And yet here I am, ignoring a lecture in favor of looking at her last text.

How's that list coming?

Bad. Very bad. Me, that is. Not the list. My list was still growing despite that vow I made on Sat.u.r.day. How am I supposed to pay attention to a lecture over sustainability when my mind is full of all the mental images that text conjures?

I'd signed up for this environmental cla.s.s because it was supposedly one of the easiest science credits, but it wouldn't be a breeze if I didn't pay attention at all. For me, especially. Nothing about school came easily to me.

But that text. I bite back a groan at the thought of her somewhere, maybe on her bed in her dorm, making a list of her own, contemplating the things she wants to do with me. It is entirely possible her list consists of things like going to dinner or a movie or for a romantic walk.

But there is also the possibility her list is a little more focused. A little more like mine, and if I'm not careful people are going to think I'm really pa.s.sionate about the environment.

As soon as the professor dismisses us, I'm on my feet and heading for the door, and I know I'm gonna have to borrow someone else's notes to catch up on what I missed today. Not a great way to start out the semester.

A run. That should help. I have a two-hour break for lunch on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, enough to give me time to eat and join at least part of the one-o'clock workout if I want. I don't have to since I do the morning one, but it pays to put in the extra time, especially while the coaches are around to see you. Or that's what I keep telling myself anyway. If I swing by the student center and grab a couple wraps to go, that will give me even more time.

That's the plan, until I walk out of the environmental science and geology building at the same time that Dallas is walking in.

I grind to a halt in the doorway, and my grip is so hard on the doork.n.o.b, I'm surprised I don't snap it off.

She speaks first.

"Hey."

I clear my throat. It's a sign of weakness, but I can't help it. Ignoring her text message is one thing . . . Ignoring her in person isn't something I can (or want) to do.

"Hey." It comes out quietly, so low that I don't even know if she heard me.

"Move, douche-bag! You're blocking the door."

I step out of the way, but that brings me closer to Dallas. She moves too, letting the line of people behind me exit first.

I stand there in silence for a few moments, fighting the urge to look at her, and I feel like such a f.u.c.king coward.

"Listen, I'm sorry I-"

She cuts me off. " Remember that time you promised not to be a tool? You already screwed that up, but keep that promise in mind while you formulate whatever excuse you're making up right now."

Ouch. "I deserve that."

It occurs to me in that moment that whatever reasons I have for staying away from her aren't as good as the reasons for why I want to be around her. I like her. I need people in my life to tell it to me straight. I need a friend. Friends, really, but I've got to start somewhere. Life is a balance, and mine tends to fall heavily toward work with too little play. And of all the people I've met, she's the only one I've met that could actually be that kind of friend.

"I am sorry I didn't answer your text. I wanted to." She'd never let me hear the end of it if she knew how often I'd typed out a reply only to delete it a few seconds later. "I just wasn't sure how to answer it."

"You didn't seem to have any problem texting me Friday night."

"Friday night, I wasn't really thinking straight."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, bolting for the door even though there's still a steady stream of people exiting.

I grab her elbow and pull her back. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brush my chest for the barest second, and I fight the urge to suck in a breath. Her glare is ferocious, but I don't drop her arm. I know she'll be gone in two seconds flat if I do.

"I've got a lot of s.h.i.t on my plate right now, Dallas. And I'm doing a p.i.s.s-poor job of handling it." Part of me thinks I should just man up and ask her to dinner. I could take a page from her book and tell her up front that I like her, want to date her even, but can't handle a relationship. Maybe she'll appreciate that. Or maybe she'll see me as a ma.s.sive waste of time. The other part of me knows that's a terrible idea. Friends is all I can afford to be right now, but if I start by throwing out the I just want to be friends bomb, she might just slap me. After all, I was the one who pulled us firmly out of the friend zone on Friday night. I sigh and continue. "This isn't the best time to talk about this, but I do want to talk about it. Are you free tonight?"

She hesitates and looks toward the doorway, which is now clear.

Before I can think too much about it, I take her jaw and pull her back to look at me again. "No excuses, I promise. I just want to tell you what I'm thinking. Honestly. And then we'll figure out where we go from there."

d.a.m.n. I shouldn't have used the word we. That probably sends the wrong message, but her lips twist in that distracting way that she does when she's thinking something through, and I don't say anything else.

