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  I take a deep breath to settle my nerves. I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to teach Introduction to Art for the summer session while Marty Carlson is on sabbatical. But he caught me at a weak moment, when I had been trying (by which I mean failing) to paint for over an hour. Ever since the Pitkin, I’ve been creatively blocked. I’m becoming a cliché—the artist who can’t handle her own success.

  Marty is a good guy. He’s been selling my paintings in his gallery for nearly a decade. I don’t think I was his first choice to take over while he went back East to help his sick mother, but I’d been the first one to say yes. Which, I’ve come to think, was a terrible idea. I know plenty about painting, but I’ve never had to teach anyone else. And this class covers pottery and line drawing as well. It’s only the first day, and I already feel like I’m in over my head.

  I’m hoping that getting back to the basics will unlock something inside me. Maybe teaching others will help me see where I’ve lost my center. Or maybe it will just keep my mind occupied while my subconscious works through the block.

  Plus, the money won’t hurt. I have other sources of income, but Gamma’s heart medicine costs a fortune. If I don’t start selling paintings soon, I’ll have to dip into the nest egg that I’ve worked so hard to build.

  I agreed to do this. I have to at least give it a shot.

  The art building is easy enough to find, but it doesn’t stop my heart from thudding with anxiety. I haven’t even been inside the classroom yet. And I’m supposed to be the professor? It feels like some sort of joke. A professor who hasn’t even earned a college degree.

  But there’s no going back now—not after how proud Gamma is of me. After a pause, I open the door, and all my apprehensions wash away in a flood of pure pleasure.

  The classroom is an atrium, the north wall made entirely of windows. Beyond the glass lies a breathtaking view of the Rocky Mountains cradling a clear sky. The room smells faintly of canvas and turpentine, and the wood floor is speckled with years of paint. If I had dreamed of a classroom, it would look exactly like this.

  I wander the room, familiarizing myself with the supplies. For this first class, I was planning on covering the basics of watercolors and oils, so I’m pleased to see that some graduate student has stocked the storage shelves with everything I need.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad. I’m already thinking about ways to adjust my prepared lectures. They’re all too formal, too stiff. A room like this is full of distractions, and I can use that. The easels and tables are on casters, which will make it simple to use all the different spaces in the room. What if I ask the students to spend a few minutes each day mixing a color the exact same blue as the sky?

  Behind me, the classroom door clicks open. I turn, expecting to see that the department head has come to greet me.

  The man currently filling the doorway definitely isn’t the dainty, effete department head. This guy is tall, broad, and heavily muscled. And, some part of me adds, mouth-wateringly sexy. His strong jaw is clean-shaven, and his honey-colored hair is still wet from a recent shower. I feel a purely female pulse echo through me as my mouth goes dry.

  Then I notice the silver Mustangs logo on his blue T-shirt and the workout bag slung over his shoulder emblazoned with MSU Football. Dammit. He’s a football player.

  “Are you lost?” I say, my words harder than usual.

  “I don’t think so,” he says, in a voice that holds the cadence of wide open spaces. “I’m pretty sure I’m looking for you.”

  Chapter Two

  Riley

  “I MEAN, I’M LOOKING FOR this class. Intro to Art, right?” I say quickly, trying to cover my mistake. But the truth is, I feel the same way looking at this woman as I do right after I’ve taken a hard hit. Both things are in danger of taking me straight to the ground.

  She is stunning. Sexy and edgy and soft-bodied, like a wet dream of curves and moldable flesh. She is all color and pattern, dark skin and wild hair and bold makeup. I don’t know where to look, can’t stop myself from dragging my eyes all the way down her body and back up again.

  Right back to her gorgeous … angry face.

  “I’m Riley Brulotte,” I say, flashing a smile. “Are you a student in this class?”

  “I’m the teacher in this class,” she says, her eyebrow arched.

  Wait. What? I pull out my phone and find my class schedule with a couple of clicks. “So you’re Professor Martin Carlson?”

  She frowns and steps closer to me. “They must not have updated the schedule. Marty had to go out of town suddenly, and he asked if I would take over the class. I’m Lilah Stone.”

  She’s wearing perfume, something spicy and hot that makes me wonder how it would taste on her skin. This woman isn’t afraid to make an impact. And she’s certainly having an effect on me.

  I hold out my hand to shake, eager to discover if her skin is as soft as I imagine. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Stone.”

  She frowns again at that. “Not Ms. Stone. That’s way too weird. I hadn’t really thought about … well. You should probably call me Lilah.”

  “Lilah,” I say. Damn, that’s a sexy name. It fits her perfectly. “It’s a pleasure.”

  She stares up at me for a moment, her lips parted, her hand in mine. Something flickers in her eyes before she takes back her hand and sticks it in the pocket of her skirt. “Well. Uh … what did you say your name was?”

  “Riley.” I have to be honest: It’s kind of nice not being recognized. I’m the starting tight end for the Mustangs, and I’ve had sportscasters and NFL scouts talking about me for years. They’ve even given me a nickname—“Lotto” Brulotte. Hell, the fans call it “winning the lottery” when I take down the opposing defense. In this little world, I’m famous. But this woman clearly has no idea who I am.

