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being thrown in jail could be a problem.”
    My apology does nothing to take the edge off her glare. In fact, it further heats her face. She yanks her hands out from under mine and grips her hips. “I know who you are, Mr. Hotshot football player,” she hisses.
    Ruffles from her dress sweep my legs, and she swats a lock of hair from her cheek. “You want to know how I know?” she asks.
    “How do you know?” Concern grows, stretching my insides like rubber as her angry expression melts into a look of despair. My hands close gently, resting on her shoulders. “How do you know?”
    “You’re not the only one on campus wearing a number eleven jersey. I know…” She steadies her jaw, finishing the confession in a broken whisper. “Because I’m an athlete, too.”
    Shock body-slams me. That’s the last thing I expected her to say. I search her face. Have we met? I should know her. A faint recollection flickers—a leggy blonde running past me at one of the All Athlete events. That’s it. That’s all I got, and I’m not even sure if it was her. How could I have missed her? I may have sworn off serious relationships, but I sure as hell haven’t sworn off thinking about girls—especially girls that look like her. Even on what looks to be Little Bo Peep’s worst day, she’s cute as hell.
    A pulse of guilt waves through me. It bothers me that I don’t remember her. Shit. I wonder what sport. She’s tall, and I can feel the lean muscle of her arms under my light grip. A gymnast maybe? That’d be totally hot—I mean what guy doesn’t fantasize about that range of motion. She’s probably too tall for a gymnast though. The way she was swinging that shepherd staff, she could be a golfer.
    “What sport?” I ask, humility flooding my voice.
    “Soccer. I’m the captain of the women’s soccer team. Priscilla Winslow.”
    “I’ve heard your name.” I’m not lying; I have heard her name. “You’re good. Really good.”
    “Yeah,” she says, sounding deflated. “I’m good.” She pushes my hands from her shoulders. “And now because I made the dumb ass mistake of helping you, I’m in huge trouble. Huge.” She spins on her heel and moves to the front of the cell.
    I watch her lean against the wall and sink to the floor, feeling her words like a punch to the gut. She raises her knees and drops her head on folded arms. Thoughts spin through my mind. I should have listened to my instincts when Tyler suggested the off-campus bar, but I didn’t want to abandon the two freshmen who were with us.
    A door opens, spearing the corridor with light, and two police officers move in. The taller one is Officer Decker. He’s the one that questioned me after the EMT looked me over. He nudges his friend’s shoulder and dips his chin to me. “You know who this is?”
    “Hey, you’re SEU’s quarterback. Preston Rush, right?”
    “Yeah,” I say, perking up.
    He reaches in to shake my hand. “Brad Phillips. I went to SEU. You’re awesome. I think you guys are going to sweep the Big Ten this year.”
    “That’s the plan.” I nod, looping my arms through the slats. Sure as shit can’t hurt to make friends here. We talk football—speculating on whether we’re going to end up in the Big Ten Championship with Iowa or Nebraska—and after listening to them relive their own football glory days, I make my move.
    “Hey,” I say, nodding to Peep. “My girlfriend isn’t feeling well. Can we get some water, maybe a blanket?” The taller officer steps out for a minute then returns with the goods.
    “Appreciate it,” I say, taking the handoff through the bars and setting the loot on the floor beside Peep. “How long you think we have to be in here?”
    “We can check you in an hour or so. Once your alcohol level drops you’re free. It’s going to take longer for your girl, though. She doesn’t weigh as much as you—she’ll likely be here ’til morning,” he says, looking her over.
    Not good. I wonder if