hello! it's been a while since i've posted anything so i'd like to say that i'm looking forward to posting more often. so, austin and ally has finished and it's sad as hell, i'll be mourning by picturing austin fucking ally every single day after they got back together. anyway, please enjoy! this will also be au, but i've really liked to imagine austin moon as a college football player and considering that ally will be studying at harvard and is looking forward to becoming president, i'd like to think she's into political science.

note: the story will be switching up point of views (between austin and ally). credit to the book "jockblocked" by jen fredrick; using most of the book but changing up some details just to make it more like the characters.

Ally

I flip my pen around my thumb again as I contemplate my mock trial dilemma. Should we include the expert in ice formation or the co-worker? Flip. Miles wants to go with the expert because they always score well with the judges, but we all know ice is slippery. Flip. A co-worker who testifies about what a hard worker our client is would go a long way toward us winning. Flip.

Not to mention that a lay witness versus an expert witness would be far easier for our new teammate Elle to pull off. Flip.

Ugh. Elle. Practice earlier was a friggin' disaster. This is my freshman nightmare all over again. Newcomer blows the judges' socks off with a prepared closing she'd practiced all summer and then newcomer ends up ruining the team because she can't perform under pressure.

That newcomer was me once. I hate that my team is suffering through this again, and I'm going to do everything I can to prevent that, even if I have to write every question of every examination and every word of every argument.

I check the score sheet again, but the numbers don't change. I exhale heavily. Miles is right. Historically, an expert witness scores at least two points better than an ordinary witness does. Flip.

I flip the pen again, frustrated that I can't seem to come to a solution. I'm a solution girl. This is my thing. I assess situations, measure risks, and advise the best course. But the best course in this case isn't clear to me. I run my hand through my hair and study the mock trial case once again. It doesn't matter that it's a mock trial-to me it's as serious as it gets.

As I turn the exemplar tabulation over, a packet of aspirin lands next to my hand.

I drop my pen and pick up the packet of medicine. Looking up, I check to see if it's raining aspirin or if someone was playing table hockey and flicked the goal across the room accidentally, but I only see the lights of the ceiling and the bent heads of the few people in the room.

"I'm worried that if you sigh again, a tornado may form. Those are some heavy puffs," a deep voice from behind me says.

I twist to see a guy the size of a small car dwarfing the upholstered chair next to the fireplace. For most people, that chair is oversized. He fills every inch. Even beneath his long-sleeved gray T-shirt, I can see the definition in his arms and chest. I allow myself a few seconds of covert gawking. Have to get my thrills in where I can.

"Maybe I have asthma."

"Then you'll be out of luck because I don't have an inhaler on me. Just the aspirin."

"Sad. Not much of a traveling pharmacist, are you?"

He smiles, and I grip the side of my seat to make sure I don't fall out of my chair at the brilliance of it. Some people, like my roommate Piper, are blessed with an unreal amount of beauty. This guy is one of those people. Even his black plastic glasses make him look like the studious model in an Abercrombie ad.

"You'll have to blame my mom. She has a weird propensity for sticking those things in all of my pockets."

"Thanks, but my headache is induced by my homework. I don't think a couple of aspirin are going to help." I offer him the packet back, but he waves me off.

"It's the second week of the semester. Isn't it too early for homework to be causing anyone stress?" He glances around the room. "In fact, I'm surprised by the number of people here. Is everyone here studying? Isn't it Wednesday? People study on Wednesdays?"

I think the last question is a joke, but I'm not entirely sure. "First time at Starbucks?"

He gestures for me to come close, as if he's going to tell me a secret. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm not a fan of coffee," he stage whispers behind a screen formed by a hand big enough to make a Great Dane look like a toy poodle.

"So why are you here?" I find myself whispering back against my better judgment, caught up in his flirtation.

"Didn't want to go to a bar. Didn't want to be in the library. Didn't want to be at home. I wandered around and found this place." He waves his hand around the room. "But now I'm worried because I feel like I should be doing something serious instead of doing this."

He raises his tablet to show me the game he's playing.

"I would guess at least half the room is playing that game. It was sold for a billion dollars a couple of weeks ago."

"I'd much rather learn how you do that trick." He tips his head toward my hand.

