A/N: Twilight's not mine. But I thank Ms Meyer for the inspiration! The original chapter was beta'd by PTB (thanks!) and then a more refined version by Max of The Sparkly Red Pen (thank you!). Any lingering errors are my own. The following is EPOV.

While much has been said about Edward Cullen's Touchdown/Interception ratio
and his completion percentages, we'd rather take a minute to comment on his aesthetics.
Girls, have you see the ass on that boy? - The Pink Cleats Football Blog

"Cullen!"

My gaze shot up towards Coach.

"Showers then my office ASAP!"

I dipped my chin in acknowledgment before taking off at a jog toward the locker room and showers.

The bullshit was gonna kill me. I wanted to play ball. That was all I ever wanted to do. Sometimes the distractions made that simple fact slip my mind, but I was back with the program, stronger than ever, right? I was the first to arrive to practices, one of the last to leave. If Coach meant to yank my leash—a-fucking-gain—I was gonna lose my shit. But a call to his office could only mean more drama, more bullshit interrogations.

Emmett tossed me a knowing side-long smirk as I made my way from the showers to Coach's office. Fucker never actually said I told you so, but he'd nailed that look our Freshman year.

I banged a knuckle against the doorjamb leading into Coach's office. He sat behind the desk, a can of Coke in one hand, his phone in the other at his ear as he leaned back in his chair. He caught my look and nodded me into one of the two chairs fronting his desk. I plopped into the first and waited my turn.

"Yeah, Aro, I got it. Understood you the first time you laid this out. Not sure why you felt the need to crawl up my ass about it again tonight."

Fuck, Aro Volturi, head of the university Athletics Programs. The dude in charge of who came, who stayed and ultimately, who played.

Coach closed their conversation with a grunt before shoving his phone into his breast pocket. "Cullen, I hate those calls." He narrowed his dark eyes at me, and I shifted uneasily in my chair. What was it this time? I'd been mostly sober since the summer, no public brawling, no police escorts..."The media won't let that last wreck die, Cullen."

"Fuck, Coach, that's ancient history-"

"The second half of your last season was in the toilet. Between the alcohol, the multiple MVAs...To say you're on thin ice is candy-coating the situation."

"Coach, I'm focused this year. You asked for my promise and I gave it."

He nodded, and I felt my lungs loosen up a little.

"You did, Cullen, and so far this year, I'm impressed. You're back to what we scouted, better even. But I'm not the only one you need to impress. Volturi has people riding his ass just like I ride the players. They want a star player. They want what you teased them with the first half of last season." He stood, came around and leaned a hip against the front edge of his desk. I rubbed my hands along my jeans, tilted my head up to meet his gaze. "They don't want some shithead punk who thinks the rules don't apply to him, who's an embarrassment to the team or the school getting the wrong sort of headlines. And frankly, they won't put up with your crap this year. You have to pull it together and keep it together."

I jumped to my feet, my hands tightened into fists. "That's not fucking fair, Coach. I promised straight and narrow, and I have been fucking golden since fall practices started-"

"Except for the partying, the stupid antics. The campus paper loves you – loves the Flavors of the Week. Then there are the damn NFL scout reports. Those things used to be sealed up tighter than Fort Knox, but not anymore. And by the end of last season, yours tanked."

I gritted my teeth, but what could I say? Last year, my nights were filled with parties, alcohol and girls. This year, no car, no MVAs, and I'd tried to keep things low-key, but there was always the next party.

"Sam Uley, one of our biggest football boosters, as you know, wants to meet with you. He's going to help you out, Edward, and I want you to hear him out. Listen to what he says. And, boy, I mean this. Listen close if you wanna survive college football and have a chance at a pro career. If ever a man had the skill, you do, just don't piss it all away."

Coach turned to walk back behind his desk, dismissing me. I shoved up and moved through the door, speechless.

