'90s Playlist (Romance Rewind #1)

by Anthology

  How can I feel this overwhelming want for a girl I barely know?

  I close my notebook and stuff it in my backpack when the professor dismisses class. I didn’t catch any of his lecture, because I was too focused on Tia. Tia who’s getting up now. Tia who’s looking back at me. She’s just as striking as she always is, but there’s an undercurrent when she looks at me now. Our eyes meet for a split second, like they do every time, before she turns away. The lecture hall has already cleared out, less than a quarter of the students left inside. Even though there aren’t a ton of people around, I’m still surprised when she glances back at me once again before turning around and walking in my direction.

  “Hi,” she says when she gets to the row of seats in front of me.

  I clear my throat and shift in my chair. “Hey.”

  “So I know we don’t really talk”—she darts her eyes off to the side, to a couple of people watching us with interest—“but I’m working on a documentary for my semester project in film. I need the perspective of an athlete and someone involved in Greek life, for an interview type thing. Would you have time to help? Uh, me?”

  For a minute, I’m so shocked all I can do is stare at her while she shifts in front of me, picking at her nails and darting her eyes in every direction, her gaze not staying on me for more than a second at a time. This is the project she talked about in the car—the one on group segregation within the school. The one she was so excited about. Passionate about.

  I’ve taken too long to respond, because before I can say anything, she cuts in, “You know what? This was a dumb idea. Never mind.” Then she turns around and walks away, and I do the only thing I can.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, probably louder than I should’ve. A few people turn back and look at us, their brows furrowed in confusion as their attention slides between Tia and me.

  “If you’re too busy, I get it,” she says. “With football and your meetings for the fraternity.”

  “I said I’ll do it.” I stand and shoulder my backpack. “I want to do it, Tia.”

  She studies me for a minute, then gives a nod. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “Just tell me when and where.”

  “You have practice most afternoons, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have any mornings open?”

  “Yeah, on Thursdays.”

  “Perfect, me too. So…Thursday morning? Does that work?”

  “Sounds good. At your dorm, or…?”

  She chews her lip, her fingers picking at a loose thread on the strap of her backpack. “I can just meet you in front of the steps by my building, if that’s okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. See you later?” It should be a statement, but my voice notches up at the end, my eyebrows raised the slightest bit, hoping she gets that I’m asking about later tonight. When she dips her chin, I barely withhold a smile as I turn to leave. Even though it’s been weeks of us meeting like this, this sense of relief still settles over me every time she says yes. Every time I see her in the parking lot.

  I’m not ready for this to be done, despite needing to keep it a secret. Seems she isn’t either.

  * * * * *

  Later that night, I’m trying to get in some studying before I need to meet Tia, but nothing’s sticking. I’m grateful when a knock sounds at my door before my brother sticks his head in. “Hey, you busy?”

  I lift my chin in greeting. “Nah, just trying to study a little.”

  Max comes in and shuts the door behind him, leaning back against it as he crosses his arms. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You zoned out the whole meeting. That’s not like you, even during football season. What’s up?”

  I shrug, but I know he’s right. Tia’s taking up too much of my focus, and people are starting to notice. Not just Max, but Coach, too. I need to figure out how to compartmentalize her…isolate her in my mind so thoughts of her don’t seep into everything else in my life. “Just stressed.”

  He studies me for a minute, scrutinizing me. Being only a year apart, we’ve always been close, hanging out with the same friends, into the same things—except his sport was baseball where I excelled at football. It doesn’t surprise me when his eyes narrow. “Yeah, well, you better get that shit on lock down now. The vote for the officers is coming up soon. You’ve got a damn good shot at taking over as President, but not if you’re dicking around all the time.”

  “I know all this, Max. You don’t have to tell me again.”

  “Yeah? It seems like I do.”

  “Look, it’s just been these past few weeks. Give me a break.”

  “If you want this, you can’t afford a break.” He relaxes his stance and studies me closely. “You do still want this, don’t you?”

  And the thing is, I do. I do want it. I love my fraternity, my brothers. And I’m a natural born leader. I’ve watched Max do it over the last term. Stood by him as VP and stepped in when needed. But these past few weeks, I’ve wondered what it’d be like if I wasn’t. Wasn’t VP, wasn’t a strong candidate for President, wasn’t in the frat at all. I’ve wondered if I’d be able to date Tia if I didn’t have this. Actually date her. Take her out, be seen in public, and not have to worry about the repercussions.

  As much as I want her, my fraternity has stood by me for over two years. The thing between Tia and me has been going on for weeks. There’s really no choice.

  “Yeah, I still want it.”

  “Good.” He uncrosses his arms and grabs a football from the floor, tossing it into the air and catching it. “Maybe you need to get laid. We’ve got that party with Delta Sigma Nu on Friday. Or”—he tucks the football into his side and snaps his fingers—“oh! What about that cheerleader who’s been hanging all over you? She’s hot.”

