The next week flashes by in a blur of snow and coursework.

A snowstorm hit this weekend, which I took full advantage of by bundling up in my favorite pajamas while camping out on the living room couch next to the fireplace to stay warm. With a hot chocolate in hand, I systematically checked off everything on my to-do list, starting with my assigned reading and homework, and ending with an essay for my Writing for Publication class.

After Nia, Jenny, and I cleaned the entire apartment while blasting our favorite playlist, I started the outline for my USASN article. I've had a pretty good idea of where I wanted the article to go since Beck agreed to let me write it. I want to break it into three sections—past, present, and future. I'm hoping that structure will allow me to introduce him to the reader and get them to care about him and his journey as an athlete, so when I end on the future section, they'll not only want to know where he's going from here, but hopefully, they'll also want to keep up with him afterward. That's the effect of a good feature—turning curious readers into new fans. And since I know this article is the last thing Tristan Beck wants to be involved in, I want to make it worth his while. Which is why I spent the rest of the weekend drafting up as many questions as I could, touching on subjects that I know will help humanize the person beneath the jersey.

The snow didn't ease when classes resumed Monday, and while Tristan still kept me entertained—or rather, distracted—during chemistry, I tried to ignore his jokes and the ridiculous notes he'd pass me. They were usually terrible drawings of the molecules we were learning about, personified to have arms and legs and faces, and almost always had a speech bubble with a terrible chemistry joke. I'd gotten so used to his antics that when I went to class this morning and he wasn't there, I could actually feel his absence. While it wasn't great for my entertainment, it did wonders for my attention span. For once, I made it through the entire lecture without missing huge chunks of information since I wasn't too busy drawing my own doodles on his notebook or elbowing him in the side when he would make soft snoring noises in my ear as he pretended to fall asleep.

After my last class ended, I spent a few hours in the newspaper room making final touches on my article about the two first-year pre-med students who created a fundraiser to offer free women's health screenings at the student health center. After turning the final draft into the submission box on the editor-in-chief's desk, I headed home to study for chemistry.

Now, two hours later, I'm sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by flashcards as I try to organize them into definitely know, kind of know, and don't know at all piles. When a knock at my door sounds, I don't look up from the cards as I call for them to come in. A glance at the fuzzy black slippers tells me it's Nia who's standing in the doorway.

"What the hell is going on in here? Are you studying or performing a seance?" She blanches, leaning against my doorframe. Amused by her dramatics, I look up at her.

"There are so many key terms and concepts in this class. This is the only way I'll learn them all." I shrug, picking up the card closest to my toe to sort it into the kind of know pile.

"Okay, let's put all of this..." She motions to the explosion of flashcards. "On hold for tonight because you're coming out to O'Malley's with me and Jen."

"Nia," I groan, shaking my head. "I have to study. Plus, I have another essay to write, and I really should do some laundry because I've been putting it off since last weekend." I nod toward the overflowing laundry basket near my closet.

"You have until Monday to do all of that, Abs. You need to go out and have some fun. You've been staring at your phone all week like a sad puppy."

She's not wrong, but I still glare at her for saying it out loud.

Dean never texted me. And it sucks. It's not that I care that Dean hasn't texted me. I've barely spoken to the guy. It's more about the fact that an attractive guy even showed interest in me at all, got my hopes up, and then completely forgot about me. It also doesn't help that Jackie's comments keep replaying in my head.

"Come on, Abby, please don't make me beg," she pleads, jutting her lower lip out and scrunching her brows in a dramatic pout. "I need a night out after the calculus test I took today, and you need to relax because this . . ." She motions toward the flashcards with a critical look. "Is not normal. Not for a Friday night, at least."

I look down at the cards, trying to rationalize whether I have time to go sit out at the sports bar until three in the morning. When it hits me that I'm considering whether I have enough time to schedule fun into my calendar, I fold.

"Alright." I sigh, taking extra care not to jostle the piles of cards as I get up. "I'll go, but I'm not taking straight shots. I can't be hungover tomorrow."

Nia eyes my polka-dotted pajama pants with a smile.

"I have the perfect outfit for you."

***

O'Malley's is packed, as always.

