Chapter 1: Fourth and Goal, Down by Six
The laptop was propped on a milk crate that had no business supporting anything, tilted at an angle that made the game look like it was being broadcast from a funhouse mirror. Jordan had meant to buy a proper stand three weeks ago. He had also meant to finish his sports journalism paper on the economics of stadium subsidies, but here he was, pacing a groove into the cheap dorm carpet while the Packers' season hung by a thread thinner than the one holding together his frayed Aaron Rodgers jersey.
"Six points. Eight seconds. Fourth and twenty-three." Maria's voice came out tight, each word clipped like she was rationing oxygen. She sat cross-legged on his futon with her spine rigid, fingers wrapped around his forearm hard enough to leave crescents. "If they punt this, I'm walking into the Minnesota winter without a coat."
"They're not punting." Jordan didn't look at her. He couldn't. His eyes were glued to the laptop screen, to the pixelated chaos of green and gold jerseys scrambling across a field that looked like it had been filmed through a potato. The WiFi in Hollingsworth Hall was a war crime.
"You don't know that."
"I know Matt LaFleur's ego." He stepped left. Then right. Then left again, a nervous shuffle that had worn a visible path in the carpet fibers, a sad little trail of flattened brown leading from his desk to the window and back. "He's not gonna kneel. He's not gonna punt. He's gonna let Love chuck it."
"Chuck it where?" Maria's grip tightened. "There's three defenders deep. Three. I counted."
"You counted?"
"I always count."
Jordan believed her. Maria counted everything—calories, likes on her design posts, the number of times he said "actually" during an argument. She counted the days until Packers season started, and she counted the seconds left on the clock with the same intensity she brought to everything else, which was to say: way too much, and also exactly enough.
The center snapped the ball.
Jordan stopped pacing.
The pocket collapsed almost immediately. Minnesota's defensive line bulldozed through the middle like they had a personal vendetta against Jordan's blood pressure, and Love scrambled left, then right, then left again, buying time with his legs while the clock bled down to five.
"Throw it," Maria whispered. "Throw it, throw it, throw it—"
He threw it.
The ball sailed in a high, wobbling arc that seemed to hang in the stale dorm air forever, suspended somewhere between hope and disaster, and Jordan forgot how to breathe. He forgot about the paper he hadn't written. He forgot about the fact that he was the only Packers fan in a building full of Vikings loyalists who had keyed his door last November. He forgot everything except the trajectory of that ball and the way Maria's nails were now digging into his arm like she was trying to anchor herself to something solid.
The receiver—Watson, number nine, the guy who had dropped three passes in the first half—sprinted toward the end zone with two defenders closing in like sharks.
"Get there," Jordan said. "Get there, get there, get—"
Watson jumped.
The defenders jumped.
Three bodies converged in the corner of the end zone, and for one horrible second, Jordan couldn't tell who had come down with it. The screen pixelated. The WiFi buffered. The entire fate of his emotional stability hung on a frozen frame of limbs and turf and—
The ball was in Watson's hands.
Touchdown.
The room exploded.
Maria launched off the futon with a scream that probably violated the dorm's noise policy and definitely violated the quiet hours that started at ten. Jordan's brain short-circuited somewhere between disbelief and euphoria, and then Maria was on him, tackling him backward onto the futon with a force that knocked the wind out of his lungs and sent his phone clattering to the floor.
They landed in a tangle of limbs and vintage sweatshirt. Her hair was everywhere—in his face, in his mouth, a chaotic storm of dark curls that smelled like lavender and the cinnamon gum she chewed during close games. Her body was pressed against his, warm and solid and vibrating with the same manic energy that was still ricocheting through his chest.
"We won," she gasped. "We won, we won, we actually—"
Her voice died.
Jordan became very aware of several things at once. The way her knees bracketed his hips. The way her hands had somehow ended up flat against his chest, fingers splayed over the faded green letters of his jersey. The way her face was inches from his, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough that her breath ghosted warm across his mouth when she exhaled.
The laptop was still screaming. The crowd noise from Lambeau Field poured out of the tinny speakers, a distant roar that felt like it was happening in another dimension. Somewhere down the hall, someone was blasting "Bang on the Drum All Day," which meant either a Packers fan had infiltrated the floor or a Vikings fan was being ironic.
Neither of them moved.
"Jordan." Maria's voice was different now. Quieter. The sharp edge was gone, replaced by something uncertain that he had never heard from her before.
"Yeah?"
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jersey. "I think I'm bruising your arm."
