Tamlin is from the south, too, but her accent is thicker than mine.

“Fine.”

“Remember,” says a vaulter named Clarissa, “he has to be ugly. Like, you wouldn’t want to bang him.”

Ugly.

“Would you please not use that word?” My good conscience shivers. “I’m not here to bang anyone, let alone a guy inside this house. I’m here for a degree.” And I’ve almost got it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, move it along Miss Smarty-Pants.” Ronnie nudges me toward the house. “Blah blah blah, study, study. We get it.”

Having had enough, I stalk toward the door, long hurdle runner’s legs taking the pavers in stride, stomping angrily up the ramshackle steps.

As if I wasn’t nervous enough, one of the boards is rotten and needs to be replaced, causing me to misstep and almost trip the entire rest of the way forward.

The front door swings open before I can reach for the knob, noise and bright light blinding me.

Behind me, ten members of the university’s women’s track team press against my back, smiles pasted on their faces, simpering salutations streaming from their mouths.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” a tall guy says, ushering us inside. “Ronnie Baker, fastest girl in town. Haven’t seen you out in an age.” He leans down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Aww, Nate, fastest girl in town? You’re so sweet.” She reaches up to itch the bottom of his stubbly chin. “Where’s the keg? Back deck or kitchen?”

His mammoth hand points. “Back deck.”

She blows him a kiss. “We have a curfew this weekend so we won’t be staying long. Training starts Monday.”

“But you’re here now.” He wiggles his eyebrows and slides an arm around her waist. “Let me have one of the rookies get you something to drink.”

Nate’s arm rises, and he cocks a finger until two brooding lummoxes amble our direction; he promptly gives them instructions to fetch ten cups of their finest cheap beer on tap.

I assess them.

Both tall.

Both average.

One smiling, one frowning.

The girls watch me watching the boys, smirks aplenty.

My head shakes. No. Neither of them will do because, dress them up? They’d be passably handsome.

Unfortunately for me, I have to stand here awkwardly scanning the room like a creep, eyes darting here and there, narrowly avoiding eye contact with a few dudes trying to meet mine.

Not today, bro. Not today.

Not him.

Not him.

Not that guy. Or that one.

Not the guy behind the makeshift bar dealing cards to a few girls.

And most certainly not the freshly shaved prep with the pink polo shirt standing in the corner—way too good-looking.

Every single one of these guys seems too confident.

Too big, too cocky.

Too in shape to be unattractive.

I won’t lie, one of the things that attracts me is a guy who takes care of his body the same way I take care of mine; he doesn’t have to be perfect, but if he’s not eating slop for every meal and exercising?

I call that a win.

Why would they bring me to a house full of athletes? It’s just setting me up for failure! These guys are all attract—

Wait.

Who is this now?

A giant mountain of a guy has just entered the living room through a side doorway, plastic beer cup suspended halfway to his lips.

He’s smiling down at something another guy is saying, and I catch a gap in his front teeth.

I squint: is that a gap, or does he actually have missing teeth?

His cheek is noticeably bruised, and his bottom lip has a gash. The closer he gets, the more dry blood I can see on his face—as if he couldn’t be bothered to wash it from his skin properly.

Shaggy hair that could use a trim.

Rumpled shirt, like he rolled out of bed to join the party.

Of course, that alone does not an ugly man make—he’s not. Not really. But the combination of things—the bumps, the scars, the hair, the clothes—certainly make him a fitting candidate for my task.

Perhaps tomorrow in the morning light, he’ll have shaved and thrown on some clean clothes.

But for tonight, he’s not looking all that cute.

Ten out of ten would not bang him.

“Be right back,” I tell Ronnie on the sly, stepping forward toward my mark, anxious to end my own misery, striding toward the other side of the room so I can breathe—the teammates at my back are not a comforting force. They’re stifling and breathing down my neck like a gaggle of micromanaging biddies eager to watch me crash and burn.

I will not allow that to happen.

With more confidence than I’m feeling, I do a quick lap of the room, giving my teammates the show they obviously want. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me only about half of them are paying attention—Ronnie, Tamlin, and Clarissa all have their eyes glued to me.

Ugh.

My target pays me no mind—obviously, since he has no idea I exist or that I’m in the same room, watching him.

I notice several other sets of eyes watching him, too, and give him another once-over.

He’s tall—one of the tallest guys in the room.

Big.

Broad.

Did I say that already?

Muscular but not in a gym-rat sort of way.

But man, that shirt he’s got on…

He clearly gives no fucks.

I toss my hair—I have it down so it falls straight down my back, though the dark strands are normally kept in a messy top bun. My hair is also usually an air-dried disaster. Bedhead. Rushed.

I am no supermodel myself, but I do alright, though it’s been an age since I’ve actually been on a first date.

You don’t have to go out with this person. Ronnie’s voice echoes in my head. The goal is to ask him out and bring him to us so we know you’ve done the thing.

Okay. Right.

I don’t have to go out with this guy.

He looks like a man, kind of—more mature than the rest of them. How is that possible when we’re all around the same age?

I feel like a stalker hunting its prey, my second lap around the room almost complete.

Such a creep, Georgia!

Good gracious, what would your mama say about this?

She’d be dang pissed.

A short perky-looking girl says something to make the guy laugh; he tilts his head back and bellows out, Adam’s apple bobbing, stubble covering his entire neck.

He needs to shave.

Beards aren’t really my thing, but then again, I was raised by a father who wore a button-down dress shirt and tie daily to the office. The first thing Dad does every morning when he wakes is go to the bathroom to shave.

No mustache, no beard, never any stubble.

I cock my head, gathering more details before realizing I’m wasting time; he’s the most unattractive guy in this room if I’m judging him against the guys in this room.

Not that he’s all that unfortunate-looking. It’s just…

I have this one job—one goal. One mission.

He’ll do.

He’s what I need to get my tush back out the door, back home in bed, and back in the good graces of my team.

Mustering up my courage is hard; it feels much like being in a national championship. Waiting for the starting pistol to go off at the start of a race.

Sweaty palms.