It's the only sports bar near campus, and thanks to their three-dollar beer specials and free chips and salsa, it's been our go-to bar since freshman year. Nia has my hand clutched in hers as she weaves us through the crowd, making a beeline for the bar. I keep my eyes on the floor, careful not to step on anyone's feet with the heels Nia talked me into wearing. They're cute, and they go perfectly with the short, high-waisted leather skirt and lacy top that looks more like lingerie to me than a blouse, but they're hard to walk in and I can already feel my toes aching.

"Do you want a vodka cran?" Nia asks when we finally reach the bar. I nod, pulling my phone from the back pocket of my skirt. The last flicker of hope that Dean would text me extinguishes when my screen illuminates.

"Stop checking your phone," Nia chides, stealing my phone and sliding it into her purse. "We're here to have fun, get drunk, and not think about the asshole guys who don't text us."

I want to roll my eyes at that. I'd be willing to bet Nia has never been forgotten by a guy before.

She grabs the drinks from the bartender with a bright smile and slides over her card. "Their drinks are on me tonight."

I've always been a little envious of her Black Card. Nia's family has money—the kind of money that spends holidays in the south of France and has credit cards with no limits—which is why I don't usually object to her picking up my tab whenever she pulls me along for a night out. When the bartender brings her card back, she motions for me and Jenny to follow her toward the three open seats at the end of the bar.

"I'm so glad you came with us," Nia yells over the music. "You look fantastic."

"Gorgeous," Jenny adds with an encouraging smile.

They're trying to make me feel better about the Dean situation, which, I have to admit, is working a little. I take another sip of my drink and cross one leg over the other, glancing down at my lace top. It's a black lace-bustier crop top. It's by far the most risque piece I've ever worn, but thankfully, the bar lighting is too low to expose much of the skin beneath. I thought I might feel a little uncomfortable, but surprisingly, the curious gazes of the male passersby have only helped to ease the hit my self-confidence took this week.

"You look so much better in that outfit than I do. I don't have enough to fill it out." Nia motions to her chest. "I swear to you, I'm getting a boob job once we're in New York."

"No, you're not." Jenny and I say in unison.

Nia rolls her eyes, flagging the bartender over for another round.

"Nia?"

We all turn on our stools. A guy with red hair so dark it fades into brown at the roots stops just behind Nia. She pulls him into a hug, and I don't miss the way his hands linger around her waist when she pulls back. He's comfortable with her, and while he looks vaguely familiar, I can't place him.

"You know Abby Ryan, right?" She gestures toward me. "Abby, this is Nathan Emery. He's on the basketball team with Beck."

Nathan Emery raises his brows as his eyes flick down my body before meeting mine again.

"You know Beck?" he asks, leaning forward to be heard over the music.

"She's writing an article on him," Nia explains, beaming at Nate's impressed expression. "She's amazing, I know."

"It's not that impressive." I shake my head, taking another sip of my drink when I realize they're not paying attention to me anymore.

Jenny flashes an amused smile over Nia's head, eyes darting between Nathan and Nia.

I raise a brow. Do we like him?

She lifts a shoulder and drops it. He's okay.

Nathan leans in close, yelling to be heard over the music blasting through the bar. "Do you want to dance?"

Nia glances between me and Jenny in question.

Jenny shrugs noncommittally as she takes a sip of her drink, happy just to be here.

"Go ahead." I nod, practically shooing her away. "Jen and I will be here getting drunk on your tab." I hold up my glass in a silent toast and Jenny leans over the bar to grab a stack of napkins. She's already spilled on herself, so we're well on our way.

Nia smiles, squeezing Jen's hand and kissing my cheek before hopping off her stool and following Nathan to the dance floor.

"James is here." Jenny gasps, craning her head to look over the crowd. "I should go tell him how good he was in the game last week, right?" She sticks her straw into her mouth and downs the liquid until the harsh sound of sucking air makes her crinkle her nose.

"Yes, you definitely should." I mirror her excited smile.

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you here alone. Do you want to come with me?"

"No, I'm fine here. I'll just eat some chips and hang out." I pick a chip from the basket and take a bite. Jenny raises an unconvinced brow, settling back on her stool. I would usually appreciate that, but when her eyes drift over to the back lounge where I assume James is, I nudge her with my elbow and nod for her to go ahead. Ever since the formal, I've found myself rooting for the Jenny and James train to finally take off. He likes her, and she likes him, only she's too stubborn to admit it because, until recently, James was as notorious of a playboy as his best friend.

"I promise I'll be fine here. Go have fun, Jen."

