All Played Out (Rusk University #3) (2 page)

Or again . . . maybe the sex really is
that good
. Perhaps she’s just drowning in an overabundance of endorphins.

“I am happy. Happier.” She grins to herself as she sets about cooking breakfast. “Have you ever been certain you knew something only to be proven completely wrong?”

I think for a moment. “Not in recent memory, no. I don’t usually think in terms of certainties until I’ve tested a theory multiple times.”

“I’m not talking about science or math, Nell. I mean . . . about yourself. Have you ever thought one thing about your life only to change your mind?”

“There was a period in middle school where I thought white eyeliner was flattering.”

She laughs. And I’m glad for it because her words don’t sit right in my stomach. Because there
is
something I’ve been questioning lately. Or more accurately, stubbornly refusing to allow myself to question even when I want to.

“Suffice it to say,” she continues, “I thought I could be happy living just with my head as a guide. That if I made other people happy and accomplished my goals, that would fulfill me. But I never dreamed how much I was missing out until my heart got involved. It’s the little things . . . like going to Silas’s games and attending parties and meeting new people and acting spontaneously. I feel like I wasted the last two years of college trying to grow up too fast, and now I’m playing catch-up.”

I frown. “If you’ve wasted the last two years, what does that say about me?”

I’d put my time to good use. Not many people our age can say they’re going to graduate college after only two and a half years. Granted, I came in with a ton of hours from AP tests and summer courses and the like, but no one could say I squandered my time here.

I’d meant the question rhetorically, but when she remains silent with her gaze carefully directed away, I reconsider my words.

“You think I
am
wasting my time?”

Her reply is slow and careful. “I think that you and I were a lot alike.”

“Were?”

“Are. You and I, we both have a tendency to focus on achievements, on checking items and goals off a list. And what I’m realizing is that living isn’t about what you achieve, but how you achieve it. We’ve both moved full speed ahead toward the things we want, but I know I hadn’t lived enough to really know what I wanted. In fact, I was spectacularly wrong about most of it.”

“And you think I’m wrong, too?”

Damn. Those questions I’m not allowing myself to formulate? It’s a lot harder not to ask them when someone is basically asking them for you.

“No, I’m not saying that. I can’t know that. Only you can.” She pauses, and her gaze is speculative. “All I’m saying is college is a time to experiment. If you were trying to solve some equation or test a theory, you wouldn’t only look at it one way. You would evaluate all possibilities, explore different methods, study every variable. So maybe you should look at your time here as an opportunity to explore. Trial and error. Especially since you’re graduating early. Because once you finish here and move on to grad school, I don’t know how many opportunities you’ll have left.”

I have to admit . . . she has a point. If I am anything, it is meticulously thorough. But I haven’t done that here. I picked biomedical engineering, I put my head down, and I got to work. There’s been no exploring or experimenting of any kind. In my classes and labs, I would never choose a predetermined outcome and railroad my study to meet that expected end. That’s not reasonable. It’s not . . .
smart
.

“So, what?” I say. “I should get drunk and dance with a lampshade on my head?” That’s certainly not any smarter than how I’ve behaved so far.

She pauses in her cooking to laugh, and then laugh some more. “That is . . . not something I ever thought I’d picture. No, you don’t have to do a drunken lampshade dance. Unless you feel like it, then have at it. I just think you should step outside your routine, do some of the normal college things.”

What does that even mean?

I frown for a moment, and then point back into the living room.

“I’m going to study.”

Except I don’t.

Instead, I sit down on the couch, and I think about what I’m not supposed to be thinking about. Two months until graduation. Two months until I’m done with college.

Granted, I have a research job lined up for the spring semester, and I’m applying for grad schools for next fall, but even knowing I’ve got a lot of education still ahead of me, there’s something so
final
about it.

College is this one big transitional period, and when it’s over you’re supposed to have transitioned. You’re not just an adult in age, but in experience. But the thing is . . .

I don’t feel any different.

I don’t feel like someone about to embark on the first steps of her career.

