I woke up this morning to the feel of Abby's cold nose nuzzling into the crook of my neck. She kissed her way up to my cheek and then traced every line and curve of the ink etched into my shoulder down to my wrist with a feather-light touch. It was somehow the most relaxing thing I've ever experienced, and paired with her fingers dragging gently through my hair, I was dangerously close to drooling on her pillowcase. When I finally opened my eyes, she smiled up at me with an innocent, oh, you're awake, what a surprise look, as if she wasn't purposely trying to get me up.

That smile turned into something much sexier when she climbed into my lap, straddling my hips while she grazed her lips over my collarbone. I knew exactly what she was doing, and when she pulled back to look at me again, the playful gleam in her eyes had me wide awake. My fingers were already looping in the waistband of her pajama pants, but her hands came up to stop me before she wiggled off of me, rolling off the bed and stopping by the door. Her brows were quirked, and a smile was pulling at her perfect lips as if to say, come on, sleepyhead, let's go.

I didn't hesitate for a second. I was out of bed and pulling my sweats up my legs before I could ask where we were going. But to be honest, it didn't even matter where she was leading me because I knew I'd follow Abby Ryan anywhere.

I know I should be listening to James right now, but even though he's sprawled out on the couch next to me, absently listening to Greg Bradshaw list off this week's highlights, I can't take my eyes off of Abby. She's wearing yoga pants, which I think she's quickly realizing are my favorite item of clothing because she smirked at me over her shoulder when she slid them up her legs earlier, wiggling her ass as the blue cotton underwear on her hips finally disappeared under the leggings.

If we hadn't just had sex in the shower, I probably would have been tempted to pull the leggings back down, but since I keep forgetting to buy a box of condoms to leave at her apartment, we've somehow already managed to have unprotected sex twice. Actually, three times, if the two times in the shower count as separate times, which, I guess, they do. We probably shouldn't go for a fourth before she gets on birth control.

"—He said it wouldn't impact his game, but he still seemed pissed off. I could see him doing something stupid to get back at him on the court."

Glancing back over to James, I blink a few times, trying to get that memory of the shower sex that Abby and I just had out of my head. He's staring at me with a cocked brow, and I know I've been caught, but I try to save face anyway. I wasn't paying attention to the details, but I still got the gist—Luke has something against one of the University of Central Washington players.

"What's the kid's name?" I ask, glancing back up at the sports reporter still reading off stats on the TV mounted over their fireplace.

"Grayson Wilder." James sighs, pulling my attention instantly.

"Wilder?" I gape.

Grayson Wilder is the freshman shooting guard on UCW's roster. From the pissed-off ramblings I've heard from Luke all season, I've gathered that they played on rival high school teams. I have a feeling he doesn't like him because out of every college freshman in the country, Wilder is the only one who could give Luke a run for his money. Wilder is Luke's own personal Zayn Williams. I get the deep sense of competition, but there's a difference between heated competition on the court, and bad blood, which Luke seems to have with this Wilder kid.

"What's his problem with Wilder?"

"No one knows; he just keeps saying that he's an—"

"Excuse me, can I have everyone's attention, please?" Nia's voice sounds from the hallway, and we both look over from the couch to see her walking past us, straight to the kitchen where both of her roommates are still making breakfast.

Both of them stop talking and look up expectantly at Nia as she leans against the entryway with a wicked grin. Nia's gaze skims from the girls over to us and then back again.

"Just a PSA—don't forget that I share a wall with the hall bathroom. So whoever had sex in the shower this morning—twice—my group project partners heard the entire thing while we were on our call."

Abby's face pales instantly and then flames bright red as she looks down at the cutting board in front of her.

"Hey, at least they don't know which one of us it was; they just know it was one of her roommates," Jenny offers, but it's useless because if they heard anything at all, it was her moaning my name.

"And while I'm happy you started your day with multiple orgasms—truly, I am, in fact, I still need to send you a box of chocolates for giving Abby her first one at O'Malley's—I don't think my marketing research group wants to hear it." She looks over at me and smirks before turning back to Abby. "Actually, no, scratch that. The creepy kid, Charles, who I'm pretty sure I caught watching porn in class the other day, looked pretty dazed the entire time. He made up some excuse about needing to feed his fish before signing off early, so I think he might have appreciated it a little too much."

I don't hear the rest of Nia's comment because my mind can't seem to stop replaying the same three words over and over and over—her first one.

Abby isn't looking at me. In fact, she's looking everywhere else but at me. When she turns around and starts messing with the plates laid on the kitchen counter, I know what Nia said is true. I gave her her first orgasm in the bathroom at O'Malley's.

I probably have a dumbass grin on my face, which I try to hide by scratching my chin, but when Abby rounds the corner with two plates in her hands, I know she sees it the second she stops in front of me. I reach out and take my plate from her, and when she scoots over to sit on the cushion next to me, I grab her hips and pull her down onto my lap instead.

She doesn't try to wiggle away like I'm expecting. Instead, she scoots back, so her butt is on the cushion next to me, and her legs are on my lap. She takes a bite of her avocado toast, and I look down to see that her eyes are already glued to the screen, but I can tell she's not paying any attention to the feature documentary currently playing on USASN because her cheeks brighten at my stare. When I lean over to brush my lips gently against the shell of her ear, she shivers before the words even leave my lips.

"Your first one, huh?"

She takes another bite of her avocado toast, but she's trying not to smile, and when her eyes meet mine, I reach over and cup her cheek, tilting her face up to connect our lips. She tastes like avocados and orange juice, and when her soft, content sigh vibrates in the back of her throat as she opens her mouth to let my tongue slide through, I can't help the smug smile that pulls at my lips because there's something fucking amazing about knowing that even though I wasn't her first, I was her best.