I catch my pen reflexively, not even realizing I was flipping it. "It's a bad habit."

"Nah, it's cool." He gets up and is at my table in two steps. "Austin."

He holds out his hand. When I clasp it, I'm surprised by the roughness of it, as if he does something more with his hands other than typing on a keyboard or holding a pen. "Ally."

"Nice to meet you, Ally. So what's the trick to this?" He bounces one of my highlighters in his hand.

"No real trick. I tap the long end of the pen with my middle finger and let the momentum carry it around my thumb. Like this." And I repeat the action, neatly catching it between my thumb and forefinger.

Austin tries it, but the highlighter goes flying out of his fingers and skitters across the table. "Shit."

I cover my laugh as he scoots over to pick up the marker. He tries again and the highlighter zips two tables over.

"Maybe not as much force next time. You aren't launching a rocket into space," I advise.

"I think you've made a deal with the devil," he says after trying again.

"If I were to make a deal with the devil, do you really think this is the gift I'd ask for?" I spin the pen. "There are at least a million better things than a pen-spinning trick."

"Good point. What would you ask for?" He lifts my mug and takes a sniff, making a face when the coffee scent hits his nose. He doesn't even like the smell of coffee? I guess he has to have some flaws.

"Is this a straight trade, so I get eternal life in hell in exchange for something great on earth?"

"I suppose so. Are there other trades the devil will make?" He reaches back to grab his Gatorade off the floor next to the chair he's no longer sitting in. His arms are so long he doesn't even have to rise from his seat. His shirt pulls out of his jeans, and I catch a glimpse of well-defined abs.

I avert my eyes when he swings around so he doesn't find me staring at his body like a creepster. One look is okay, two and I've definitely crossed over into bad behavior. "I don't have any direct experience with the devil, but I'd try to make a bargain that does not include eternal hell. I'm not made for that kind of punishment."

His lips quirk up. "Yeah, you do seem... sweet."

"The devil doesn't like sweet things?" The words pop out before my brain catches up with my mouth.

Austin's lips go from half-mast to full-out grin. "He might. But I think if he had the choice, he'd pick hot over sweet." Hazel eyes rake over me. "Don't worry, you've got the hot part covered, too."

This time it's my pen that flies across the table. Chuckling, Austin snatches it out of the air.

"Nice reflexes," I mutter. My cheeks feel like they're flaming. I haven't engaged in this kind of flirting since... well, I can't remember the last time. And with this guy? It's totally out of character.

"I'm good for something." He winks and hands me the pen.

Our eyes meet, and the connection between us pings and arcs, warming me as surely as the flame of the fire five feet away. The register rings behind me, reminding me why I haven't had sex in so long. Ethan, my co-worker at Starbucks, was the last person I had sex with. It was uninspired sex-so boring that I think we both fell asleep before the deed was even done. I couldn't really blame it on him either.

We were both distracted-him by some serious bio project and me by the mock trial case. Ethan made out better than I did. He got an "A" on his bio project whereas my team didn't make it out of regionals for the second year in a row. That time it wasn't entirely my fault. We were just uninspiring, which is why Elle is now part of the team. She nearly brought everyone in the room to tears with her prepared closing statement during tryouts. The problem is that she doesn't know a thing about how an actual trial works despite being the daughter of a superstar trial attorney.

As gorgeous as this Austin guy is and as flattering as it is to have his attention, my priority is making it out of semi-finals this year. Two years of being beat down at something I'm supposed to be good at is wearing at my confidence. Giving up would be something my mom would do. Giving up and trotting off with the cute guy is her go-to plan. She's done it my entire life.

Winning at mock trial doesn't guarantee that I'm not going to end up like my mom, living from one boyfriend to the next, cutting out when there's the least bit of tribulation on the horizon, but success would prove to myself that I'm her polar opposite.

I take my comforts where I can find them. And besides, I really enjoy mock trial. Not every aspect. Who loves everything about anything? But for the most part, I get off on crafting the questions, the courtroom atmosphere-all of it.