  It’s, well, refreshing.

  “Well, Riley,” Lilah says, “you have your pick of seats.” She leaves me standing in the doorway and busies herself behind the desk, pulling papers and a laptop from her big leather bag. “Class will start in just a few minutes.”

  I drop my backpack and gym bag next to a chair and am about to collapse into it—it was a long practice earlier—but something stops me. I don’t want this conversation with Lilah to be over yet. I wander closer to her and say, “I’m looking forward to this class.”

  She makes a little huffing sound of disbelief.

  “What?”

  She looks me up and down. “You’re a football player, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Tight end. Have you ever gone to an MSU game?”

  She shakes her head, but it seems more in disbelief than an answer to my question. “Look, maybe Marty ran this class for an easy A, but that’s not how I’m going to do it.”

  Irritation prickles at me. “I don’t need an easy A.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Taking an art class?” I keep my voice steady despite the growing indignation at what she’s implying. “I’ve always wanted to.”

  She cocks her head. “What, like, to meet girls?”

  I’m not one for fancy pick-up lines. Instead, I give her the truth. “I’ve already met you. I don’t think the rest of these girls will compare.”

  Her eyes slide from mine and she goes back to searching her desk, though I can’t miss the hint of color rising in her cheeks. “That’s inappropriate. I’m your teacher.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to know better.”

  The corner of my mouth turns up into a grin. I lean my hands on her desk and level a gaze her way. “But young enough to do it anyway?”

  I expect amusement in her eyes when she looks at me. Instead, I see only fury. “Why is it so hard for your kind to take no for an answer?”

  All the humming excitement of being near her winks out. “My kind?”

  “Football players.”

  I straighten up. I’m a big guy. It takes a lot to phase me. But the revulsion in Lilah’s eyes sends me
reeling. And it makes me back up a step. After everything that happened last year, I should know better. Better than my former “teammates,” anyway.

  The reality of just how far-reaching and terrible the scandal was—still is—hits me like a defensive lineman on game day. No, not a scandal. That makes it sound smaller than it was. It wasn’t a scandal, it was a horrific crime.

  Last year during Christmas break, four of my fellow Mustangs raped a girl. It’s still hard for me to believe that—those guys were my friends, my mentors—but I know it’s true because one of the fuckers filmed it with his phone. A few days later, his jealous girlfriend found it when she was snooping and posted it online.

  It didn’t take long to go viral. These criminal motherfuckers carried a passed-out girl into the Mustangs locker room, took off her clothes, and then did what they wanted to her. The very idea of it still makes me sick. I never would have believed that someone I knew could do something like that. But it happened, and it’s been fucking with my life ever since. And God, the poor girl. It filled me with shame to think of what happened to her.

  To make matters worse, Coach Moe Foster—formerly beloved, legendary, local hero MoFo—went on national television to defend these guys. The quote the media used to skewer him was, “These young men are under a great deal of stress and pressure, and sometimes they act out in inappropriate ways.” Social media had a field day with that one. #MSUstressrape is probably still trending.

  For those of us on the team, it continues to be a goddamn nightmare. The four rapists were all seniors, all key members of the team, and they were all suspended right before the BCS National Championship game. We lost, of course, and it wasn’t long before MoFo was dismissed amid a firestorm of criticism. So now we’re scrambling to put together a squad under this new guy, Coach Prescott. So much for our championship hopes.

  A lot of the sportscasters say it’d be a shock if we win a single game. And that’s nothing to the fans and locals. On one side, there are asshats saying we should bring back MoFo even though he condoned rape; on the other side are the dickwads saying we should get rid of football entirely. All this talk, all this bullshit, all these outsiders who think they know my team.

  I’m tired of it.

  Lilah is staring at me, every accusation plain to see in her eyes. “I see,” I say, my voice cold with sarcasm. “So because I play football, I’m automatically a rapist.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you meant.” I take another step back from her desk.

  She tosses her head, elegantly rude. “I don’t know. All the rapists I know are football players, so I guess I’m suspicious of you all.”

  I don’t know what I would have said to her, but at that moment the door opens and a couple of new students walk in. Lilah promptly leaves me hovering in front of her desk, feeling like a fool.

  For approximately the billionth time, I curse Jeremy Hudson and his fucking cronies, the assholes who ruined a young woman’s life as well as the reputation of my team. Here is yet another way in which their actions have tainted my life: The Mustangs logo on my T-shirt is enough to make a woman afraid of me.

  I stalk toward the back of the class and choose the seat farthest away from Lilah. Goddammit. I’ve really been looking forward to this class. My high school didn’t have much of an art program, and since I came to MSU I’ve been busy with establishing myself on the team. But now it’s my senior year, and if I don’t learn now, I never will. This year feels like my last chance … for a lot of things.

  When I sit down, I feel something in my pocket jab into my leg. It’s my latest project—a tiny figurine I’ve been whittling out of a chunk of cottonwood. I like to keep my hands busy. I carry a chunk of wood and a small chiseling knife pretty much everywhere.

