Bodie St. James was a big guy.

He didn't look like the puppy dog his friends described him as. He looked like some kind of primordial warrior who could snap my arm in half with his bare hands.

Of course, I'd just tried to close the doors in his face, so maybe I was projecting.

"Are you going down?" Bodie repeated when all I did was stare at him.

His short, dark hair was dripping onto the wide shoulders of a matte black Nike jacket with a metallic Garland Lions logo on the right breast. The school bought the football team new ones every season. This year's model appeared to be waterproof.

I nodded and said, "Basement."

He's so tall up close, was the only coherent thought my brain seemed capable of composing as he stepped into the elevator.

Then the doors slid shut, and I was alone with the boy who a lot of people in town were convinced was going to singlehandedly lead Garland to the NCAA championships this year. A part of me wanted desperately to apologize—to explain myself, and why I was in such a rush. But Bodie St. James was, to quote the ESPN special feature that had aired the year before, one of the most promising young players that'd ever come out of California.

I couldn't imagine what I'd say to him.

So the two of us stood in silence as the elevator began its descent towards the basement. The agonizing quiet seemed to drag on for a small eternity, but likely only lasted about four full seconds.

And then, abruptly, Bodie spoke.

"This weather's pretty rough, huh?"

It took me a moment to accept that I was the only person he could possibly be talking to, and that I should therefore look up from my phone and acknowledge him.

Then what he'd said finally registered.

Oh my god, I thought. He's making small talk.

I'd never been very comfortable bearing the weight of someone's full attention, but making eye contact with Bodie made my stomach twist in a way it hadn't since I'd been forced to take the stage at my third grade talent show.

I couldn't find any malice in his stare, though, so I figured this wasn't some kind of trick question.

"Yeah," I said. "It's, um, pretty bad."

The corner of Bodie's mouth twitched.

It was the only indication that he'd noticed I wasn't equipped to steer our conversation anywhere interesting.

I busied myself with reshuffling the crumpled sheets of my article.

"You a writer?" Bodie pressed on.

I lifted my head and blinked at him. As if in response, Bodie lifted a hand up and plastered his wet hair back from his forehead, so some of his bangs stuck straight up into the air.

I would've snorted if I hadn't felt so off-kilter.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

Bodie shifted his weight between his feet restlessly, then nodded towards the papers clutched in my hands. His bangs bobbed.

"Oh," I said, then laughed tightly. "Only on a deadline."

Maybe he was just indulging me, but Bodie smiled. He had a sharp, sullen face—high cheekbones, square jaw, full lips—but when he smiled, he looked softer. It was a boyish smile. An honest smile.

I had to swallow to keep my throat from drying up.

Bodie's mouth opened again, like he was going to say something, but the elevator lurched to a stop and the electronic display over the doors changed to B before he could do it.

The doors dinged and slid open, catapulting me back into reality.

"Stay dry out there," I said, sounding startlingly like my Nana.

I turned and skittered out into the hall, fleeing the scene of the second failed social interaction I'd had that morning.

And then it got worse. So much worse.

I was halfway down the hall when I noticed the sounds of my tiny, wet footsteps were echoed by a heavier, steadier pair.

Bodie St. James and I were heading in the same direction.

I was acutely aware of my dress sticking to my legs as I approached the nearest of two sets of double doors that led into the lecture hall. It occurred to me that I was about to walk into a crowded lecture hall both late and dripping wet, which meant that people were going to stare.

I paused to pull my hair over one shoulder and fidget with my backpack straps.

Bodie stopped at my side, and I turned, startled, to stare up at him.

"You in this class, too?" he asked, jabbing a thumb towards the door.

I nodded wordlessly.

Bodie smiled like we had some kind of inside joke.

"C'mon," he told me conspiratorially, "we'll go together."

Before I could respond, he'd shouldered open the classroom door and marched in with all the confidence of someone who was either blissfully dumb or very fond of being the center of attention. I hesitated for a moment before following after him, my shoulders hunched and my heart hammering.