With school, work, and mock trial, I don't have a lot of time for outside activities. Besides, I'm not sure how I'd even handle a guy like him. The sexual energy he radiates is thrilling, but I can't deny it's also a tad terrifying. I don't have a type, exactly, but if I had to lump the guys I've dated in the past into one category, I guess I'd say... safe? Serious? Definitely not in-your-face sexual, that's for sure. More like... well, Ethan. Not too tall, not too short. Not too attractive, not unattractive. I fit with those guys. I'm comfortable with them. Nothing about this delicious male makes me comfortable.

"You're sighing again," Austin cuts in.

"I'm not." If I was, I didn't mean to.

"Okay, you're breathing heavily." He cocks an eyebrow. "Or your asthma is acting up."

"Fortunately, asthma is one ailment I don't have. But sighing is clearly a problem. Does your mom do house calls?"

"Nope. But I can prescribe you the perfect thing for stress."

I raise my palm. "Don't say sex."

He snickers. "I was going to say exercise, but sex is good, too." Those hazel eyes conduct another sweep of my face, then linger briefly on my chest. I'm wearing a plain black, long-sleeved, crew neck sweater, but the way his gaze smolders, you'd think I was topless.

There's something familiar about him-as if I've seen him before. Maybe he models, though he's a little broad-shouldered for that. But still... "Have we met before?" I ask warily.

A flash of something-irritation, possibly-skips across his face... Maybe he gets this question a lot. "You probably saw me on campus and said to yourself, who is that fine-ass guy and how do I get his number? But we were like sliding doors, a missed connection. I read Craigslist. You should've reached out."

Yeah, he's tired of that question. "Nice story. You sound like a Lit major."

"Sociology, actually. You?"

"Poli-Sci."

"What do you plan to do with that? Learn how to take over the world?"

"If I had the responsibility of the world on my shoulders, can you imagine the sighs that kind of stress would generate? They'd be like gale force winds."

"Good point."

Austin stretches his long legs on either side of my own chair. If I fell forward, I'd land in his lap.

And that's a bad thing because...?

I shove the naughty thought aside. If I want some lap time, there are other, less magnetic guys I could turn to-

Less magnetic? You need help, Dawson.

The exasperated voice has a point. It might as well have come from my roommate, the one who is constantly teasing me about my play-it-safe attitude toward men. But careful suits me.

"You seem less tense now," he observes. He studies my face again, the weight of his gaze almost a tangible thing. "Maybe you should keep me around."

"Where would I do that? My lease only allows for three people, and I'm not sure I earn enough here at Starbucks to feed you on a regular basis," I say lightly. This guy is entirely too smooth for me. I have a feeling flirt is his default setting. Which is fine. Nothing wrong with that, but it means I can't-and shouldn't-take him seriously.

"I'm pretty quiet. I don't think you'd notice me."

I raise a disbelieving eyebrow. "That's not even within the vicinity of truthfulness."

"I can be quiet." He raises two fingers. "Scout's honor." We both look at his fingers. "I was a Scout but dropped out at the age of fifteen."

"What happened at fifteen?" I ask, almost against my will. I want to quit the conversation, but I keep allowing myself to be dragged back in. See? This is some practiced shit.

"I grew. I was a scrawny kid with questionable health, but somewhere between fourteen and fifteen my body said 'to hell with that, we're going to be big and strong.'"

"And the Scouts got left behind? Poor fellas."

"I was a shitty Scout. I was way behind on my badge acquisition. It was really a boon to the troop when I left. I think they might have thrown a party."

I can't stop the laugh from bubbling out. "Your Scout troop was giddy with relief that you left, but you still think I should keep you?"

"I know how to cook and have, at some points in my life, operated an iron." He ticks off each skill on a finger. "I always bring the good booze when I'm invited to a party, and I make my bed in the morning."

"You had me at know how to cook." Truthfully, all those things sound like the characteristics of a fairly responsible person. Safe even. But a guy this good looking who knows how to cook is single and hitting on me in a coffee shop before booty call hour? It's all too strange. And I don't have the time or energy to puzzle this out.

"Awesome. So when should I move in?" His eyes twinkle playfully.

I pretend to consider it again. "I think I have to say never. But I wish you luck on your roommate quest."

