The university campus buzzed with late afternoon energy, a chaotic symphony of hurried footsteps, distant laughter, and the rhythmic thuds of a football practice echoing from the field. The sun dipped low, casting golden streaks across the manicured lawns as students darted between classes or lingered in lazy clusters. Даша, a petite figure dwarfed by her oversized backpack, wove through the crowd with her nose buried in a tattered copy of *Pride and Prejudice*. Her dark hair spilled messily from a loose bun, and her glasses perpetually slid down her nose, but she barely noticed. She was on a mission—a shortcut to the library before it closed, cutting straight across the edge of the football field. Big mistake.
She didn’t hear the shouts at first, nor the sharp whistle of a ball slicing through the air. Not until it was nearly too late. The football rocketed toward her, a blur of black and white, and her startled yelp came a split second before disaster. Then—impact. Not from the ball, but from a wall of muscle that tackled her to the ground with the precision of a predator. The world spun, grass tickled her cheek, and her book went flying as she landed with a soft *oomph* beneath a very heavy, very warm body.
“Gotcha, sweetheart,” a deep, smug voice drawled above her, laced with amusement. “You’re welcome.”
Даша blinked up through crooked glasses, her cheeks already flaming as she registered the face hovering inches from hers. Жора, the university’s resident football god, stared down at her with a devilish grin that could melt steel—or at least the resolve of most girls on campus. His dark hair was damp with sweat, curling at the edges, and his broad shoulders blocked out the sun like some kind of infuriating eclipse. His hazel eyes glinted with mischief as he propped himself on his forearms, making no move to get off her just yet.
“Get. Off. Me,” Даша snapped, shoving at his chest with all the strength of a particularly angry kitten. It was like pushing a brick wall. “Are you trying to crush me, or is this just your idea of a warm welcome?”
Жора chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her. “Relax, tiny. I just saved your cute little ass from a concussion. You could at least say thank you before you start swinging.”
“Tiny?” Her voice pitched up, indignant, as she finally wriggled out from under him, scrambling to her feet. She adjusted her glasses with a huff, brushing grass off her jeans. “I’m not the one throwing myself at people like a brainless jock. Do you even know how to spell ‘strategy,’ or do you just grunt and charge like a bull?”
His grin widened, and he stood slowly, towering over her at well over six feet. He crossed his arms, the muscles in his forearms flexing in a way that was entirely too distracting. “Oh, I’ve got strategy, bookworm. On and off the field. Wanna see my best moves up close?”
Даша’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut as she glared at him, her blush deepening. “I’d rather read the dictionary cover to cover than watch you strut around like a peacock. And stop calling me bookworm. I have a name.”
“Which is?” He tilted his head, stepping closer, his tone teasing but curious.
“Даша,” she bit out, snatching her book off the ground and clutching it like a shield. “Not that you’ll remember it. I’m sure your brain’s too busy cataloging cheerleaders.”
“Даша,” he repeated, rolling the name on his tongue like he was tasting it. “Cute. Suits a little spitfire like you. And for the record, I’ve got plenty of room up here—” he tapped his temple with a smirk, “—for more than cheerleaders. Like girls who tackle the unexpected.”
She snorted, pushing her glasses up with an irritated flick. “I didn’t tackle anything. You’re the one who flattened me. Maybe stick to scoring goals instead of innocent bystanders.”
Жора laughed outright, the sound rich and unapologetic as he fell into step beside her, clearly ignoring the fact that she was already walking away. “Innocent? Nah, I saw that look in your eye. You’re trouble, Даша. You just don’t know it yet.”
She stopped short, spinning to face him with a glare that could’ve curdled milk. “And you’re insufferable. Do you ever stop talking, or is this just part of the whole ‘star striker’ package deal?”
“Only when I’ve got something better to do with my mouth,” he shot back, his voice dropping suggestively as his eyes flicked to her lips for a split second. “Wanna find out?”
Her breath hitched, but she recovered with a scowl, pointing a finger at his chest. “Keep dreaming, hotshot. I’m not one of your sideline fangirls. I’ve got better things to do—like getting to the library before it closes, which I would’ve done if you hadn’t decided to play hero.”
“Then let me make it up to you,” Жора said smoothly, undeterred by her venom. He gestured toward the path ahead. “I’ll walk you there. Safety precaution. Can’t have you getting tackled again on my watch.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she retorted, but he was already striding alongside her, his long legs easily matching her hurried pace. She shot him a sideways glance, annoyed at how effortlessly he kept up—and at how annoyingly good he looked doing it, with his practice jersey clinging to every damn muscle.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he teased as they crossed the campus lawn, dodging a group of giggling freshmen who openly ogled him. “I’m just trying to be a gentleman. Besides, I wanna know more about the girl who calls me a brainless jock and still blushes like a cherry when I get close.”
“I’m not blushing,” she lied, knowing full well her face was still traitorously red. “I’m just allergic to arrogance. And you’re a walking allergen.”
“Damn, girl, you’ve got a mouth on you,” he said, grinning like she’d just paid him a compliment. “I like it. Most people just swoon or stammer. You’re different.”
“And you’re predictable,” she fired back, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “Let me guess—next you’ll invite me to some frat party to ‘loosen up,’ right?”
“Nah,” he said, surprising her as they neared the library’s looming stone facade. “I was gonna say you should come watch my next game. Front row. I’ll even dedicate a goal to you, tiny. Call it my apology for the tackle.”
Даша stopped at the library steps, turning to face him with crossed arms and a skeptical brow. “You’re delusional if you think I’d waste my Saturday on sweaty men chasing a ball. I’ve got books to read, unlike some people.”
Жора leaned in, close enough that she could smell the faint tang of sweat and grass on him, his voice a low murmur. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, here’s my number.” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket—already prepared, the cocky bastard—and slipped it into her hand with a wink. “Text me. I’ll save you a seat. Or a spot on the field, if you wanna play dirty again.”
She stared at the paper, then at him, her jaw tight as she fought the ridiculous flutter in her chest. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, shoving the number into her pocket with more force than necessary.
“And you’re intrigued,” he countered, stepping back with a smirk that promised trouble. “See you around, Даша. Don’t trip into any more practices without me.”
With that, he turned and jogged back toward the field, leaving her standing there, fuming and flustered and—damn it—secretly thrilled. She glared at his retreating figure, her fingers brushing the crumpled paper in her pocket. No way was she texting him. No way was she showing up to that game.
…Right?
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