"That's okay."
"I'm not letting go."
"Okay."
The word came out rough. He watched her throat move as she swallowed, watched the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his brain—which had just a moment ago been capable of processing the complex mathematics of a Hail Mary pass—completely stopped working.
This was Maria. His friend. The girl who showed up every Sunday with nachos and opinions, who argued with him about prevent defense and ran through three sweatshirts a season because she spilled something on every single one. The girl who had once thrown a couch cushion at his head because he said Brett Favre was overrated.
The girl who was currently straddling him on his futon with her hair in his face and her heart beating so hard he could feel it through her chest.
"So," he said, because he was an idiot, "that was a good game."
Maria blinked. Something flickered across her face—disappointment, maybe, or amusement, or both—and then she laughed, a breathless sound that did something complicated to his ribcage.
"That's what you're going with?"
"I panicked."
"You panicked."
"I'm panicking right now. This is panic mode. I'm—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand, the one that wasn't currently frozen at his side because he was terrified that moving it would break whatever spell had fallen over the room. "You're on top of me."
"I noticed."
"I'm just saying. It's a lot. You're—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're a lot."
Maria tilted her head. The motion sent another wave of curls cascading over her shoulder, and Jordan caught himself tracking the movement with an embarrassing intensity. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"I don't know yet."
She laughed again, softer this time, and something shifted in the air between them. The game was still playing on the laptop—replays, probably, the broadcast trying to capture the impossible catch from every angle—but neither of them looked at the screen. The rest of the world had become background noise, static, irrelevant.
Maria's thumb moved. A small stroke against his collarbone, barely there, but it sent a jolt through his entire nervous system like she'd touched a live wire.
"Jordan."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't tentative. Maria didn't do tentative—she did everything at full speed, with her whole chest, like she was trying to prove something to the universe. Her mouth was warm and tasted like cinnamon gum, and her hands slid up from his chest to frame his jaw, and Jordan's brain went completely offline for a solid three seconds.
When it came back, he kissed her.
His hand finally moved. It found the curve of her waist, then the edge of her ribs, then the tangled mess of her hair, and he pulled her closer because the distance between them had suddenly become unacceptable. She made a sound against his mouth—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction—and he thought, incoherently, that he should have done this weeks ago. Months ago. The first time she showed up at his door with a bag of chips and a chip on her shoulder, maybe.
The laptop screamed another replay. The guy down the hall switched from "Bang on the Drum" to "Jump Around," which was objectively worse. The radiator clanked like it was dying.
Jordan didn't notice any of it.
Maria pulled back just far enough to look at him, her breath coming fast, her lips slightly swollen, her eyes wide like she was as surprised as he was.
"That was—" she started.
"I know."
"I just—"
"Me too."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then her mouth curved into a smile—the real kind, the one she usually hid behind sarcasm and trash talk—and Jordan felt something crack open in his chest.
"So," she said, "same time next Sunday?"
Maria didn't wait for an answer. She kissed him again, harder this time, and Jordan stopped thinking entirely.
Her hips shifted against his and he groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down from her hair to her ass—a move that felt bold until she made a low sound of approval and ground down against him. His dick was already hard, straining against his jeans, and there was no way she couldn't feel it. No way she didn't know exactly what she was doing when she rolled her hips like that.
"Fuck," he breathed against her neck.
"That's the plan."
She sat up—still straddling him, still pinning him to the futon—and pulled her sweatshirt over her head in one fluid motion. Underneath she was wearing a tank top that had seen better days, thin and faded, and no bra. Her nipples were visible through the fabric, hard in the cool air of the dorm room. Jordan stared like he'd never seen tits before in his life.
"You're staring."
"You're on top of me with your tits out."
"Not out yet."
She was right. She was right and he was an idiot and then she was pulling the tank top off too, exposing smooth brown skin and the kind of breasts that made men—writers, poets, entire civilizations—do genuinely stupid things. Jordan's mouth went dry.
"Jesus Christ, Maria."
"Not quite." She grinned and it was sharp and knowing and he loved it. "You gonna touch them or are you just gonna look?"
He touched them.
She made a sound like he'd done something right—something very right—when his thumbs brushed over her nipples and his palms cupped the weight of her. Her head fell back, curls tumbling over her shoulders, and Jordan thought he might be having a religious experience. He leaned up and caught one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, and Maria's hand came up to grip the back of his head.
"Oh shit," she gasped. "Okay. Okay, that's—yeah, do that."