He looks unfazed. I get the feeling nothing fazes him. "How about you just invite me over, then? I promise to bring the good booze." When I hesitate, he swiftly changes gears. "Or we'll go out instead. Grab some dinner."

"Oh. Thanks for the offer, but I really don't have the time." I stretch my arm and drop the medicine on the top of his backpack. I won't lie and say I didn't enjoy this flirting session, but a date? That doesn't fit into my plan. This year I'm winning the mock trial championship, and I'm not going to be distracted. I spent my entire winter break plotting out this semester's game plan. Nowhere on that schedule of events includes taking a chance on a guy like Austin.

Something about him makes me nervous. Not in a he's-going-to-turn-you-into-a-skinsuit nervous, but more that I don't like the way his vivid eyes and easy smiles make my heart pound.

He tilts his head. Then rubs his chin. Then sweeps his hair back away from his face. "This is new," he mutters to himself. He gives me a tight smile. "Can I borrow your pen?"

I hand it to him warily, hoping he's not going to spend the rest of the night trying to spin the pen while simultaneously trying to convince me to change my mind, but he doesn't. Instead he pulls the rules book toward him and writes down seven digits. "This is my number. If you find some extra time, give me a call."

Austin

It's been a long time since I've been rejected. I hadn't come to Starbucks with the intention of picking up a girl. I was going stir crazy at home, and none of my roommates was around for me to talk to, so I decided to take a walk. This place was on the far end of campus and I'd never stepped foot inside it before, which meant that it was as safe a spot as any.

Then she strolled in, her long brown hair with what seemed to be chestnut highlights streaming down her back. She sat down and started flipping her pen and sighing so hard I thought she might blow herself off the chair.

It would've been a crime to not offer her an ear. And when she looked at me with her big brown eyes, I couldn't tear myself away. The invitation came out of my mouth because... well, that's what guys do with pretty girls. They ask them out. And I guess they get turned down, too.

I'm not a slouch in the academic department. I get good grades and have been an Academic All-American every year since I've been eligible, but no one I know starts studying until a week before midterms.

Studying as a reason for rejection lies somewhere midpoint between I can't because my mom died and I can't because I'm clipping my toenails. At least she looked regretful turning me down, as if she wished she could take me out for a ride but couldn't quite bring herself to throw her leg over the saddle.

Any other night, maybe I would have pursued her harder. Or just brushed off the rejection, snapped my fingers, and waited for a willing babe to magically appear and soothe away the sting. Which isn't exactly a stretch-when you play football for UF, there's no shortage of willing babes at your disposal. But I'm not in the mood tonight.

I'm not sure why. It's not because I popped into my best friend Jace's place this afternoon and he was reading a book while his girlfriend was on her computer. They looked domestic and boring. The little pang in my chest was probably heartburn from the three burrito bowls I had at lunch. It wasn't... envy.

Halfway home, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see a text from Trent, one of the team managers.

Trent: Coach wants to see you.

The digital clock reads 8:05 p.m. It's been a week since the National Championship game. You'd think he'd be enjoying some R&R. Guy certainly deserves it.

I've taken full advantage of the post-championship high. There's not a bar in town that doesn't have a bottomless tap for a Gator player. Not a girl on campus-or off it-who isn't chomping at the bit to do a little chomping on my bits.

Okay, maybe there is one girl who isn't interested, but for the most part, I'm sitting on top of the mountain of life. Other people are struggling. Other people are sighing their asses off in the coffee place. Me? Anything I want is mine for the asking. I could walk into any bar in the city and people would be trampling each other to buy me a drink. At the Gas Station, there are coeds who would suck me off under the table while I watch SportsCenter highlights.

Life is good. So good that I don't even care I just got shot down. So what if some uptight girl-who's spending a Wednesday two weeks into the semester studying so hard that it makes her head ache-turned me down for a date? Just gives me more time to enjoy my off-season, what little of it that I'm allotted. Spring ball will be here soon enough, and I'll have to fend off hungry freshmen and sophomores who think they should be ahead of me on the depth chart.

Until then, I'm planning on coasting through classes during the day, napping long into afternoon, and enjoying late, wonderful nights.

Well, and apparently random evening summons from Coach.