  Sorority girls. Cheerleaders. It’s always the same. It’s almost like an incestuous pool within the frat, all of the guys vying for the same girls—the same girls I used to go for. The only girls I used to go for.

  “I’ve never needed your help getting laid before, and I don’t need it now. Worry about your own dick, and leave mine out of it.”

  “Just lookin’ out for my little bro.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got that part covered.”

  “All right.” He drops the football back where he picked it up from, then opens the door. “Get your head in the game, Mason. This is your only chance at President before you graduate. It’s now or never.”

  And then he leaves, his words resonating with me more than he could know, echoing in my head long after he’s gone. Because what if they apply to more than just the presidency?

  What if they apply to Tia, too?

  Chapter 8

  Tia

  I’m sitting on the concrete banister on the steps in front of my building, legs swinging. My nail polish is picked to shreds, specks of leftover blood-red dotting my nails.

  As much as I’d like to ignore this feeling…as much as I’d like to deny it, I can’t. I’m nervous. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous meeting a guy. Back in high school, maybe? It’s been a long damn time, that’s all I know. And now, I can’t sit still.

  Of course, it doesn’t help that Piper had to bail because of a make-up lab, so she’s not able to be here to be my buffer. I was hoping it’d keep some much-needed space between Mason and me. And now, not only won’t I have that, but he’s going to set foot in my dorm room, because I need help lugging all my equipment down. The thought has excitement and anticipation burning under my skin, settling low in my belly…between my legs.

  That feeling only intensifies when I catch sight of Mason striding toward me, his gait purposeful, his focus intent. He’s already spotted me, his eyes never straying from mine, even when he passes people he knows. Instead, he just lifts his chin toward them in acknowledgement. Being on the receiving end of all that focused intensity is unnerving.

  Unnerving and really fucking hot.

  He stops a couple feet away fr
om me, his eyes finally glancing around, taking in all the students surrounding us, before flicking back to me again. But not before I see his shoulders stiffen, how he stuffs his hands into his pockets, like he wishes he didn’t have to be here. Like he wishes he was invisible. Even though it looks like he’s waiting to flee, he says, “Hi.”

  “Hey.” My legs won’t stop bouncing, the polish on my nails getting scarcer by the second.

  He clears his throat and shoots another glance to the side. “You still want to do this?”

  I want to tell him no. That he doesn’t have to be here with me. That he can go practice or hang out with his frat brothers or whatever the hell else he does when he’s not between my legs. But I can’t, because I need him. More than I want to admit, and for more than just my project, but that’s all I allow myself to focus on. “Yeah, I do. I, um, I just need some help, though. If that’s okay?”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  That’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. I need to feel wanted. To be cherished. To not have the guy I’m letting into my body be so uncomfortable about being seen with me. To not be a dirty little secret.

  Biting back those thoughts, I say, “My roommate normally helps me out, but she had a last-minute lab, so she had to bail. Can you help me lug the equipment down?”

  He looks around again, and I almost tell him to forget the whole thing, but then he surprises me by nodding and moving toward the steps. “Lead the way.”

  * * * * *

  Mason was in my room for the sum total of about seven blinks, give or take a couple. Only long enough for him to help me grab the bags containing my equipment, and then we were back down the stairs and to the safety of outside. I’ve got my tripod and camera set up in a secluded part of the quad, tucked away in a corner, surrounded on three sides by trees. I haven’t taken any of my other interview subjects here. Some of them I did right out in the open, liking the commotion going on around us, but I wanted something different with Mason.

  I wanted something a bit more intimate.

  But maybe that was a mistake, because now there’s nothing here to distract us. It’s just him and me, the two of us in this tiny pocket of grass and trees and fallen leaves, and I wish it was like this all the time. Just us, with no outside influences or distractions. It’d be a lot easier if we were the only two people we needed to worry about.

  He clears his throat, shifting in the grass as he plants his feet on the ground and drapes his arms over his bent knees. Even through the lens of my camera, I can tell he’s uncomfortable, probably not used to being filmed. I’m uncomfortable, too, unsure about this thing between us, but it’s my job to soothe him, not the other way around.

  Stepping out from behind the camera, I say, “I’m just going to ask you some questions, and you can say as much or as little as you want, okay? And don’t worry about messing up. I’ll edit everything and pick and choose the best parts.” I wait for his nod, then say, “Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Okay, here we go…”

  I start filming and read from my script, picking and choosing from the pool of questions I’ve used for each person I’ve interviewed. Mason answers them with ease, his nerves dissolving sometime after the second question. I can’t help but hang on his answers, inhaling all the information he’s feeding me. About his childhood—how his dad’s love of football morphed into his own while he was still in youth football and how he never looked back. Or how he looks up to his brother—also an athlete, also in his fraternity—even though he’s only a year older. How he never felt pressure from his parents to play, even though they love it. Fortunately, he does, too. His passion for the sport comes out in how he talks, in his expressions and his body language. And it makes me love it for him, too.