"Tonight?" She still looks unsure, but her shoulders have relaxed a little.

"I'll come to your dorm. We can go for a walk."

"It will have to be late. I've got plans for dinner. I should be back on campus by nine, though."

My stomach twists, and I tell myself that it's because I'm hungry, not because I'm bothered by the idea of her having dinner plans. I'm the one that's going to drop the friend bomb. Maybe.

"Nine thirty, then. What dorm?"

"Schaefer."

I still haven't let go of her face, and I force my hand down by my side.

"I'll be there."

I take a quick step back and nod before I turn.

"Carson?" she calls after me.

I swallow and then turn back. "Yeah?"

"Think you can manage to text me when you arrive?"

She's smiling, but the bite in her words lets me know she's only half teasing.

I grin back in lieu of an answer, but as I walk away, I pull out my phone. Unlocked, it automatically comes up to her text message, since it was the last thing I looked at.

How's that list coming?

Finally, I reply.

I thought about it all weekend. And

through most of my last cla.s.s.

I shove the thing back in my pocket and am both grateful and disappointed when she doesn't reply. I'm sending mixed messages. I know that. But that's because I'm a little mixed up myself.

Maybe my run will sort me out.

The athletic complex is on the far side of campus, and it takes me a good twenty minutes to walk there. Normally it only takes fifteen, but I stopped in at the student activity center to grab some food to go after all.

I stop by the locker room to change. There's one dude asleep on the couch when I come in, probably waiting on the one-o'clock workout, otherwise it's empty. Most of the room is done in the deep red that the school affectionately calls Rusk red. On the far wall is a painting of the school mascot, a wildcat that has to be at least ten feet long. Beside it in big, bold letters it says, "Bleed Rusk Red." The locker room is a huge step up from the one I knew in high school and the one I spent last year in at Westfield, that's for d.a.m.n sure. It's big and newly remodeled with plenty of s.p.a.ce and amenities. Rusk might not have much in the way of a win-loss record, but they aren't hurting for money, not with how much tuition at this d.a.m.n place costs.

That's another part of the plan. Between what my parents and I have saved up and financial aid, I have enough to go three semesters at Rusk. That gives me this season and the next to make myself an integral enough part of the team to warrant a scholarship if they want me to stay.

It's d.a.m.n near impossible to play college ball, go to cla.s.s, and work a job. I busted my a.s.s while I was at Westfield, saving every d.a.m.n penny I could. My parents are doing the same. We have our ranch, but our area of Texas has been in a drought so long that there is no decent gra.s.s left for the livestock, and feed prices are sky-high. We had to sell more of our animals last year than ever before just to pay for everything we needed for upkeep. And considering they were underfed, we didn't get nearly as good a price on them as we needed. Our only other income is from the store where we sell and repair tractors and other agricultural equipment. And the drought means no one else has the money to go around buying new equipment. It's been a lean couple of years, but still my parents have managed to put some away.

I just hope it will be enough.

I should call them soon, but I'm not up to talking to Dad about the plan. And with all the money issues and the fact that Granny is in worse shape than she's ever been, I'm swamped with guilt every time we talk. I should be there helping. The only thing worse than not being there to help is the thought that I might fail and all our planning will have been for nothing.

G.o.dd.a.m.n. My mind is a mess today.

I change clothes quickly and head into the weight room. I catch sight of Coach Harrison, the defensive coordinator, along with two grad a.s.sistants, through the gla.s.s window to the coaches' office. I raise a hand in greeting, and then head for a treadmill. There's only a handful of other players in the room, as most of them come in the morning. One's last name is Salter, but I've only spoken to him once, and the rest I don't know. I've been working out with the team for several weeks now, but with over one hundred players on the roster, there are still plenty that I haven't gotten to know.

There's a trainer supervising as we work out, but otherwise we're on our own. The coaches are only allowed to formally train us for a set number of hours a day; anything above that we have to do on our own.

But even if the coaches aren't leading the extra workouts and they're not "mandatory," they're not exactly optional either.

Another part of my plan? Put in more work than anyone else.

