A/N: Hello folks! Right now I'm on a high from THE EAGLES BEING THE ONLY PERFECT TEAM IN THE NFL (!!!!) so I figured I'd finish this chapter off. (I'm a walking paradox aren't I? Football/Jane Austen fanatic...)

Lola - to answer your question, sort of. Christian is based on Jane Austen's Mr. Knightly, of course, but my great inspiration for him is a guy named Luke who I've known for basically forever. Yeah, the conversation in the prologue thing is actually one I had with him. :o)

Also, please review. Feedback. I need feedback (I'm easily discouraged). So if you're reading this, let me know. :o) Thanks guys!

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I'm happily surprised when a familiar face shows up in Ancient Classics—a new transfer student from Europe, Dr. McClarty announces.

Also known as my good friend Chase Everhart. He spots me and grins, then heads in my direction. I sit at the end of a row, and usually Christian lands in the seat next to me. But I don't protest when Chase slides into this spot. In fact, I welcome him.

A few minutes later Christian walks into the classroom. He starts towards me then notices his seat is taken. By Chase. Chase asks me, referring to Christian, "He's an English major?"

"No," I answer with half my brain since the other half is concentrated on watching my former best friend. "An honors student. They make them all take this class." Christian has stopped now. He nods, eyes looking directly into mine. I duck my head to let my blond hair fall in front of my face and hide it. For some reason, I can't help but be guilty about this Chase thing, even though I don't feel I'm doing anything wrong. That's why I look away.

When I glance back up Christian has moved on. He's sitting in the second row next to Julie Lazlo, and he doesn't look back once at me.

This marks the beginning of the falling out between Christian and I. Two weeks go by just like this. I stop calling. He stops showing up at my apartment. We ignore each other in the two classes we have together. We don't play our usual five-o'clock-Wednesday game of racquetball. He resigns as my Chemistry tutor. I avoid him at parties. A girl named Lucy who's a friend of his or mine (I don't remember) asks me if we broke up. I wonder whether to explain to her that we were never dating. That seems too complicated. I just say yes.

We aren't best friends anymore. That's it. We just aren't friends.

But things change right? I mean, that's okay.

Isn't it?

Besides, I find ways to fill up the time. I've got someone new to spend it with. Chase and I become somewhat inseparable during these two weeks. We call each other constantly, waste all our evenings together, and flirt pretty shamelessly where ever we are. That's how Jen puts it, actually. Jen, imagine Jen saying something like that—that Chase and I flirt shamelessly. I've grown her up. Taught her well.

"But me and Christian always flirted," I argue.

"Yeah, you and Christian," she shrugs, as if me-and-Christian was just this fact that everyone recognized. "But even you and him were never this bad. You flirted a lot yet were somehow still accessible to everybody else. You and Chase get pretty...closed up," she finishes, illustrating 'closed up' for me by outlining a box shape with her hands.

Whatever.

Racquetball, actually, is a class they teach at this college. One which I'm taking in order to finally fulfill those PE credits I've been putting off. Having missed my weekly game with Christian twice in a row, I'm way behind on my practice time. And I've got no one else to make it up with. Christian is the only person I know who knows how to play. There is, of course, one logical thing to do.

I don't do it. I call Chase instead.

"Racquetball," I repeat. "Ever heard of it?"

"No," he says.

Damn. "You know in Ever After where the prince guy is playing that game with some other guy? They're like hitting a ball against a wall?"

"Okay, some vague memories are surfacing."

"Well it's like that. Only no net. And four walls. And you're trying to hit the front wall, not the side one."

"How is this at all like the game in Ever After?" he questions.

"It's not. Meet me at the gym at six?"

"Will we still be friends if I don't?"

"Probably not."

"Good."

"Does that mean you're coming?" I ask.

'No, it's means I'm not," he answers, laughing at his own witticism.

"Har, har, har," I mutter. "I'd better see you at six."

"The things I do for you," he grumbles.

"Oh yeah, my hero."

"See you at six."

He does show up, just like I knew he would. "You mean you play this game in a little room like this?" he asks, when I take him to the court. "What if you're claustrophobic?"

"Are you?" I ask, not that I would let him off the hook if he was. The room isn't that small.

"No. I said what if you're claustrophobic. As in you." I roll my eyes. "Explain to me again the basics," he continues.

"Hit the ball that way," I say, gesturing towards the front wall with my racquet.

"Wow. You're an awesome coach."

"You can serve first," I reply cheerily.

"Right," he grumbles, making his way to the service box. He looks back at me to say, "You know, I think you've got a slight advantage here."

I laugh. "Just serve."