On it. I type back.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?" I stick my head around the corner into Coach Simmons' office. He is on the phone but gestures for me to enter. I suppose he's recruiting. The official signing day starts in about four weeks.

No one likes coming into the coach's office. Meetings on the field, inside the locker room, during film-you know what those are all about. When you're summoned to his office, you're literally being called on the carpet.

"Sit down, Austin." He gestures to a chair in front of him. Coach Simmons doesn't look like a football coach. He's small, under six feet, and wiry. He never even played college ball, but it hasn't hurt him. He's got two national championships under his belt in less than ten years. That's enough for the whispers of "dynasty" to start.

Coach Simmons steeples his fingers together and leans forward, his wrists resting on some cut sheets. Reading his own good press? I'd do that, too, if I were him.

I position my hands the same way and wait patiently. Mirroring is a good technique to set someone at ease per the sociology class I'm taking on human interaction this semester.

Coach Simmons examines something on his desk before turning his attention to me. "You enjoying your off-season, son?"

Not the question I was expecting.

"It's going okay." It's been pretty fricking awesome, thank you.

"I'd like to win another National Championship next year. How about you?"

"Yes, sir. I want that, too." My interest perks up. I've been wanting to discuss draft placements, combine invitations, and scouting visits, but figured that wouldn't take place until spring ball or the summer camps. This is probably what I've been antsy about today, why I didn't want to go to the Gas Station to get laid, why the rejection from Ally at the coffee shop hung with me longer than it should have, why the sight of Jace and his girlfriend made me feel like I was missing out.

What I really want to hear is that the scouts are drooling over me and that Coach Simmons is telling them I need to go high in the draft.

"You still hungry to win? Because some kids win once and they take their foot off the pedal. They stop training as hard. They let the outside world become a distraction. They lose focus and then they lose games." He glances down at the photos under his wrists.

My good mood evaporates. From what little I can see, those pictures contain nothing good. If I'm here to talk to Coach about those, I better brace myself for a tongue lashing-and not the sexy kind I got a couple of days ago from a cute red-headed Delta Gamma in the bathroom at the Gas Station.

"I want to win," I repeat slowly. "Nothing's going to be more important come fall than making sure the BCS trophy stays here at UF."

"Hhmmph," Coach grunts.

Err. Not the answer he was looking for?

"This is my worry. Without Trent pushing you every second, is the defensive squad going to be as sharp or tough? Physically and mentally, are you going to be a National Championship team?" He reaches for the photos and tosses them toward me.

I look at the colored papers and inwardly cringe. After the championship game, it's safe to say we went a little crazy. People treated us like gods and there was a never-ending funnel of booze that night. And the women. Holy shit. They were everywhere, and they came in pairs and more. They were all tens. Maybe elevens.

I couldn't count much that night. I don't have to look at the pictures to know what they contain. They'd been on the Internet within hours of the game's last whistle. Dez and I and the D-line were getting drunk, doing whipped cream body shots off of various coeds.

There's a worse photograph that I don't see in the pile. That's the one where I'm lying on a bar top with one girl's head between my legs while Dez is pretending to spank her in the ass. Another girl is leaning over my mouth feeding me a shot. My mom raked me over the coals for that one. My "I had my pants on, Ma," excuse didn't fly with her, and I suspect it would go over equally poorly with Coach.

"This was after the season was over," I point out.

He taps a finger on the top photo. "Where's your captain in these photos?"

"At his hotel."

"Right." He gives one final tap and shoves backward. The motion sends the photos flying off the desk onto the floor, and I see the last one in the pile is indeed the foursome picture. Fan-fucking-tastic. "Your captain was at the hotel, avoiding the press and ensuring the Gators' reputation was untouched while you and the rest of your crew were out there making us look like a bunch of high school kids who'd never seen a set of tits before. Do you know how hard it is to assure a worried mama that we're going to take good care of her son and won't let him sin his way through college when these pictures are everywhere?"

"No, sir." The mom may not like it, but the son sure as shit does. I keep that nugget to myself.

He pins me with a hard stare. "You're a superb talent, Mr. Moon. You will undoubtedly be drafted, but how high you go depends a lot upon the off-the-field qualities you show. Your scouting reports say that your leadership potential is unknown. Being captain of the defense could go a long way to shoring up your intangibles."

