College Ruled

twenty-seven

| 27 |
________________

I DON'T get a chance to breathe before the three football players are swooping forward and pulling me into their grasps.

I'm swept away from Grayson, who hovers by the doorway, tired face fluttering with irritation as he ignores the small group who shoves their way between his shoulder and the doorframe to get inside.

          A nervous laugh tilts out of me when they finally stop near the kitchen. "What are you guys doing?" I steal another glance toward the front door, but it's empty now, Grayson lost somewhere in the swirl of bodies and noise. "Are we not beyond kidnapping?"

Preston smiles wide, his arm heavy over my shoulder. "It's your birthday party."

"Ta-da," drawls Maverick. "Well, technically it's an after party. But it's unofficially in your honor."

"Wes—" Preston nudges the running back's shoulder. "Give her the thing."

"The thi—oh, right." Shaking himself away from whatever caught his attention in the living room, Wesley untucks his arms from behind his back and presents a slightly bent, fuzzy St. Patrick's day headband. Two bobbing clovers nearly smack me in the face as he plops it onto my unruly hair. "We didn't have time to find anything else, but voilà—the lady's crown."

Emotion clogs in my throat as they all beam down at me. The pancakes this morning and now all of this...

My eyes narrow. I straighten my green, glittering crown. "Did Grayson put you up to this?"

"Grayson?" Wesley's brow snaps up. "Did you see the glare he sent us when you came through the door? I'm sure if it were his choice he would hide you away in his room all night and not share you for a second."

They all stare down at me with matching, knowing little smirks. Like the thought of successfully pissing their teammate off pleases them to no end.

Men.

But what they don't know is that whatever claim on me they see in their friend is all false glares and half-assed scowls. Fake. They see a jealous boyfriend where I see a tired athlete pissed off and frustrated to have to share his house with a horribly loud pack of drunk college kids.

But still, I say, "Well, if that's the case, maybe we should go find him. Wouldn't want the winning quarterback to have to sulk at his own party."

It's a weak excuse. I was dragged away from him not even five minutes ago and already I'm wondering where he is. Wanting to see him.

God, I feel pathetic. What is it about my birthday that makes me so needy?

"Your party. And please, Rem. Gray will get his chance at you later." Wesley waves my concern away and my cheeks immediately heat, even though he didn't really mean anything by that. "Besides, he played one hell of a game today. There's plenty to be celebrating. Trust me, he'll be smiling soon enough."

As if the universe wants to prove his point, the crowd of people in front of us parts enough to catch a glimpse of Grayson across the living room. He's leaning into the windowsill, black T-shirt tight against his toned muscles, dark baseball hat resting backwards on messy, recently dried hair. The leggy blonde—Han, who apparently works faster than anyone I've ever see —from the football game tilts her head up to whisper something in his ear that makes a grin spread behind the neck of his beer bottle as he lifts it to take a swig.

Okay, so whatever exhausted irritation he'd felt toward the party he apparently knew nothing about has evidently faded. Quickly. Probably washed right away with one brush of blondie's ring-covered fingers.