It took some convincing on my end, but I was able to coerce Rogan into coming tonight. He wanted to stay in, order some takeout, and relax after a hard-won game, but I told him he needed to celebrate with his guys.

He’s been to a few football parties without me, just to show he’s a team player, but he’s never really stayed out too late and had fun. At least, the kind of fun I know he can have if he’d just let loose a little. Don’t get me wrong; he loves beer just like every other football player on the team, but it’s rare that he drinks socially. It’s usually just with me, and we end up getting drunk and having sloppy, amazing sex. A girl can’t complain, but I’ve realized: Rogan isn’t really having the college experience I am—you know, going to events on the quad, hanging out with friends at dorm parties, spending countless hours procrastinating in the library—because of his commitment to football, so I’m trying to help him live a little tonight.

We’re going to have fun, get drunk with other people, and have sloppy sex when we get back to his house. Then wake up tomorrow, slightly hungover and ready for a greasy breakfast.

“Just stick close to me, okay?”

“Where do you think I’d wander off to?”

“Guys at parties are douchebags and will try to get with anything that walks by them. I want people knowing you’re mine.”

“Ohh, possessive Rogan—that’s hot.”

He leans in close to my ear. “If we leave right now and go back to my place, I’ll show you something even hotter.”

“Nice try.” I push at his chest. “We’re being social, together. People think all we ever do is have sex.”

“And that’s a problem?”

I roll my eyes and pull on his thick arm. “Come on.”

The frat house is like every other northeast “mansion.” Brick facade, white pillars in the front, prominent fraternity letters on display, and drunk assholes practically falling out the window. It’s everything I pictured.

With his arm securely around my waist, we walk up the brick steps and make our way to the door while partiers call out to Rogan.

“Great game, Knightly.”

“One hundred and twenty yards, fucking amazing, man.”

“Killer game, Rogue.”

Not stopping to talk, Rogan politely hands out some high fives and curt nods before entering through the front door of the frat house. The blaring speakers hit us first, followed by the distinct scent of stale beer.

Ah, college.

“Let’s find a drink and then make our way out back.” Rogan pulls out his phone and glances down at the screen. “Duncan just texted. He’s back there with a few of the guys.”

“Looks like there is some kind of mixed drink getting passed around.”

“Yeah, we won’t be drinking that. Rule number one when attending a frat party: don’t ever drink what they put in the coolers. You won’t like how your night turns out.”

“Oh, do they put a lot of alcohol in it?”

“You could say that.” Taking my hand, he weaves through throngs of people dancing, talking, and grinding up on one another, finally making it to the kitchen. As he searches through the fridge for some drinks, I take in the stiffness in his shoulders, the lack of playfulness in his demeanor.

Standing from the fridge, he pops open two beer cans and hands one to me, his eyes darting around the room.

Wanting to make sure he’s okay, I place my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, is everything all right? You seem really tense.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like it, and unless you want an epic fight to happen right here in the kitchen, I suggest you tell me what’s going on in that brooding head of yours.”

Eyes still glancing around, he takes a sip of his beer. “I don’t want to be here. These parties are nothing but trouble, and I don’t like the way every guy in this goddamn house seems to be looking you up and down.”

“They are not looking me up and down.”

“Really? Because I can point out at least five guys who have their eyes on you right now.” His fist clenches at his side, and I’m actually afraid that Rogan might yank heads off necks tonight if he’s not reassured.

“Hey”—I cup his face and force him to look at me—“don’t worry about them; just have some fun with me.”

“I don’t like them fucking looking at you like that.”

“Well, guess what? I have to deal with girls looking at you all the time, throwing themselves at you on campus, and offering you things only I’m allowed to give you, but you don’t see me getting upset about it. Now let’s forget about this and have a good time.”

“It’s different. You’re hotter than me.”

That makes me burst out in laughter. “Okay, Knightly. Keep thinking that.” I tug on his hand. “Let’s find Duncan.”

With Rogan slightly calmed, we make our way to the backyard, where we find a group of football players spread over a cluster of benches that surrounds a small little bonfire. I think this is exactly what Rogan was looking for. A peaceful night, fun with his guys, and me on his lap—because that will be happening.

“Knightly, come join us,” Hemsworth, one of Rogan’s teammates, says, patting the bench next to him.

Still holding my hand, Rogan makes his way to the fire and takes a seat, pulling me down on his lap. Goal: achieved.

“You all know Harper, right?”

The guys nod and wave, some just giving me a good old grunt. I don’t blame their lackluster welcome. They must all be exhausted from the constant practices and games every Saturday. Plus, I don’t doubt they assume I’m the reason they never get to hang out with Rogan outside of the locker room and field. But little do they know, Rogan is a homebody through and through. He’d much rather be in bed, me curled into his side, watching a movie right now.

And a part of me feels a little guilty that I forced him to come out tonight, but I don’t want him to be a shut-in either. Going out every once in a while isn’t going to kill him.

“Not drinking the jungle juice?” Duncan asks, holding up his red plastic cup.

“Nah, I’d prefer to remember my ass from my head by the end of the night.”

“Not me,” Duncan says, taking a large gulp. “Becca is here, and I don’t think I can handle seeing her with someone else, so why not drink my sorrows away?”

Yikes, Becca must be his ex. I don’t ask, though. I doubt a group of football players wants to talk about feelings.

“She won’t do anything, man,” Hemsworth says. “She’s still in love with you. It’s written all over her face.”

Huh, then again, maybe I was wrong about these big, burly men.

“Hemmy is right,” another guy cuts in. “I saw her the other day in an English class, and she couldn’t stop talking about you to one of her friends. She still wants to be with you—you just have to stop being a douche and apologize.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

All the guys, including Rogan, groan. I glance around, wondering what the hell is going on. If only I could be a fly on the wall in the locker room to see what kinds of things these guys talk about. From the sounds of it, they’re not whipping towels at each other and seeing who has the smelliest farts. Looks like they talk about real-life things like relationships. It’s really endearing.

Does Rogan talk about me? Did he tell them he was going to propose to me before we came back to school? Do they even know we’re engaged? So many questions, and now’s so not the right time to ask them.

“You let another girl kiss you! That’s something,” Hemsworth points out.

“I didn’t kiss her back.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hemsworth counters. “The girl still kissed you. You know we have to protect our girlfriends from the groupies. It’s our responsibility to make sure they’re never doubting our loyalty.”

Uh . . . this is really heavy stuff for a frat party.

Rogan squeezes my side and whispers, “He’s right. It’s my job to protect you. It’s why I’m so tense here.” He’s opening up, right here, in front of the blazing fire. I love this man so much. “I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m not loyal to you and to our relationship.”

What’s happening right now? How did this night turn entirely too serious?

“You don’t have to worry about me questioning your loyalty, Rogan. I know you’re mine, and there’s nothing that will ever change that.”

“Good.” He presses a sweet kiss across my lips before taking another sip of his beer.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” a voice calls out, shattering the relative peace of the night and pulling our attention to the back door, where a blonde girl in a red sweater pops out, a drunk, red-faced guy behind her.

She comes barreling toward us. Duncan stands abruptly. “Becca, what’s going on?”

“I said come back here, bitch!” The drunk guy strides after her, making a fist at his side.

Silence descends around us as Hemmy stands as well. Rogan nudges me off his lap and joins Hemmy, his shoulders tense. This does not look good. I pull on Rogan’s arm.

“Let Duncan—”

Before I can get the words out of my mouth, Duncan charges the guy, barreling into his stomach, plowing him into the back porch.