He did that. He alternated between them, licking and sucking and biting just hard enough to make her moan, while she writhed above him and cursed and pulled his hair. His hips bucked up involuntarily, desperate for friction, and she laughed breathlessly.
"Impatient."
"Fucking obviously."
She reached between them and popped the button on his jeans with practiced efficiency, and then her hand was inside his boxers and wrapped around his cock and Jordan's brain short-circuited for the second time that night.
"Fuck," he said again, eloquently.
Maria's hand moved slow and deliberate, thumb sliding over the head, spreading the wetness already gathering there. She looked at him with those warm brown eyes that had gone nearly black, watching every twitch and grimace on his face like she was cataloging it for later reference.
"You're really hard."
"I'm aware."
"How long have you been this hard?"
"Since you threw that cushion at me last month."
She laughed—a real, surprised laugh—and it was the best sound he'd ever heard. "Shut up."
"I'm serious. It was the way you—" He lost his train of thought when her grip tightened. "Fuck. The way you leaned forward. Your sweatshirt gaped open. I saw your—"
"My tits?"
"Your tits, yeah."
"Christ, Jordan." But she was smiling, and then she was pushing herself up and off him, standing in the middle of his dingy dorm room in nothing but yoga pants and underwear, and Jordan would have married her right then and there if he'd had a ring.
"Where are you going?"
"Relax." She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her pants. "You have a condom?"
"In the drawer. The desk drawer."
"Of course you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're a Boy Scout." She peeled her pants down her legs, then her underwear, stepping out of them both and kicking them somewhere behind her. "Always prepared."
Jordan couldn't respond. He'd forgotten how words worked. Maria was naked—fully, completely naked—standing in his room with her hip cocked and her chin raised like she was daring him to say something stupid. Her body was a thousand times better than any fantasy he'd ever constructed from glimpses of bare skin and the way her clothes cling to her. Curves and softness and the small, dark patch of curls at the apex of her thighs that he wanted to bury his face in.
"Lee," she said, and his eyes snapped up to her face. "Drawer. Condom. Now."
He moved.
The drawer was a mess—old receipts, a broken pen, a half-eaten thing of ChapStick—but the box of condoms was there, still mostly full because his love life had been depressingly nonexistent since he'd moved into this room. He grabbed one, kicked off his jeans and boxers, and rolled it on in record time while Maria watched him with obvious amusement.
"You're really eager."
"Shut up and get over here."
"Ooh, bossy."
But she came. She straddled him again, and this time there was no denim or cotton in the way, just her slick heat settling against him, and Jordan had to close his eyes and breathe to stop himself from coming immediately like a teenager.
"Look at me," she said.
He looked.
She reached between them, positioned him at her entrance, and sank down in one slow, agonizing motion that had both of them groaning. She was tight and wet and perfect—perfect—and Jordan's hands flew to her hips because he needed something to hold on to.
"Fuck, Maria."
"I know." Her voice was strained. She was still adjusting, her hands braced on his chest, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "I know, just—give me a second."
"Take all the time you want."
"You're inside me. You don't get to be charming."
"I'm not charming. I'm just—" She shifted, and he saw stars. "Shit. I'm just really into this."
She laughed. It turned into a moan as she started moving, slow at first, rolling her hips in a rhythm that was gradually gaining speed. Jordan met her thrust for thrust, thrust for thrust, his knees bending for leverage as he fucked up into her.
The futon creaked. The laptop was still playing, forgotten, as the post-game analysis droned on. Upstairs, somebody was playing the bongos. None of it mattered.
"Harder," Maria demanded, and he obliged, driving up into her at a pace that had her nails digging into his chest like she was trying to hold on. Her breasts bounced with every impact and he caught them in his hands, that soft weight that felt like it belonged there.
"You're so fucking hot," he told her, and it was the stupidest, most obvious thing he could say, but she seemed to like it.
"Yeah? You like watching me ride your cock?"
"Fuck yes."
"You like these?" She pushed her chest into his hands, rolling her nipples between his fingers, and he almost came right then.
"Yes. Yes. Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping." She leaned back, changing the angle, and her mouth fell open as he hit something different. "Oh. Right there. Right there."
He hit it again, watching her face, memorizing the way her brows drew together and her lips parted and the little gasp she made every time he bottomed out.
"You gonna come?" His voice was wrecked.
"Almost."
"What do you need?"
"Just keep—" She ground down against him, hand slipping between them to rub her clit, and Jordan felt her flutter around his cock, a warning, a promise.
"That's it," he said. "Come on. Come on, Maria."
