Alessandra gasps, which isn’t a surprise, considering she’s obsessed with music. “Who are the bigwigs?”
“I don’t know. I saw CeeCee’s name and looked no further. Hold on.” I quickly locate the event flyer and text it to Alessandra. “I’m praying I’ll be the only journalism major with the brilliant idea to crash a music school event to get a job.”
“Pure genius.”
“Only if it works.”
I have reason to be skeptical, unfortunately, based on the countless résumés I’ve sent out over the past two months, to no avail. Thankfully, I’ve got my bartending gig to fall back on after graduation next week, and my boss, Bernie, has already said I can pick up additional shifts through the summer. It was a nice offer, and I appreciate it, but if I’m being honest, bartending with my degree in hand would be soul crushing. Plus, working at the bar throughout the summer would be a tough commute if I have to move back to my dad’s house in the Valley after graduation, which I’m planning to do.
“CeeCee won’t care about your grades once she meets you,” Alessandra assures me. “Just come right out and explain why your grades tanked last year. She’s known for being really active with cancer charities. Oh my God! Georgie! I’m looking at the event flyer, and it says—”
Bam.
After turning a corner, I walk smack into the broad chest of the one person I have no desire to see: UCLA football god, Bryce McKellar. I first met Bryce months ago, while waiting in line for coffee on-campus, and sparks instantly flew. He wasn’t just physically gorgeous, but charismatic and cocky, too. Best of all, he had a bit of a dark edge to him. A dick-vibe. Which, unfortunately, is my thing, I’m not proud to say. But since I stupidly thought my relationship with Shawn, the biggest dick of them all, was still intact, I took off after getting my coffee and didn’t stick around to flirt with Bryce.
Of course, once I found out Shawn was a lying, cheating dirt-bag dick, I kept an eye out for Mr. Football, hoping to bump into him again. But, unfortunately, I never did... until a few days ago... which was when, out of the blue, like manna from heaven, I spotted Bryce standing outside Royce Hall, looking even hotter than he had at the coffee place months before. And, to my thrill, when Bryce’s eyes landed on mine, they lit up, every bit as much as they had during our first encounter at the coffee place.
Immediately, Bryce jogged over to me that day on-campus, and we made flirty small talk. “I’ve actually been keeping an eye out for you,” Bryce told me, flashing me his dazzling smile. But since we were both in a rush—Bryce to get to class and me to get to the campus gym to teach a spin class—he quickly got my number and promised he’d text me “really soon.” Which he did. Ten minutes later, as a matter of fact. And then again that same afternoon. And, again, later that night. But each time Bryce texted, he’d caught me at a bad time, and I could never text with him for long. “Damn, you’re even busier than I am,” Bryce texted. To which I replied, “Hustle beats talent, when talent doesn’t hustle, baby.”
We agreed to touch base the next day with an actual phone call, so we could compare our busy schedules and find a time to “connect”... which I prayed was code for “find a good time to have sex.” Because, Lordy, I’m ready to have some good, fun sex with a smoking hot guy. No strings attached. I haven’t had sex since Shawn, and I think I’m suffering from physical withdrawals. But since the last thing I want is another relationship right now, especially with another athlete, “no strings fun” is the only thing on my menu.
Unfortunately, though, things didn’t go according to my big plans. When Bryce and I finally had that phone conversation the following day—for a full hour, in fact—it quickly became apparent we weren’t on the same page. Not at all. As it turned out, Mr. Football wasn’t the sexy, cocky, bad boy I’d been projecting onto him. In fact, much to my dismay, he made it clear during our call he’s been raised by his God-fearing momma to be a one-woman kind of guy. To always, always look for a girl who, get this, is “wife material.”
And it only got worse from there. As I sat there silently freaking out on my end of the line, Bryce went on to proclaim he’s not looking for an “easy” woman, like all the girls who throw themselves at him, day in and out, but, instead, wants a faithful, loyal girl who’ll “support him religiously” through the NFL draft and beyond. Someone he can trust. Someone he can lean on. Someone who’ll love him, unconditionally, and not care about all the money and fame coming his way. All of which I thought was a bit much to say during our first phone conversation. I mean, come on, is it really so wrong for a young, horny girl to want a smoking hot guy for nothing but his dazzling smile and hot body?
But Bryce had more bombs to drop during that crazy-ass phone call. As I sat in stunned silence, thinking maybe I was being punked, he asked, “Do you believe in love at first sight, Georgie?
“Uh, no,” I replied honestly, my insides knotting at how badly I’d misjudged him. “Why? Do you?” Obviously, I shouldn’t have said that last part. Indeed, the moment my question left my lips, I knew I’d messed up.
“Not before I met you,” Bryce replied. And I swear I threw up, just a little bit, into my mouth. Just like that, the lady-boner I’d had for Bryce McKellar at the coffee place sagged to my knees, and I couldn’t get off the call fast enough.
I knew in that moment I’d have to come clean with Bryce and confess I’m not the future wife he thinks I am. That, in fact, at this particular stage of my life, I’m probably closer to the “easy women” who throw themselves at him, thanks to the past couple of years that have left me emotionally drained and determined to fly solo for a while. But right then, I was too stunned to make that particular speech to Bryce. And so, I got off the phone without saying any of it—and also without confirming any plans to “connect” with him any time soon.
But now, Bryce is here. Holding my shoulders so I don’t crumple to the ground after bouncing off his hard chest. And, this time, I can’t simply hang up my phone to avoid him.
“Bryce,” I gasp out, teetering in his firm grasp.
“Are you okay?” he replies, chuckling.
“Yeah. Sorry. I was running.”
“I could see that.” He grins. “I was just about to text you, actually.”
“Oh, yeah? Wow. Hang on.” I pick my phone up off the ground—noting, thankfully, that the screen didn’t crack upon impact—and breathlessly tell my stepsister I’ve got to call her back.
“Did you say Bryce?” Alessandra says.
“I did.”
“As in, Mr. Football?”
“Correct.”
“Only pretend to hang up. I want to listen in.”
“Okay, bye.”
As instructed, I pretend to disconnect the call, and return to Bryce, my stomach churning and my mind racing.
Bryce says, “I was going to text and ask what you’re doing tonight.”
“Sorry, I’m working at the bar until about two thirty.”
“Hey, that works for me,” he says. “I’m a night owl.”
Shit. Fuck. “I can’t. I’ve got class on Friday mornings, so I always race home after my Thursday-night shift to catch a few hours of sleep.” I look at my watch. “Shoot. I’m running late for an event in North Campus. Gotta go!” And off I go, resolved to call Bryce tomorrow to tell him the truth: I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m not looking to support any guy’s dreams “religiously” or otherwise at this particular time. In summary, I’m just not feeling it.