smirked. "The fake-dating contract."

I glanced at Gus who was eyeing me with an amused expression. I shook my head at him ever so slightly—like a millimeter—at what he was thinking behind that smirk.

"Yes, right. This idiotic thing we've gotten ourselves entangled in." I looked down at my flats before I raised my eyes to see Tate feigning a look of shock. "I've gotten ourselves into."

Tate side-smiled. Slightly. "What's first?"

"Um, consent?"

"Am I allowed to touch you like I used to?"

I nodded. Our physical relationship was friendly enough—hugs, hands on the other's back or shoulder or thigh (I repeat, in a friendly way).

"Okay, easy enough. You can touch me however you want," Tate replied. "Next?"

"Um, Audrey?"

"Not an issue. Next?"

"Right, okay." I paused. "You already broke up with her?"

I think Tate looked actually shocked behind his eyes. "She broke up with me."

"Oh." I cringed to myself. Had I sounded like I was judging him? He was always the dumper not the dumpee—or had I always assumed that? "So, I guess the last one is that you need to benefit from this I think?"

"What?"

"There has to be something in it for you. Otherwise, it's just not fair. I enjoy seeing Matt so pissed, so win for me. But why are you helping me?"

Tate paused. "Because seeing you happy is enough for me."

Our real friendship was just below the surface. I knew it. But maybe both of us were too scared to be the first one to bring up what had happened. I knew I was.

My goal for the weekend was now clear: I'd get us back to where we belonged; how things were supposed to be if Tate had never left.


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