But nobody was looking at me. They were all watching Bodie.

On stage at the front of the lecture hall, standing behind a podium under dual projection screens, our professor glanced up from the stack of papers he was shuffling through.

Nick (who insisted we all call him exclusively by his first name) was the type of guy who prided himself on being cool—mid-thirties, wore graphic tees under blazers, read a lot of classic literature and made a point of quoting it so you'd know. He had trendy grandpa-style glasses perched on the end of his hooked nose, and his hair was just long enough to fit in a tiny ponytail.

His face was stern when he looked up, but softened the second he recognized Garland's starting quarterback.

"I'm so sorry, Nick," Bodie said, sounding genuinely humble and apologetic. "I sprinted here, I swear. Did you call attendance already?"

Nick reshuffled the papers on his podium.

"Don't worry about it, Bodie," he said, smiling as he checked Walker off on the list. "I'm still setting up the Powerpoint. You didn't really miss anything, technically, so I'll mark you present."

It was like watching a guy pull a dove out of a hat.

Bodie just had to smile in that humble, slightly self-deprecating way of his, and it people tripped over themselves to do favors for him.

"Thanks so much, Nick," he said, beaming.

Then, still facing the podium, Bodie reached his hand behind his back and curled his fingers as if to say come here. It took me a second to realize he was signaling me.

I was still standing a good two thirds of the way up the aisle, so I saw people turn in their chairs out of the corner of my eye as I hurried down to the stage.

Bodie stepped to the side.

Nick's face dropped, and I realized what'd just been orchestrated. He couldn't play favorites now. Not when the whole class was watching. He'd marked Bodie present, and he'd have to mark me the same.

"Hey there," Nick said, his smile tight. "Your name?"

"Laurel Cates," I answered, my voice high pitched in that way it always seemed to get when I was trying to be polite.

Nick shuffled through the pages and checked off my name.

"I'll let it slide this time," he muttered.

The relief I felt was quick and sharp, like a much-needed sneeze.

"Thank you," I gushed. "It won't happen again."

Nick nodded and went back to his laptop.

I spun around and flinched a little at the sight of the crowded auditorium. There were so many people. Granted, most of them were staring down at their phones in their laps, or scribbling mindlessly in notebooks, but still. A couple were watching Bodie and me.

It was enough to make my stomach churn.

I tilted my chin up to look at Bodie, knowing I should say thank you but a little horrified that I might blurt out something either offensive or too affectionate by accident.

But before I could even open my mouth, he tucked his thumb under the strap of his backpack and gave me a knowing smile.

"Aren't you glad you didn't close the doors on me?" he asked, so low I'm sure I was the only one who heard him.

And then he winked.

It was so utterly charming—empty of any bitterness or passive aggression—that I almost didn't catch the flicker of triumph in Bodie's eyes before he turned and marched up the aisle to find a seat.

I was left staring at his back, my lips parted in disoriented shock.

I couldn't help but think that I'd just witnessed a glimpse of what made him one of the most fearsome competitors in collegiate football.

His weapon of choice was charm.

And hell, did he know how to wield it.

❖ ❖ ❖

Look, I get it. Bad boys are in right now. Everybody loves 'em. They're all up in everybody's story titles. But here's my hot take: boys who are needlessly mean or rude to other people are not worth any girl's time. I don't care if they look like Francisco Lachowski. Good looks and a tragic backstory do not excuse being a shitty person.

I'm here to prove you can keep the "boy and girl are enemies" trope without turning either of my leads into a steaming turd of a human being.

Wish me luck! And, like, a lot of it, because next week I'm turning 23 and taking my driver's test for the first time (long story, don't laugh) and finishing my manuscript of Float (another thing that I should've done years ago!!!) and hopefully also finishing the website I'm building for a family friend. So it goes without saying that I am REALLY FUCKING STRESSED OUT.

Your friendly author,

Kate