PROLOGUE
Becca
Ipush my hands off the freshly turned over soil. “How could you do it, Dad? We were going through it together, and you chose to leave me all alone.”
I wipe my hands on my black Carolina Herreradress, loose dirt falling to the ground like the tears I can’t seem to stop. The white of the tulips swirl as I twist them in my hand and lay them on the grave next to my father’s.
“I miss you, Mom. I wish I could have hugged you just one more time.” Letting the last tear slide down my cheek, I push the misery away.
Taking one last look at the two slabs of marble stuck in the earth, I say good-bye to the only representation that my parents are gone, that they’re really dead, and now, I’m all alone.
ONE
Callum
Two days. Two days until I face Becca again.
The last time we spoke, it ended with screaming and a slew of words neither of us meant. I was so pissed off that I ran twelve miles when I got home, needing to get the anger out without putting my fist through my grandma’s wall. I went over to her house that night to say good-bye to her, and it was one hell of a good-bye. I left for Trenton University the next morning. That was almost a year ago today.
After I got settled into the house that I’m sharing with four other players of the Trenton Devils—Chance Hammer, Rhett Roloson, Dawson Campbell, and Donovan McIntosh—I made the short trip back home to see my grandma. I FaceTimed Stella so that she and my grandma could catch up.
Stella tried to teach Gran how to use FaceTime, but she just couldn’t get it down. So, the only time they can talk is when I’m there or when she and Cade are in town to visit.
God, I miss Stella. I’ve never had a girl best friend before her who didn’t have other intentions. But it’s never been like that for a second with Stella and me. We talk every day, and she’s become one of the most important people in my life. She even got Cade Carver and me to be …friends?
Let’s just leave it atcivil.
I can’t imagine Cade loves the idea of my and Stella’s friendship. But he’s always been so protective of her, and I guess, to be honest, I don’t mind it in the slightest. At least she has him looking after her.
Because the girl might not realize it, but she is fearless, and with fearlessness comes recklessness. Hence how we became friends—when she showed up at my house in lingerie, thinking I was the one who had raped Brooke Carver. She used herself as bait. Luckily for her, I wasn’t the one she was looking for.
My blood warms when I even think about the fucking scumbag who did it, the prick who raped Becca, Brooke, and Sophie. I swear to every form of a god that I will beat the living shit out of Brady if I ever see him again.
Becca didn’t deserve that—no one ever deserves that. But when I think about Becca, being terrified and alone with him, I have to physically sit down so that I don’t break into that prison and kill him myself. Becca was always strong, with impenetrable walls up. But after that, everything changed. She blocked me out completely.
A knock on my bedroom door makes me shove all that away.
“Jones, you ready?” Chance pounds on my door once more before throwing it open.
He stumbles and leans against the doorframe. We haven’t even gotten to the party, and he’s already sloshed.
The last thing I want to do right now is go to this and be surrounded by drunk students, especially the girls that always seem to gravitate towards us.
Trent Coleman, Trenton Devils starting quarterback, throws a house party every Saturday night. To sum up every party, it’s way too many girls trying to screw one of us and way too little alcohol to go around.
Not giving two shits about this party, I throw on my Devils crewneck and the first pair of jeans I see in my closet.
I’m annoyed before we get to Coleman’s, the warmth of anger boiling hotter and hotter under my skin. When the Uber pulls up to the house, my fists are tingling to find someone’s face. There must be over two hundred people in this house—enough people that the party has spread to the front yard.
We all climb out of the car, and every girl’s head is already twisting to find us. A few bat their eyelashes, a handful wink, and one girl hands me her number before we even walk into the house.
The place is packed, body to body as we enter. The sea begins to part as we find the kitchen. And Dawson’s hands seem to find the keg immediately.
“Not even in the door yet, Jones.” Dawson laughs, pouring himself a beer. “Save some for the rest of us.”
Right as he says that, a group of girls walks by us, all of them swaying their hips a little too eagerly.
“Take your pick,” I tell him and nod to the group of girls.