She considers me, uncertainty shining in her eyes. "I'll be back in a few. I promise."

She slides the newly filled salsa bowl across the bar to me, along with a small stack of napkins, before disappearing into the crowd.

I've sat at the bar by myself too many times to be bothered. I bite into a chip and watch a man with a top knot pull out some robot dance in the middle of the dance floor. Just as he drops into a split, I'm knocked forward, nearly off my stool.

I fumble for my cup, eyes widening at the pool of vodka cran now spreading across the bar top. I reach for the stack of napkins, wiping up the spilled drink before it can make an even bigger mess down the bar.

"Oh, shit—sorry."

I turn, shocked to see Beck standing beside my stool. His eyes widen as they dip down my body. By the look of complete shock on his face, you'd think I was sitting here completely naked.

"Abby?" He asks, incredulous.

"Hey, Beck. I thought you were sick."

His brows pinch together, and he leans in close. I repeat myself, louder this time.

"Sick? No." He places his empty beer bottle on the bar top, taking the new one the bartender slides to him.

"You weren't in class, so I just assumed." I shrug, though I'm not really paying attention to the conversation anymore. Instead, my eyes are fixed on the way his black t-shirt hugs his shoulders and arms. He's usually in hoodies in class, so when I catch the sleeve of ink trailing up his right arm, it takes me a few seconds to tear my eyes away from the swirls and hard lines of the black ink etched there. I haven't seen him in a short-sleeved shirt up close before, but I could see the outline of it from the TV last night.

"I was meeting with Coach." He takes a step closer so I can hear him over the music. "How's the article going?"

"Good. Really good. I have it all outlined."

"When's our next interview?" He takes a pull of his beer, but I catch the twitch of his cheek.

I consider my planner sitting open on my bed. I have classes most mornings until mid-afternoon, work every night this week, and a newspaper staff meeting on Friday morning. I also work an open-to-close shift on Saturday, and I doubt he wants to spend his Sunday being interviewed.

I guess I could skip the staff meeting on Friday.

"Friday?" I ask, watching as he leans into the bar and nods. "Same time?" I confirm.

He shakes his head. "I can't do the morning this week. We have a team meeting. What about after the game?"

"I work until ten," I sigh.

"Perfect. Come over after."

I raise a brow. "After ten? That's a bit late, don't you think?"

On the nights I don't work, I'm in bed by ten. Or on the couch in my pajamas and face mask, at least.

He looks genuinely surprised. "Ten? Not really."

I look down at my hands for a second and then nod. "Okay. Friday at ten."

He looks toward the back of the bar. "I should probably get back before they think I ditched them."

I really have no excuse. I barely had a quarter of my vodka cranberry before it spilled across the bar. And yet, the comment still slips out before I can stop it. "By them, do you mean Jackie?"

His brows shoot up, and my cheeks flame hot enough to melt right off the bone.

"I don't usually bring my study buddies out to the bar with me, Ryan." The way he says study buddies seems to add gasoline to the fire burning beneath my skin. He knows it too, because his eyes dip to my cheeks and he grins.

"I think you and I have different ideas about what it means to be study buddies," I chide.

"We could become study buddies and find out." He raises his brows suggestively.

"T! What's the hold-up?" A guy about the same height as Tristan walks toward us, and when he steps into the lighting near the bar, I recognize him as one of the roommates that I played video games with the other day. He's covered in tattoos—two full-length sleeves of ink etched on his arms. I watch the recognition hit him as he grins.

"Hey, Ryan." He nods toward me and then looks back to Beck with raised brows. "You're up for beer pong."

"Do you want to come hang out?" Beck asks, motioning toward the back lounge where a ping-pong table is set up and what appears to be the entire basketball team surrounding it.

"I—no, thanks. I'm fine here." I shake my head and look down at the chip bowl.

He takes a pull of his beer, watching me before narrowing his eyes playfully. "You'd rather sit here and eat stale chips and salsa by yourself than hang out with me?"

I'm about to make a joke about how the stale chips make for better company, but hesitate as I look up at him. His eyes light up, bright and playful, as he nods toward the back again.

An invitation.

A challenge.

It's a split-second decision. I grab an ice cube from my cup, savoring the residual vodka melting on my tongue and the flicker of surprise on Tristan's face as I slide off my stool and motion for him to lead the way.