  I work a little, letting the wood settle my mind as the class fills in over the next few minutes. It looks like there are about a dozen of us, mostly artsy-looking freshmen and sophomores. I think I’m the only person in this room who has never worn skinny jeans. I know what my dad and uncles—hardworking country boys—would say about these kids.

  Probably the same thing they would say about me, if they knew I was taking this class.

  Lilah glances up at the clock, which is just striking the hour. I lay the figurine on the desk and tuck my chisel in my pocket, wanting to give her my full attention. She may have decided I’m scum, but that doesn’t mean I need to act like it.

  “Welcome, everyone, to Introduction to Art. In this class, we’ll be studying techniques of various mediums, as well as the foundations of artistic theory. Now, some of you may have been expecting Professor Carlson, but he asked me to fill in this summer. My name is Lilah Stone. I am a local artist here in Granite.” She glances down, as if embarrassed. “Some of you may know me as last year’s recipient of the Pitkin Prize.”

  An impressed murmur rustles around the room. This Pitkin thing must be a big deal.

  “I’d like to get to know you all a bit before we get started,” she continues. Just in case I wasn’t already hot for her—despite her assumptions about me—she pulls a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses out of her bag to study her class list.

  I curse myself for being a sex-obsessed monster, especially after what she just called all football players, but I’ve always had a thing for girls in glasses. Some irrepressible, insane part of me can’t stop imagining Lilah beneath me, those glasses askew as she moans.

  Lock that down, Lotto, I scold myself. This woman has made her lack of interest clear.

  “Why don’t we go around, and you all can tell us a little about what brings you to this class,” she says. She glances at me, then away, and turns to a girl sitting on the other side of the room. “Would you start?”

  I try to get a hold of myself as each of the students introduces themselves. I’ve been attracted to girls before, and plenty of them have been attracted to me. I definitely don’t need to be lusting after my teacher, one who clearly has some strong thoughts about the Mustangs. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—people have been judging us and doubting us ever since the scandal broke.

  Not, I reminded myself, that we don’t deserve it. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened, but we all carry a share of the guilt. It happened at our school, on our team. We’re all responsible for creating this culture. When Jeremy and his dick friends made jokes about “no means yes, yes means anal,” I should have called them out on how fucked up that is. But I didn’t. And neither did anyone else. So we’re all responsible for what happened to that girl. For the rest of my life, I’ll carry the knowledge that I should have stood up for women, and I didn’t.

  So I get why this woman hates me. But if I don’t take this class now, I probably never will.

  Fuck.

  The door swings open in the middle of some freshman’s monologue about how creativity is under-appreciated in higher education.

  “Whoa, I’m late?” Reggie Davis, a teammate, comes blustering into class. His words are muffled around the last bite of a breakfast burrito, and he tosses the foil wrapper toward the trash can as the door slams shut behind him. The entire class just stares. “You guys didn’t wait for me?”

  Great. What is Reggie doing here? If there was ever a stereotypical dumb jock, Reggie is it. He is also one of my fellow Mustangs—a fun-loving, larger-than-life center.

  Naturally, he notices me right away. “‘Sup, Lotto,” he says with a grin. He drops his bag onto the table where I sit and doesn’t even attempt to lower his voice as he says, “Sweet, man, you’re in this class? I figured, you know, art. How hard can it be?”

  Chapter Three

  Lilah

  TWO? TWO FUCKING FOOTBALL PLAYERS in my very first class? The universe has a shitty sense of humor.

  I have zero chill when it comes to football players. The scandal that broke last year was just the icing on a lifetime of irritation at the way football is treated in this town. I’ve been out at a bar when a group o
f football players show up, and you’d think the president was in town from the way people act. I couldn’t care less about the games, but I keep track of the team schedule because it’s impossible to get anything done in town while the Mustangs are playing. I just can’t believe how much time and attention people waste on a stupid game.

  And that was before four players raped a girl who had gotten too drunk at a party. The video, which has been watched millions of times, spurred a media firestorm about rape culture in sports. That would all be enough to ruffle my feminist feathers, but my fury actually comes from a deeper place.

  In the video—which I wish, passionately, I had never seen—a girl is clearly visible, her naked body laying sprawled on a bench, her head dangling at an awkward angle. She’s clearly insensate, and her body is marked with red spots where they’ve pinched and bit and spanked her. She is utterly exposed, utterly powerless, utterly alone.

  The girl is Natalie, my best friend since childhood.

  They were punished, at least. All four of them are in jail, and Coach MoFo is gone. The team was stripped of their past Pac-12 Championship wins, and they suffered a humiliating loss on national television at the BCS National Championship game. Half of the incoming freshman withdrew their letters of intent. The team has been gutted, and some have said the program is unsalvageable.

  Good. None of that is enough. Because after months of being subjected to media scrutiny, being called a slut and a victim, months of knowing that the entire nation had seen her naked and vulnerable, Natalie killed herself.

  And I’m nowhere near over it.

  “Sit down,” I snap, before I get a hold of myself. I have already made a mistake by sniping at the first football player—Riley, he’d said—and I don’t want to repeat it. The things I said to Riley were way out of line. He could easily report me to the head of the department for my behavior. I didn’t necessarily want this job, but I also don’t want to get fired after my first day.