I don’t feel any different than I did the first day I set foot on campus.

I’ve learned a lot certainly. My high school science and math teachers can’t hold a candle to the kind of stuff I’ve been exposed to here. But me—the me that is not what I’ve read in books or memorized for class or learned in a lab—that girl has hardly changed at all in my two-plus years here.

And in my quiet moments, when my brain is not occupied with some problem or study, I wonder if I’m ready. And what happens if I’m not?

Thinking of Dylan’s words, I flip to a new page in my spiral, grab a pen, and write.

NORMAL COLLEGE THINGS

I stare at the letters scrawled across the top of the page and think about how Dylan has changed in the past few months, about the “normal” that she found. Then I write down the first item on my list.

Hook up with a jock.

I stare at those three words, and I laugh. They’re just so far outside the realm of my existence that I can’t even picture it. Besides . . . it’s not as if athletes have this magic ability to turn girls’ worlds upside down.

And it’s not as if a guy is the thing solely responsible for making Dylan happier. It was her choices, whatever weird enlightenment she experienced. The guy was just the catalyst.

Maybe that’s all I need, too. I could try some new things, step out of the realms of my knowledge and comfort. Maybe it will rocket me forward into some previously unknown future.

Or more likely it will show me that I was right all along. That I know who I am and what I want, and all these doubts are just my brain balking at change.

With that in mind, I do what comes naturally to my overly organized brain.

I make a list.

Chapter 2

Nell’s To-Do List

Y
ou know,” Dylan says, “when I invited you to go play Ultimate Frisbee with Silas’s friends, I never expected you to accept.”

I wince. “Did you not want me to come?” I tug at the too-tight sports bra that has my boobs pushed so high that I feel like they might rebel and rip the fabric right down the middle. I borrowed the stupid thing from Dylan because I’ve never had much of an occasion to own a sports bra myself. But she’s at least two cup sizes smaller than me, and now I’m afraid I might suffocate in my own cleavage. “I don’t have to. Really.”

I make a mental note to put “buy a sports bra” on my to-do list.

“No! No. I’m excited for you to meet them all. I just . . . I was surprised, that’s all.”

I shrug. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week. About exploring all that college has to offer.” Dylan smiles at me, and I’m fairly certain that look I’m seeing on her face qualifies as smug. I add, “Plus I have no tests coming up, and I’m caught up on all assigned work through the next week and a half.”

She shakes her head and leans forward to fiddle with the air-conditioning in her car.

“Of course you are.”

She turns the air up, and I’m grateful for the cool blast. Only in Texas is it still this warm in October. I pull my hair up off my neck, glad at least that I always have a hair band on my wrist. The air feels good across the newly liberated and sweaty skin of my neck.

“So, tell me what I need to know about these people.”

Dylan drums her fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel and says, “Well, you’ve met Silas. Sort of. He is . . . he’s . . . well, he’s hard to describe, but he’ll be nice to you. So you don’t have to worry about that. They’re all really nice. Both of his roommates will be there. Isaiah Brookes—the guys call him either by his last name or Zay—I think you’ll probably like him. He can be a little hard to pin down sometimes, but he’s very . . . thoughtful. Smart. Straightforward. The two of you have that in common. His other roommate is Torres.”

“Another last name?” I ask.

“Mateo Torres. But everyone calls everyone by their last names. It’s a sports thing. Or a guy thing. I’m not really sure. But you get used to it.”

“I don’t want people calling me De Luca. That’s just weird. I’ll have to become accustomed to answering to a different name, and while learning a sport I’ve never played. That seems stressful.”

“They don’t do it as much with the girls. And really, Ultimate Frisbee isn’t complicated. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Fine. Back to the people. You were talking about someone named Torres.”

Dylan makes a face and cagily replies, “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t spend too much time with Torres.”

“Why? Is he dangerous?”

“God, no. He’s just shameless. I know how you don’t like being embarrassed, and with Torres around . . . well, that kind of thing is inevitable. He’ll either say something or do something or take off his clothes.”