She came with a cry that was probably too loud for quiet hours, but he didn't care. He watched her unravel, felt it, was inside it, and then his own release was crashing over him, pulling him under. He groaned her name and bucked up into her and spilled into the condom, and she collapsed against his chest, both of them breathing hard and slick with sweat.
For a long moment neither of them spoke. The laptop had finally gone quiet. The building had settled into the kind of hush that comes after midnight. Somewhere a radiator rattled. Somewhere someone was laughing. But in the cramped dorm room, there was only the sound of their breathing and the slow, steady rhythm of hearts.
Maria pressed a kiss to his collarbone. A small thing. A nothing thing.
"So," she said, echoing her earlier question, her voice muffled against his chest. "Same time next Sunday?"
Jordan laughed. The sound started somewhere deep in his chest and rumbled up through her and it felt like something cracking open, something turning over, something starting.
"Same time next Sunday," he agreed. "And every Sunday after that."
She lifted her head, chin digging into his sternum. Her makeup was smudged. Her hair was wild. Her smile was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"You mean football, right?"
"Sure."
"Caleb Lee, if you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting—"
"I'm suggesting we make this a tradition." He ran his hands down her back, feeling the sweat cooling on her skin. "Football. Snacks. You yelling at the refs. Me pretending I know more about defense than I do. And then—" He shrugged, a movement that jostled her. "This."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
She studied him. Those brown eyes, sharp and warm all at once.
"You know this changes things," she said. We're not just—this isn't just game-day friends anymore."
"I know."
"You're okay with that?"
He thought about it. About her trash talk and her vintage sweatshirts and the fact that she'd tackled him onto this futon like she owned it, owned him, and maybe she did.
"I'm counting on it."
She grinned and kissed him, and the kiss tasted like victory.
She grinned and kissed him, and the kiss tasted like victory.
For a while they just stayed like that, tangled and sticky and breathless, the futon creaking under their combined weight every time one of them shifted. Jordan ran his fingers through her hair, working out the tangles his hands had put there, and Maria traced lazy circles on his chest with her fingertip.
"You know," she said, her voice muffled against his skin, "I've been coming here every Sunday for three months."
"I know."
"And you never once made a move."
"I was scared."
She lifted her head, eyebrows raised. "You? Scared?"
"Terrified." He shrugged, jostling her slightly. "You're kind of intimidating."
"I'm five-foot-four."
"You threw a cushion at my head because I said Favre was overrated."
"You deserved it."
"I'm not saying I didn't." His hand slid down her back, settling on the curve of her ass. "I'm saying you're scary."
Maria snorted. "You're an idiot."
"Probably."
She shifted against him, and he felt the soft friction of her skin against his, the way her thighs pressed against his hips, the warm weight of her still straddling him. His cock twitched, still inside her, and she felt it because her eyes widened and her lips curved into something wicked.
"Already?"
"I'm twenty. Give me a minute."
"You're already hard again."
"I'm aware."
She rolled her hips experimentally, slow and deliberate, and Jordan's breath caught in his throat. He was still sensitive, every nerve ending raw and exposed, and the way she moved sent sparks shooting up his spine.
"Maria."
"What?"
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Obviously." She did it again, grinding down against him with a satisfied hum. "Problem?"
"No. God, no. Just—" He gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. "Give me a second."
"Don't want to."
"You're going to kill me."
"There are worse ways to go."
She leaned down and kissed him, deep and dirty, her tongue sliding against his while her hips continued their slow, torturous rhythm. Jordan groaned into her mouth and bucked up involuntarily, matching her pace, and the futon squeaked in protest beneath them.
"We're going to break this thing," he mumbled against her lips.
"So?"
"It's my only furniture."
"You'll figure it out."
She sat up again, bracing her hands on his chest, and started moving in earnest. The sensitivity was fading, replaced by something hungrier, and Jordan watched her ride him with the kind of focus he usually reserved for game film. The way her tits bounced. The way her curls stuck to her forehead. The way her breath hitched every time he bottomed out inside her.
"You're so fucking pretty," he said, and meant it.
"Pretty?"
"Beautiful. Hot. Whatever word you want."
She laughed, breathless. "You're not supposed to talk during sex."
"If you want me to stop—"
"I didn't say stop." She picked up speed, nails raking down his chest. "Just saying. Usually guys are quieter."
"I'm not usually guys."
"No," she agreed, her voice going soft. "You're not."
