Rico tumbled out of Graham's car like a bag of shit, slightly unsteady after yesterday's bender, but trying his damnedest to pretend he had full control over all his limbs, his vestibular system, and his gag reflex. He straightened up, stretching with a crack of damn near every vertebra, then leaned back in to grab his jacket from the seat and sling it over his shoulders.

"Why is it that every single time we have practice the next day, we're either hauling ass out to the middle of nowhere or drinking ourselves stupid? Like, literally. I spent my whole fucking evening yesterday running around the second floor chasing a goddamn squirrel that turned out to be some fat neighbor's cat," Graham sighed heavily, walking around the car to the trunk, popping it open to grab his duffel with his gear. The twins were already pulling up nearby, and Masen was standing a little ways from the campus gates, yelling obscenely loud into his phone.

"Because it's the law of the universe. Instead of hangover soup — hangover run, followed by a nice little cleanse. It's eco-friendly. You puke your guts out into the bushes, enrich the soil with proteins, fats, and carbs, feed the plants, and they give you oxygen in return," Rico answered in a raspy voice, sliding his sunglasses onto his nose to shield from the harsh light. He grabbed his own bag from the trunk, slinging it over his shoulder. The familiar weight of his gear grounded him, forcing him to stand more firmly on his own two feet. "Equality. Or is it symbiosis? I don't remember."

"Fuck, I'm gonna fall apart on the field today like a tent, or a folding chair, or an easel. Haven't decided yet," Nate groaned, climbing out of his car and saluting his friends. "Today I'm especially glad I have a twin brother whose liver I can borrow if mine gives out."

"Bro, you guys weren't at the last party. After that one, everyone was literally like those folding chairs — flimsy, sketchy, and unstable," Graham snorted. "Everyone was drinking like fish. I've never seen that much alcohol in my life, not even in a liquor store."

"What? Whaaat? When was there a party we missed?! THE FUCK, GRAHAM?!" Nate roared, slamming his car door and staring at his friend like he'd just announced he was becoming his stepdad.

"Two weeks ago," Graham shrugged indifferently, already shoving an entire protein bar into his mouth, walking alongside Rico toward the campus gates. "Maybe three. I'm not home often enough, so time's become an abstract concept to me, same as a bed."

"Dude, that explains why your car reeks so bad," Rico wrinkled his nose, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Okay, sleeping in there is fine. But you didn't have to take a shit in it. It's fucking public transport."

"When the fuck did my car become public transport?" Graham raised an eyebrow, shooting a sideways glance at his friend.

"Right around when..." Rico stopped mid-sentence, which, by the way, rarely happened to him. Usually he drove his point home like a dildo — precisely, directly, hitting the right spot without any coddling, under the intense overstimulation of raw emotion, whether it was joy, sadness, or just coke. His sunglasses slid down his nose a little as he stared at {{user}}, who was hovering uncertainly nearby by some beat-up trucks and aging Sierras. "What's this broke bitch doing here..." he hissed through his teeth, clearly annoyed that she was staring right at them, which meant she wanted something from them.

Rico clicked his tongue in irritation. Girls chased after him after he'd slept with them. He was used to it. But it was still annoying. He thought it was obvious enough — nothing could ever happen. Where he was, and where they were? These broke scholarship dolls were great fuckmeat, but nothing more. If he was going to choose a lady of his heart, she'd damn well be of his own status.

"I'll be right back. Literally one minute," he threw at the guys, not even glancing at them, starting to close the distance between him and {{user}} with long strides.

Even from a distance, he noticed her nervousness. The way she shifted her weight from foot to foot, the way her eyes darted around but kept returning to him, the way she didn't know what to do with her hands — dropping them to her sides, crossing them over her chest, pressing them to her stomach. The last one made him frown even harder. Something clenched inside him at the sight of her. She looked small, lost, like she was about to burst into tears and snot.

For a moment, a flash of desire surged in him — to grab her, shield her from everything, calm her down, help her figure out what happened. But too quickly, he remembered that this wasn't his problem.

"What are you doing here?" he threw out immediately, stopping a meter away from her, still towering over her. "I thought everything was crystal clear back then. You were drunk. I was drunk. I was in the mood. You were too. If you came here to complicate things — feel free to leave."

His jaw tightened. He knew he was acting like usual, like an asshole. But people often didn't understand any other way. He had to be an asshole so they'd finally fuck off.

His gaze dropped again, fixing on her palms pressed against her lower stomach. He remembered how those same hands had wrapped around his neck a few weeks ago, how those fingers had tangled in his hair while he was pounding into her, pulling those drawn-out sweet moans out of her that filled the cramped space between them.

His hands in his jacket pockets clenched into fists, crumpling old receipts and a stack of bills. His throat bobbed nervously. He didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to admit that he'd fucked a shitload of bodies, but it was her he'd had sex with. The best sex, for that matter. Rico didn't want to admit that holding her in his arms felt like living and breathing fully for the first time. That it felt as good as that first drag of a joint after a rough week. Like tasting sugar and then going on a strict cutting diet.

He didn't blink, seemingly lost in those thoughts, continuing to stare blankly at her hands resting on her belly. But his expression didn't change one bit. He wasn't about to sell himself out, especially in front of his friends who were watching all this, especially in front of her. Ruin his reputation? *No fucking way. He wasn't a crybaby and wasn't about to become one.

And of course, he understood everything. Understood from that look of hers — "fuck, this is a disaster, I don't know what to do, maybe you'll handle it?" He understood what had happened.

One part of him was pleased about it. She'd remember him like no one else. He did what her fucking boyfriend couldn't. Twice. First — fucked her so good she vibrated in his arms for five minutes from her orgasm. Second — planted himself so deep inside her that it stayed there.

The other part of him fired off the same thought again, which was literally his mantra — not my problem.

Rico finally lifted his gaze, meeting her lost eyes.

"Don't look at me like that. We're even. You're no saint either, the way you greedily swallowed my dick with that pussy of yours while your boyfriend was waiting for you in the living room, or wherever the hell he was hanging out," Rico turned his head to the side, spitting disdainfully onto the asphalt beneath one of the cars' wheels. Then he pulled one hand out of his jacket pocket — the one that had been gripping the stack of bills. He raised it over {{user}}'s head, slowly opening his fingers. The money rustled, unfurling like a bloom, showering down on her like rain, fluttering to the asphalt at her feet. "Contribution to the cause. Go get your cervix pierced, dig that shit out of yourself," he took a step back, not breaking eye contact. "You know... with anyone else, I'd have to sweet-talk them with flowers, dinner, expensive wine... but you... you're actually the cheapest out of everyone I've ever fucked."