The first time I stepped into the USW arena was on my ninth birthday. I didn't know it at the time, but my dad had saved for months to buy us those two tickets—lower bowl, half-court, so close to the action I swear I could see the sweat dripping off the players' faces. I stuffed myself with hotdogs and drank so much Coke I was practically vibrating in my seat. It was such a close game that I screamed until my throat was raw and I was out of breath, but it was worth it to cheer on the players I had only ever seen as small dots on my TV screen.

I passed out in the car on the way home and woke up, groggy from my sugar crash, to my dad carrying me into the house. It was the best day of my life. Or it was, up until I stepped back into the arena ten years later with a USW jersey on my back.

It was a true full-circle moment, standing out on the court, looking at my parents in the stands. And now, four years later, with only a few games left in my senior season, the energy in the arena ignites when twenty-thousand screaming fans erupt around me as I fake out my defender, stepping back behind the three-point line before releasing the ball.

We're up by one with thirty seconds left in the second half. UCW is playing better than they have all season, and I know it's because Grayson Wilder and Luke have made it personal from the second they both stepped onto the court.

Coach caught on pretty quick to the shit-talk and volatile energy flaring between the two, so he put Micah, our best defenseman, on Wilder to keep Luke from doing something stupid that could get him ejected from the game. But even with a new defender, Wilder has still managed to sink some pretty fucking impressive shots, making sure to rub every single one in Luke's face with smug-ass grins that were clearly meant to say, fuck you, McConnell.

Wilder has the ball now, and we barely have time to get down the court before he shoots, well beyond the three-point line, in the most showboaty shot I've seen in a while. It's a dumbass shot. If he were on our team, Coach would be chewing his ass out right now because there's absolutely no need to be that far out and reckless, aside from wanting to show off. But when the ball finds the net perfectly, he turns around with a smirk and starts jogging back on defense.

Now, we're down by two, and when I glance up to the clock, the adrenaline in my veins spikes as the timer slips under ten seconds. We have one shot. We need a three, or we lose our undefeated title, and I can tell by the pissed-off look on Luke's face that he might actually explode if we lost it to Grayson Wilder.

Micah's already dribbling down the court, looking around for an open lane right before he passes to James, who passes to Luke, who looks like he wants nothing more than to shoot as a final fuck you to the kid defending me, but since his defender has him boxed out, he doesn't have a clear shot.

I catch the look in his eye when he throws me the ball, and I nod to him before looking Wilder dead in the eye. He's flushed and panting as if he's never played so hard in his life. We're the top-ranked team in the league, and they've kept us on our toes this entire time, which is impressive enough, not even counting the fact that their senior point guard is out with a torn ACL. But there's a reason why we're number one, so when I step back behind the three, shooting the ball just as the final buzzer sounds, I watch as he turns, wide-eyed and desperate, to follow the ball as it sinks perfectly into the net.

The entire arena explodes, sending a shockwave of adrenaline into my veins as I scan the stadium, searching for the section I know Abby's in.

"Hey, good game, Beck." The unfamiliar voice pulls my attention back to the court, and I'm a little surprised to see Wilder standing in front of me. His hand is extended, and I take it, pulling him into a hug so he can hear me over the deafening roar of the crowd.

"Good work out there, Wilder. Keep it up, and you'll be a real force next year." I pat him on the shoulder a few times, and when he pulls away, he has a bright smile on his face.

"I know Luke and I don't get along, but I just wanted you to know that I've always looked up to you, and it was incredible to play on the same court tonight. I can't wait to watch you in the big leagues next year." He glances over my shoulder, and I already know he's searching for Luke. "I guess I should probably go find McConnell and congratulate him," he says with a sort of scowl as he walks away, but I don't have time to watch Luke and Wilder have a pissing contest because my eyes are already searching the stadium again.

The second I spot Abby in the crowd, she has her arms wrapped around Jenny, hugging as they jump up and down. When she finally pulls away from her friend, she looks back at the court, and when our eyes lock, she beams at me, waving like a kid at a parade. I grin at her as I jump up and grab the guardrail, pulling myself up into the stands. Coach is screaming at me to get my ass back down onto the court, but I ignore him as I hop the rail.

The second my feet hit the cement, random hands are reaching out to slap me on the back or trying to take selfies as I walk by, but my eyes are trained on the girl in the second row. Her eyes are wide, but her lips pull up into a smile as she watches me push through the exploding crowd to get to her.

I can still hear Coach threatening to beat my ass if I don't get back down to the court, but to be honest, I don't give a fuck. I push past the last person in the row of seats and snake my arms around her waist, lifting her feet off the ground as I pull her against my chest. Her loud squeal pulls a smile to my lips, and I know I'm definitely getting her all sweaty, but she still wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me close, relaxing into me.

She doesn't seem to mind the sweat when I put her back down because she tilts her head back to smile at me as she brushes a fallen curl out of my eyes. When I cup her cheeks and look into the deep blue eyes that could damn near drown me, her warm smile nearly stops my racing heart, and I know, in this moment, I know that I love her. I guess if I was honest with myself, I've known for a while, but I can't push it down or ignore it anymore because I've fallen. Fuck, I've really fallen.

I don't even realize that the entire section of fans is watching us, but when I lean down to connect our lips, the crowd around us explodes. I slide my tongue across her lips, reveling in the way they pull back in a smile against mine because she knows exactly what I'm doing. I'm claiming her. I'm announcing to the entire school, hell, to the entire world, that she is mine. That Abby Ryan is my girl. And when she knots her fingers in my hair and kisses me deeper, I know that she's claiming me too.