Something passed between them then—a look, a recognition, a quiet understanding that this wasn't just a random hookup. That it hadn't been for a long time, maybe. That they'd both been dancing around this and pretending they weren't.
The condom was still on from before, still slick with her and him, and the second round built slower but hit harder. Jordan watched her face as she got close, memorizing every micro-expression, and when she came apart above him, he followed right after, his hips stuttering up into her as he spilled into the rubber for the second time.
She collapsed onto his chest, both of them gasping, and the futon groaned like it had had enough.
"I'm going to need a minute," she panted.
"Take a year."
"That's a long time."
"I'm being generous."
She laughed—a real, exhausted, hiccuping laugh that made him grin at the ceiling. The ceiling that had water stains in the corner. The ceiling he'd stared at hundreds of times during games, listening to her yell, watching her from the corner of his eye and wondering what it would be like to kiss her.
Well. Now he knew.
"We need to shower," she said after a while, though she made no move to get up.
"Probably."
"You're covered in me."
"We do know what we're doing next."
She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "This was a terrible idea."
"It was the best idea I've had all year."
"You're biased."
"I'm honest."
She propped herself up on his chest, chin resting on her folded hands, looking at him with those brown eyes that had gone soft around the edges. "What happens now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like. Tomorrow. Next week. Are we—" She stopped, bit her lip. "Are we doing this? Or was this just a weird post-game thing?"
Jordan reached up and brushed a curl out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I've been thinking about this for months, Maria. This wasn't just a post-game thing."
"Oh." She blinked. "Months?"
"Since you jumped off my desk."
"I was celebrating."
"You almost took out my TV."
"It was on a milk crate. It was already dead."
"Still."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "I've been thinking about it too."
"Yeah?"
"Since the preseason game when you wore that cheesehead and I wrestled you for it."
"I let you win."
"You did not."
"I absolutely did."
"You tackled me into a pile of laundry."
"Best day of my life."
She swatted his chest, but she was smiling. The kind of smile that made her eyes crinkle and her cheeks round and turned her from sharp-edged and competitive into something softer underneath. Something that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the game.
"So we're doing this," she said. "For real."
"For real."
"You're not going to freak out tomorrow and pretend this didn't happen?"
"I might freak out," he admitted. "But I won't pretend it didn't happen."
"That's very honest of you."
"I'm an honest guy."
"You're a mess."
"Also true."
She kissed him again. Soft this time, almost sweet. Then she rolled off him and stood up, stretching her arms over her head, completely naked and completely unselfconscious about it.
"Shower," she announced. "Then I'm stealing one of your sweatshirts."
"Which one?"
"The green one. The soft one."
"That's my favorite."
"Was your favorite." She tossed a grin over her shoulder and headed for his door. "It's mine now. Spoils of war."
"That's not how war works."
"It's how this war works."
She disappeared into the hallway, presumably heading for the shared bathroom, and Jordan stared after her for a long moment. The laptop was still on, the screen dimmed to black, the game long over. The room smelled like sweat and sex and the faint remnants of stale pizza.
He should get up. He should deal with the condom, find his underwear, open a window before the RA on rounds caught wind of the situation. But for a moment, he just lay there, staring at the water-stained ceiling, and let himself feel it.
She'd said she'd been thinking about it too.
Months.
He grinned like an idiot and finally sat up.
Maria came back fifteen minutes later with wet hair and one of his towels wrapped around her body. She dug through his dresser like she lived there, pulling out the green Packers sweatshirt and a pair of his boxers, and dressed without ceremony while Jordan took his turn in the shower.
When he got back, she was curled up on the futon, wearing his clothes, scrolling through her phone.
"The internet is losing its mind over that catch," she said without looking up. "Someone made a compilation of all the angles set to 'Africa.'"
"Is it good?"
"It's terrible. You'll love it."
He climbed onto the futon next to her, and she shifted automatically to make room, tucking her feet under his thigh without being asked. The movement was so natural, so practiced, that it took him a second to realize they'd never done this before. Never sat together like this, post-game, post-sex, post-everything, comfortable in the quiet.
"We should get food," he said.
"Everything's closed."
"There's a 24-hour place on Grand."
"That's a twenty-minute walk."
"So?"
She looked at him—really looked at her, in his clothes, in his room, in his space—and smiled.
"Okay," she said. "But you're buying."
"Obviously."
"Wait." She caught his face in her hands, studying him. "You're going to wear pants, right?"
"I was planning on it."
"Shame."
"You're a menace."
"You love it."
He kissed her. Quick, easy, natural.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."