I turn the treadmill up to a brisk run and set about doing just that. I set my timer for half an hour and run hard, until the sweat runs off me in rivers.

I like the quiet that comes with running. As the sweat runs off, so does everything else, and I feel lighter when I'm through. I've always been this way. If I'm working-whether it's out in the fields back home or on green stadium gra.s.s or here in the weight room-that's the only time when my head goes silent.

That, and when I've got Dallas sprawled across my lap.

I run an extra ten minutes for that thought because clearly my head didn't go quiet enough. If my schedule allowed, I'd run several times a day just to hold on to this feeling for a little longer.

When I'm done, I take a seat on a bench, using a towel to wipe at my face and arms.

"Need a spot?"

I look up. The guy standing next to me is one of the team managers, I think. He's got blond, curly hair, and is tall, but a little too thin to be a player. I vaguely recall seeing someone with a similar build setting up before practice a few days ago. I look behind me and realize I've taken a seat at the bench press rather than just a normal bench.

After a moment, I shrug and say, "Sure."

I did lower body this morning, so I can get away with some time spent on my arms.

"I'm Ryan Blake, one of the student managers," he says, confirming my suspicions.

I lift my chin in lieu of h.e.l.lo and reply, "Carson McClain."

"I know. You're here almost as much as I am." He slides around behind the bar, and I hold back a smile at his statement. At least one person has noticed; hopefully the right people will notice next.

I help him load weights on the sides of the bar, and then lie back against the bench. "You like being manager?" I ask, pulling the bar off the rack and steadying my grip.

He answers as I start in on my reps, keeping his hands poised to catch the bar should I falter.

I won't.

"Sure. It's my first year, so I haven't gotten to travel with the team yet or anything. I imagine that will make up for all the dirty work."

I wrinkle my nose, blowing out a calm breath as I push the bar up. I can only imagine the kind of dirty work he does. And with the way our locker room smells sometimes, I definitely don't envy the dude.

"I'm hoping to do this for a year or two and then jump to student trainer. I'm a kinesiology major."

I've still got the rest of the year to declare my major, but kinesiology is definitely one I'm considering. I'm pretty sure I can't hack the math and science cla.s.ses it requires, though.

I lift with Ryan for the next half hour, moving through a few other stations. He sticks with me even when I don't need a spot. He's good about knowing when to talk, when my arms are tired and the distraction helps me think past the weight. But he also knows when to shut up, when I need all my focus to finish out that very last rep. And as crazy as it sounds, in the s.p.a.ce of thirty minutes, he becomes my closest friend at Rusk.

Besides Dallas.

Sitting at the weight machine, working my lats, I pull down a little too hard on the bar, and then let it go too fast, and a loud bang follows.

Ryan raises an eyebrow at me. "Now, what did that machine ever do to you?"

I grip the narrow bar and pull it down more smoothly this time.

"Wrong place, wrong thought, wrong time." I need to leave all thoughts of Dallas at the door. I'm doing a s.h.i.t job of that, though.

He nods but doesn't ask questions, and I'm glad for it. I increase the weight so that it takes more of my concentration. I've hit my stride by the time a gruff voice barks, "Blake!" from the direction of the coaches' office.

We both turn to see Coach Cole leaning out of the doorway. I focus on staying steady, but the head coach is only looking at Ryan, not me.

"Yes, sir?"

Coach Cole's looks are as intimidating as his background. He's tall, about the same height as me, but he's as thick around as one of the hundred-year-old oak trees in the campus commons. In twenty-two years of coaching, he holds seven state championships and nearly double that many regional championships. And he has a history of taking failing programs and turning them into powerhouses in astonishingly short time frames. Hence his appointment as the head coach here, where despite having a program with decent financial backing and solid recruiting, the team has had six losing seasons in a row.

"We good to go?" Coach asks Ryan.

"Yes, sir. All set up."

Coach's eyes stray to mine then, and though they stay there for several long seconds, I see nothing in them.

He leaves, and I take that as my cue to wrap up my additional workout. I use my towel to wipe off the machine first, followed by my face.

"Thanks for the spot, man," I tell Ryan. I don't thank him for the company too, even though I am grateful.

"Sure thing."