Last year, my first year as starting QB, shit, it'd gone to my head. The attention, the fucking God status that came with being the best sophomore quarterback the school'd ever seen. By the end of the year, I'd wrecked two cars and ended up in the hospital after the second, along with my passenger. We'd both ultimately walked out of there, but it'd made the papers in a big way, all the football blogs, and had been a wake-up call for the school.

They'd threatened to drop me from the team, which would leave me to find another school. But at that point, I had a well-documented history of shit behavior and underage drunken revelry. I wouldn't find another school like UDub, not where I could play ball and have a chance at the pros. The dweeb goody-two shoes types like Tebow and Luck had ruined it for the rest of us. And I wanted to play in the NFL. I lived, breathed, slept NFL football. That career would be mine.

I made my way to my locker, grabbed my crap, and headed out toward the library. It was already a little after eight, and I had that stupid A&M project study group to deal with. The blonde, what was her name? Shit if I could remember her name, but her tits stood out and damn near spoke for themselves. I shoved a hand through my hair. Fuck, that was exactly what I didn't need to be thinking about. Fucking a study partner was guaranteed trouble. I needed to at least wait till the end of the project.

I jogged up the steps to the Odegaard library, shoved open the glass doors and made my way to the second floor and the study rooms. Checking the text from the blonde again, I headed to the second room.

I was late, last to arrive. The blonde hottie, the nerdy douche and the brunette girl were already sitting at the table. I dropped into the vacant chair at the head table and aimed for polite when I asked, "So what's the deal?"

The nerd started in explaining the project, the due dates, even laying out a rough schedule for us to get together. He kept eying the dark-haired girl, but as far as I could tell, she never looked up from whatever she was doodling in her notebook. The blonde, Irina, nodded when put on the spot, but mostly just eyed me, her fingers playing with her hair. I ignored her.

I knew most people assumed I was a dumb jock, and I wouldn't claim to be Einstein, but I could hold my own. Last year, I'd come close to flunking out, but not because of failing projects or tests, just for not taking them or turning shit in. I'd fucked up; I knew it and I was committed to getting my shit together this year and proving to the Huskies and the scouts that I was the real deal.

I shifted in my chair for the fiftieth damn time, but subtle wasn't working to get Irina's fucking hand off my fucking thigh, so I accidentally knocked my pen to the floor. When I leaned down to retrieve it, I knocked her hand away and reached for my pen. Across from her, the brunette's foot bounced like a little energizer bunny. It struck me as weird. She was as still and quiet as a nun above the table, but underneath her foot bounced and shimmied to a rhythm only she heard.

Then I spotted it, maybe an inch wide but long enough to wind up in dark tones from her toes to around her ankle. A tattoo of musical notes. I narrowed my gaze at her slender foot. A specific pattern of notes, a guitar riff I recognized, curled and flexed with the rip and force of the music it depicted along her pale skin. The artwork was fucking awesome, well done, almost three dimensional. It so surprised me, I knocked my head against the underside of the table. "Fuck me."

Instantly her foot froze, shifting to lock behind her other ankle in a classic lady-like pose. Unable to resist, I trailed my gaze up the length of her toned, exposed leg to the tops of her thighs and the little jean skirt she wore. She posed herself so that nothing was revealed, and hell yeah, I looked. Just then her hand came into view, tugging at the bottom of her skirt and I felt busted, even though I knew she couldn't possible know I was checking for panties.

"Edward?"

I rolled my eyes at Irina's voice and shoved back into the chair. Twirling the stupid pen between my fingers in explanation, I jotted something down so I didn't look like a moron. But I couldn't resist slanting another look at the girl. Dark hair in a boring pony tail, pale skin, nondescript clothes, no make-up. She was the antithesis of hot, bundled up virgin-tight and so fucking quiet I was dying to just yell "BOO!" to see if she'd do more than blink at me. I shook my head, dipping my gaze down to the pages in front of me.

She was nothing special, nothing to grab my attention.

Except a question lingered in my mind, persistent and fucking annoying. What was a girl like her doing with a sexy-as-fuck Smashing Pumpkins guitar riff tattooed on her ankle?

A/N: Thanks's for reading!