  I’ve only got about two minutes of tape left, so I find the one question I make sure to ask every single person I’ve interviewed—my constant—altered for their specific group. “Would you say the group you hang out with is pretty insular?”

  “As much as any other, I guess.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  He shrugs, plucking at the hem of his jeans. “Sometimes it’s easier. I know that probably sounds like a cop-out, but it’s the truth.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s a lot of pressure, you know? From Coach, from the students, from our parents. And then we’ve got classes on top of that, all of us trying to maintain a decent GPA. It’s a lot to handle, and not many people get that. Add in the pressures of holding office at the fraternity, and it’s hard to stand up to. I think that’s why a lot of the athletes join fraternities. We’re a brotherhood, always there for each other. That’s what we’re built on. And it helps to surround yourself with people who get it.”

  I expected as much, because it’s basically the same answer everyone else has given—they feel more comfortable with people who share their interests. Instead of taking that answer like I did with every other person, I push back with him. “But wouldn’t it be nice to sometimes be around someone who doesn’t have those pressures? Someone who could counteract all of those things? Don’t you think it’d be refreshing to be around someone who could balance them? Balance you?”

  I wonder if I’m being too transparent, laying my heart out on a silver platter in front of him. What about me? I want to ask. I could be your balance. I want to be that for you.

  I don’t say any of that, though, and the questions hang between us. But from the look in his eyes, the heavy weight of them boring into mine, I don’t have to say another word. He gets exactly what I’m asking.

  He doesn’t break eye contact when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, it would be.”

  With those words, my heart soars, my hope igniting.

  Maybe.

  Maybe it can be me.

  * * * * *

  When we’re done filming, he doesn’t ask me if I need help getting everything back upstairs. Instead, he just waits for me to load it all up, then hefts the majority and leads the way, holding the doors open for me as we go. Before, when he came up to help me carry everything down, we had a destination. Direction. Now, though, we’ve got nothing. We’re aimless. Restless. And totally alone.

  My dorm feels minuscule with Mason inside it, taking up all the space. He looks around at the posters on the wall, the scarves hanging over the lampshades, all the pieces we’ve added to make it feel like home—mine and Piper’s styles an eclectic blend of a lot of things that all somehow work together.

  When he’s taken in every square inch that’s out in the open, he finally faces me. His voice is pitched low, a gruff sound, when he asks, “Your roommate’s gone?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Till noon.”

  I can practically see the thoughts going through his mind—realizing it’s barely eleven now, that we’re finally alone with nowhere to be for a while—and I see, too, the second he makes a decision on how he wants to spend that time. There’s no hesitation with him—when he decides to go for something, nothing stops him.

  Because of that, I’m not surprised when his legs eat up the steps between us. I’m not surprised when he grips my face with one hand, my ass with the other, and hauls me up against him, pressing his already hard cock into my belly. I’m not surprised when his mouth descends on mine. And then he’s kissing me, and it’s good, so good. All thoughts and preconceived notions about how this might go flee my head, because it’s Mason Brooks, and he kisses me like I’m the very air he needs to breathe. He kisses me like he can’t get enough, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get inside me.

  He kisses me like I’m it. His distraction, his balance. His everything.

  I don’t let myself linger on how much I want that to be true. Instead, I tug and pull while he grapples, both of us trying to get the other naked as fast as possible. In the end, we end up pressed against the closet door, enough of my flannel unbuttoned to expose my bra, pants discarded in the corner along with Mason’s shirt. And t
hen before I can divulge him of his jeans, he’s inside me.

  “Oh God,” I moan, locking my ankles behind his back and gripping his bare shoulders, needing him closer, deeper.

  “How is it so good?” He groans, sinking his teeth into my shoulder, the sharp sting ratcheting my pleasure higher. “How is it still so good? Every fucking time.”

  I shake my head, because I don’t know. I don’t know how he has this power over me, how I come undone when I’m in his arms, how I crave his touch when he’s not around. Every day it gets a little worse. Every day I get a little deeper into this thing between us until suddenly I’m so far gone, I don’t even realize I’m falling until it’s too late.

  And it’s too late.

  Somehow in the span of the weeks we’ve spent together, both in and out of each other’s pants, he’s worked his way into my heart and settled in for the long haul, and I’m terrified. Terrified, because what if he’s content to let this remain between us? What if he’s content to keep me hidden in the shadows, out of sight, out of mind?

  But Mason’s words outside give me hope that maybe we can make this work. Maybe…maybe we can figure it out. Maybe we can be enough for each other to take that next step.

  His chest is smooth under my hands, his sculpted muscles hard beneath my roaming fingers. When I trail them down the ridges of his stomach, he groans, then slips a hand between our bodies, urging me closer to the peak with his thumb on my clit. His thrusts grow harder and faster, exactly how he knows I like it. Exactly how he knows I need it to get over the edge. And when I do, when I’m falling, clutching his hair and breathing his breath and feeling him pulse inside me, my name on his lips, I allow myself to hope.