More naked guys? Seriously?

“Steer clear of Torres. Got it. Check. Next.”

“Then there’s Carson and Dallas. They’ve been dating for about a year now. They’re sort of the calm center of the group. Carson is the quarterback, so he’s the team leader, and he tends to take on that same role off the field.”

I purse my lips. “Interesting. Is that common? Do they all display their athletic tendencies and strengths off the field?”

Dylan considers that for a moment. “Maybe. Yeah, I guess. I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but yes. Carson is the one who controls the team, who reads them all. Silas is the strength on the field. He makes the short, hard runs through tough defense. He’s like that in real life, too. He can weather just about anything. Torres is flashy on the field and off. Brookes plays the same position as Torres, but he tends to be the more reliable one. He’s the one they go to for the simpler throws, whereas Torres makes the bigger, riskier plays.”

I think about that for the moment, but it’s too much information to digest about people I’ve never even met. So I file it away for later, when I can put faces to the names.

“Okay. Who else?”

“Well, there’s also Ryan. He’s not on the team, but he’s the manager. He’s funny, Easygoing. I mentioned Dallas. She’s fun. Spunky. Honest. I’m not sure if Stella will be there or not. She’s Dallas’s roommate. She’s cool, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Nothing. She’s just been a little unpredictable lately.”

“Unpredictable how?”

“It just depends on the day. Normally, she’s vibrant and outgoing and the center of the crowd. But she’s just . . . she’s dealing with some stuff right now, and so there are some moments when she’s . . . different.”

“Different how?”

Dylan sighs, and I’m pretty sure I’m asking too many questions. A fault of mine. Or an advantage, depending on the situation.

“I don’t know, Nell. It varies. Just be understanding with her, and I’m sure everything will be fine.”

I decide not to ask any more questions for a while, and she doesn’t continue, so I’m guessing that’s the group in its entirety. It’s Sunday, so when she pulls into the parking lot near the open fields by the science building, it’s fairly empty.

“You ready?” she asks, and I nod. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not.”

There’s not much point in being nervous yet when I don’t know what I’m up against. And really, how hard can the game be?

W
ITHIN TEN SECONDS
of stepping onto the field, a Frisbee from a nearby game in progress comes sailing toward me, and in its wake is a large sprinting, sweaty guy heading straight toward me. I yelp, throw my hands over my head, and crouch down low. There’s a burst of air over my head, something heavy knocks into my forearms, forcing me onto my knees, and then there’s a loud thump a few feet away from me.

When I lift my arms enough to peek out, I see the guy who’d been running toward me, now flat on his stomach on the other side of my body.

He jumped over me.

Suddenly the uncomplicated and unintimidating game of Frisbee that I’d been picturing gets much more stressful. The guy rolls over onto his back and then hops to his feet. Dylan grabs my arm and tugs me up and away from the game that I’m still in the middle of. As soon as we’re clear, they start up again at full speed. When we approach a group of people seated around a picnic table, I hear a loud voice say, “I vote that one is on Brookes’s team.”

The guy that goes with the voice is tall with broad shoulders. His skin is a warm bronze, and his dark hair is shorn close to his head. His teeth are a brilliant white when he directs his smile at me. And I’m fairly certain he’s just insulted me, despite that grin.

Dylan’s boyfriend punches him in the arm. “Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick. I’m just teasing the girl to make her feel like part of the group. It’s part of my welcome strategy. What do you say, beautiful? Do you feel welcome?”

His tone is playful and light, but there’s an intensity to his gaze that unnerves me. I freeze and study him, and I know immediately. “You’re Torres.”

Everyone laughs, and a girl with fiery red hair says, “Somehow she made just your name sound like an insult, Teo. I think she’s going to fit right in.”

Teo. I think back, trying to remember what first name Dylan had mentioned. Mateo?

He lifts a hand to his chest, the left side where his heart is, and shoots me a wounded expression that is like puppy-dog eyes to the tenth power. I’m not sure whether it makes me want to step closer or run in the other direction.