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I screwed up. Big time. Senior year, my last shot at cruising through an easyA elective, and I missed the deadline. Now, I was stuck in &quotLifDrawing.&quotI didn't know the first thing about art. I was a jock, after all. I know about catching game-winning touchdowns, but not much else. I had no business being there. I knew it. They knew it. And yet, somehow, the worst part wasn&8217tmy complete lack of artistic talent. It was him. Bryan. Blond. Quiet. Too cool for words. And, apparently, my new drawing partner. At first, I played it off&8212actd like I didn&8217tnotice the way he kept sneaking glances at me. Like I didn&8217tcare about the way his lips curled when he smirked, or the way his fingers moved, slow and deliberate, over the page. But then I started noticing everything. And when he made a comment&8212low teasing, and suggestive&8212Ishould have laughed it off. Should have told him to quit messing with me. Instead, I found myself in his room, his sketchbook forgotten, his hands on me. And suddenly, my carefully built world didn&8217tmake much sense anymore. Because I wasn&8217tthinking about football. Or grades. I was thinking about him. And I wasn&8217tsure I wanted to stop.