Captain? That's not something I've ever gunned for. I love playing the game because that shit is fun, and all the other hard work I put in, from eating the right foods to working out hours a day to studying game film, helps me do what I love at a high level. But captaincy? Leadership? That sounds like a lot of BS that I don't really care to shoulder, but I can't really say so to Coach.

If he's asking, the appropriate answer is always "yes" because if you say no, you're getting voluntold to do it anyway. Might as well make yourself agreeable. Path of least resistance and all that.

"If that's what the team wants from me, that's what I want to give the team."

Coach Simmons gives no indication my lack of enthusiasm bothers him. "With Trent gone, someone needs to keep the defense in check. I don't want to see more of this." He gestures toward the pictures I have awkwardly collected in my lap.

"Not a problem."

"If it does become a problem,,," His threat hangs unspoken in the air. I didn't even sniff the field my first year behind a first team All-American linebacker who was drafted in the third round by the Niners. He's not in the league anymore, but when I walked onto campus, he was one of the big men and I was his understudy.

Since my sophomore year, I've held that inside linebacker position against all challengers and I'm not giving it up now no matter how many blue chip recruits and backups are chomping at the bit to take my place.

"It won't."

"Good." He leans back into his chair and swivels so he's looking out the window onto the practice field. "I think you would be a good captain, Austin. Your teammates like you and more importantly they listen to you." The dry note in his voice says that right now they're listening to all the wrong things. "But taking your direction in this"-he brushes a palm across the clippings-"is an easy path. You need to prove to me you can lead them in something else."

"Absolutely." I straighten in my chair. I've always gotten pretty good grades, and I have no problem cutting down on the booze and chicks. The guys on the defense don't mind having someone else in charge. Between Hammer and me, we'll have it covered. "What do you need?"

"No more pictures with girls. No more excessive partying." He ticks a finger with each order. "And convince Dallas that he'd be better off at safety."

I nod. No chicks. No booze. Get Dallas-

"What?" My screech is high enough to be mistaken for a teenage girl, and I think my hearing short-circuited. Dallas is our quarterback. The one we won the National Championship with. Coach knows all of this, so I must have misheard him. The only thing I can think of to say is, "I'm on defense."

Coach Simmons doesn't even spare me a glance. "I've got a commitment out of Texas. He'll come if he can start. That kid won four straight Texas State High School Championships. I want him. He's going to be the key to my future here. Dallas is athletic, but we both know he's not good enough to play at the next level. So you convince Dallas to move to safety and the C is yours." He shoves a patch toward me.

The circular patch in gold and blue, with a big old "C" in the middle, is sewn onto a captain's jersey. It's an honor to wear the patch, but in order to own this letter I've got to tell my quarterback, the one who just helped us win us a national title, that his time at the vaunted QB position is over?

I swallow hard. Not only do I play on the opposite side of the ball as Dallas, but my time spent with him generally consists of running by him during practice since he's considered off-limits even when we're wearing pads. We aren't best buds even though we do play on the same team.

"I... I'm on defense." I sound like a broken record. "I mean that I don't have any classes with Dallas. We don't hang out. I've never had a meaningful conversation with the guy beyond encouraging him to play well. I think my influence over Dallas is about the same as I'd have over a herd of cats."

There. That sounds reasoned and sane unlike Coach's bizarre request.

"I haven't asked you to ride herd over cats. Besides, you don't have to convince Dallas directly. You're free to talk to the rest of the team. If he doesn't have the support of the team, he'll move on his own."

Is there any way to tell your coach that he sounds like he's taken one too many drags off the pipe? That he's talking out his ass? Because this shit seems off to me. Shouldn't he be talking to Dallas and addressing the team? Why me? I try another tack. "I have no problem playing monk for the rest of my tenure here-"

"Son?" Coach Simmons interrupts, tone mild as if he hasn't just released napalm in his office.

"Yeah, Coach?"

"You're dismissed."

Okay then. I heave myself out of the chair and walk toward the door. Maybe if I turn around and come back in, the conversation will be completely different.

"Mr. Moon," he calls. I turn back just in time to see the patch sailing across the room. I catch it reflexively. "You forgot something."