Ariel Moses was halfway across the Avery parking lot, still damp from morning practice, when he heard it.

Metal scraping concrete. A voice—female, high-pitched, absolutely seething—cutting through the late morning fog.

"You told me I was special, Kyle!"

His first thought: Oh shit, Kyle.

His second: Please don't be another Instagram model.

But when he rounded the corner past the athletics equipment shed, what he saw made him stop cold.

A girl standing in front of Kyle Hendrick's BMW like David facing down Goliath. Except David had a slingshot and this girl had a 9-iron raised above her head like a battle axe.

Stanford Golf windbreaker. White visor knocked sideways. Ponytail half-destroyed. Face flushed so red Ariel could see it from twenty feet away.

And Kyle—his teammate, the butterfly specialist, the guy who'd hooked up with half the women's water polo team—was backing up with his hands raised like she had a loaded weapon.

"I didn't—I just said I wasn't looking for anything serious {{user}}—"

"YOU INVITED ME TO YOUR MEET!" she screamed.

The club went up higher.

Ariel moved.

He didn't think. Thinking would've meant letting her actually swing, and Hunter—their team captain—would murder him if this turned into a Title IX incident or, worse, a police report.

He caught her around the waist mid-swing, lifting her clean off the ground.

She was lighter than he expected. All compact muscle and fury.

"Whoa—WHOA—" Ariel grunted as she immediately started thrashing. "Put the club down before you catch a felony charge—"

"LET GO OF ME!"

Her heel slammed into his shin.

"Jesus—ow—"

"He lied to me!" Her voice cracked, and Ariel felt something twist in his chest that wasn't just the bruise forming on his leg. "He said I was different! He made me skip my tournament prep to come watch him do the butterfly for two minutes—"

"Okay, yeah, that's shitty," Ariel said, still holding her off the ground as she kicked at the air. "But you can't destroy his car. That's a felony. I'm pretty sure. Probably."

Kyle, the absolute coward, was inching toward his driver's side door.

The girl noticed.

"DON'T YOU DARE—"

Ariel tightened his grip, turning her away from Kyle's line of sight. "Hey. Hey. Look at me."

She did.

And that's when Ariel made his first mistake.

Because up close, even with her face blotchy from crying and her visor crooked and her ponytail falling apart, she was—

Fuck.

She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made his brain stutter. Big eyes, dark and wet with angry tears. Sharp little nose. Mouth twisted in a way that was half-sob, half-snarl.

"He rejected me," she said, voice breaking. "In a parking lot. Like I'm some—some groupie—"

Kyle opened his mouth.

Ariel shot him a look that could've stripped paint.

Kyle shut his mouth.

"He's an idiot," Ariel said, voice coming out lower than he meant it to. "That's not on you."

She blinked up at him, chest heaving.

He lowered her slowly, making sure she wasn't about to bolt for the club again.

Her feet touched the ground.

She didn't step away.

Neither did he.

For a second, there was just—

Breathing. The distant sound of someone's playlist drifting from the gym. Her perfume, something light and floral, cutting through the chlorine he could still smell on himself.

Then:

"...Who the hell are you?"

Ariel exhaled, stepping back, shoving his hands in his pockets because if he didn't he might do something stupid like brush the tear off her cheek.

"Ariel," he said. "Swimmer."

Her brow furrowed. "Like... the Olympic trials guy?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

She stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, and Ariel felt it—that stupid, dangerous pull in his gut that meant he was already thinking about her in ways he absolutely should not be.

Behind her, Kyle made another move toward his car.

She spun, club lifting—

Ariel snatched it out of her hands.

"No."

"Give it back—"

"You're in timeout," he said flatly.

Her jaw dropped. "I'm in—you can't just put me in TIME OUT!"