He does. And actually turns out to be a pretty useful player. He's not as hard as Christian, but he catches on quicker than I imagined he would. I finally grind it out of him that he knows tennis pretty well, which is somewhat similar. After a half an hour of play we're both a little sweaty and both really into it. At least I think we're both into it. Chase is apparently into other things. He hits one ball to the opposite side of the court from me—where he is—and when I try to run after it he ends up in my way.

"Hey," I pout, leaning against the wall to catch my breath for a moment. "You made me miss."

"Oops," he grins. He's standing a little in front of me, one hand on the wall beside me. Suddenly I'm acutely aware of the close proximity of our bodies, and the sexual tension that we've been building up for weeks.

I don't know who leans into it first, but suddenly we're kissing. I mean, really kissing. He puts his other hand against the wall on my other side so that he's completely surrounding me, leaning me against the wall. I don't do anything with my hands at first, but then I reach them up around his neck. This is the point where I start laughing. Chase leans away, a little confused.

"This is so disgusting," I say, wiping his sweat off my fingers and onto his shirt.

Then he laughs too, but his laugh is a little stiff. Now I'm confused. It's the kind of thing the Chase I've been flirting furiously with for two weeks would find funny.

"Right," he says, taking a few steps back. He glances at his watch. "Thirty five minutes enough practice time for you?" he asks.

"Sure," I say as if that really is okay. But inside I'm panicking. What is going on? Why is he running out on me like this?

"Good, because I should probably shower before I go to work tonight." he says. Then he adds in an attempt to return to our usual playfulness, "You should probably shower too. You're pretty disgusting."

I don't react and the joke falls flat. "I'll see you, Chase," I say, and I let him leave. I walk back to my car wondering who I have to talk to about this.

West?—well obviously not.

Taylor?—mmm, no not her either. She too biased.

Jen?—no, biased also, although she apparently swings the other way.

Christian. If only I were talking to Christian.

I end up telling Jeremy the story who says that's what I get for trying to disrupt everyone's social circles. That's all that comes of relationships, you know. Then he adds, "I don't know, Becka, maybe you're just overanalyzing things. You tend to do that."

He's probably right. I'll wait and see how Chase is tomorrow.

Chase, tomorrow, is his usual self—all jokes and no awkwardness. He plops down beside me in Ancient Classics and proceeds to harass me about my outfit, my hair, the two-point higher grade he got on his test, anything and everything. I don't know what I can do. He's back in character and obviously not planning on discussing our make-out session in the racquetball courts. Just when we're leaving class, though, he says to me, "Hey Becka, friends right?"

"Of course!" I say, as if I can't imagine we would ever be anything else (or more).

"Good, because it's bad karma to rush into things," he says matter-of-factly.

Which explains everything. I think. Either way, I forgive him. He sees that I'm smiling now for real, and resumes his role as my opponent in wit.

"I like the benefits, by the way," he says.

I'm laughing. "Chase Everhart!" I scold, but he takes off before I can get the last word in.

But this is what I mean by we're dangerous.

- - - - - - -

"You never asked me who bought Sophie Walker the piano."

I'm eating lunch with Taylor at Taco Bell. I knew she had something particular to say.

"I never believed you knew," I answer nonchalantly.

She wrinkles her nose at my sarcasm. "Chase is rubbing off on you," she says. Then she waits for me to ask her the question she so desperately wants to answer. I don't give in. "Oh come on!" she says. "You're not even the least bit curious to hear my theory?"

"Maybe the least bit," I admit. "Alright, give it to me."

"Christian."

"What about him?" I ask. I don't get it.

"He gave her the piano!" Taylor exclaims, frustrated by my daftness.

I just stare at her. Unbelievable. No really, unbelievable. I mean that in the Webster's- dictionary sense of the word. "Taylor. Are you crazy?" I ask, after my moment of shocked silence passes.

"What do you think he's been doing these past two weeks anyway?" she asks, insulted that I'm not convinced.

"Pining over my loss?" I ask hopefully, though I think I know what's coming.

"He's been with Sophie Walker almost as much as you've been with Chase. And I only say almost because it's really impossible to be with someone as much as you're with Chase. I'm not even with West as much as you're with Chase."

Sophie and Christian? Sophie and Christian? No way. No, no way. "I don't believe it." I say.

"Which part?" Taylor asks. "Because you and Chase really do spend an awful lot of time together."

"Sophie and Christian, Taylor!" The girl is easily sidetracked. "I don't believe it. There is no way he likes her."

"Oh, I think he more than likes her," Taylor says, as if she's an authority on the subject. The panic is progressing into full blown terror now. I don't know why. I haven't spoken one word to Christian for over two weeks. I'm caring way too much about this.

But my best friend and Sophie Walker?! It can't be true. It better not be true.