Page 1 of Christmas Cheer

Chapter 1

Evan

I shouldn’t goto the gym when I’m drunk. I know this. Everyone knows this. But here’s the funny thing about day-drinking by myself on Christmas Eve because my parents went to Belize but the last bowl game of my college career is in a couple days:

Once I’m shitfaced, I make bad choices.

I figured plenty of people would still be on campus. I could just post up at the bar or a frat and everyone would come to me. But it’s a ghost town today, and I’m miserable. I hate being alone. Not just on Christmas Day; every day of the week, I hate being alone.

Five shots of tequila in, it seemed like a good idea to get on the treadmill and get my cardio in, but then I started imagining some little shit wide receiver in front of me, a ball sailing toward us, and 40,000 fans losing their fucking minds as I barrel down the field after him because that ball is mine, mine, mine, mine.

Basically, I’m drunk enough that I’m more greyhound than human, too stupid to realize I’ll never catch the bunny, because it’s not real.

I’m as wobbly on my feet as I am in my brain as I get off the treadmill and weave my way through the sports complex, avoiding the weight room I’d usually hit up after cardio. I’ve sweated out most of the tequila, but Coach will be pissed if I injure myself lifting weights right before the bowl game. And no one’s here to rescue my ass.

Or, I didn’t think there was until I turn a corner and notice the glow of full lights from the gymnastics center.

Through the glass panes, I see a solo gymnast throwing herself between two bars, spinning wildly between them. The bars bend in her hands, and my heart leaps into my throat. I surge through the doorway, scared that she doesn’t realize how badly they’re bending, worried one’s going to snap and she’s going to injure herself falling.

Her body is a blur, and I’m thinking the alcohol in my veins isn’t the primary reason for that. Just watching her is making me dizzy. I see a tightly wound auburn bun and work-out clothes that are the standard for the gym — a sports bra and snug boy shorts in navy and mauve, the school’s horrific colors — but display a lot of tanned flesh. I can’t see her face.

I halt when she stands on the shorter beam for a split-second. She has no issue balancing, no concern for the dip between her feet, so that bend in the bar is probably normal. Her arms are lifted when she pauses there, obscuring her face, and then she launches herself at the taller bar.

She spins at least four times on the higher bar, building enough momentum that she can launch herself into the air again. My jaw drops as she somersaults in the air like a diver but in the wrong direction before gravity catches her and she reaches out to catch that bar — but her wrists are crossed. Her body twists to match the position of her hands, flipping her backward spin into a forward one, and once again she throws herself to the lower bar.

In that moment, she’s facing me and suspended in air long enough that I get a glimpse of her face.

“Aww fuck, it’s you,” I groan.

The hair should have been the giveaway, but so many girls dye theirs that color it didn’t click. But now that I see the wide, flushed cheeks, the button nose, and the sharply tapered chin, my stomach knots.

Keira fucking Hughes. Head Cheerleader for Wilmington State College.

My arch-nemesis of eight years now.

My obsession.

I would legit kill a puppy for an opportunity to get in her pants. Like, fuck I hope she never makes that deal with me because I really don’t want to kill a puppy, but I would. And she hates my guts.

At my voice, her eyes shift up to me and go wide. She snags the bar, but only one hand actually grips it. I’m already rushing forward to catch her — well, tackle her, but gently — when her fingers slip off.

She’s flying through the air again, but this time there’s no bar in front of her. Only floor. My body calculates her trajectory. I mean, it’s probably my brain doing it, but it never feels that way when I’m leaping to intercept the football before the receiver can catch it.

I snag her by the waist, and her body folds around my arm like a paper doll as I twist myself to take the brunt of the fall. I’m used to doing this in the opposite direction, with my body landing on top of my catch to keep it from escaping my grip in the hard landing. I definitely get rug burn on my shoulder from the impact.

I get a second to wheeze, thankful she weighs no more than 120 pounds. I’m used to doing this shit with pads. If she’d been a 200-pound wide receiver, I’d be fearing for my ribs right now.

Or, I fear for my ribs anyway because the moment Keira shakes her head to clear the cobwebs, peels herself off me, and looks back down at me, she slams her fist right into my diaphragm. “What is wrong with you, Allore? Are you trying to kill me?”

“What the fuck areyoudoing?” I groan as I try to catch the wind that’s been knocked out of me.

She hops onto her feet and stomps to her water bottle, anchoring her hands on those nice, thick hips of hers that I just know would be perfect to grab onto while fucking her from behind.

“Learning how to tap-dance,” she snorts, reminding me why I hate her despite the amount of brain space — and jizz — I’ve wasted thinking about her over the years.

I roll onto my feet and stalk to her. “You really going to be a bitch after I just saved your ass?”

“I wouldn’t have needed you to save my ass if you hadn’t distracted me. And I still didn’t need you to save my ass after you did.”

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