Second Shot K.O.K (The Brooklyn Bears: Season 1)

1. College

ONE

COLLEGE

Nalani

L ooking up into the sky at the kaleidoscope of autumn colors blanketing the landscape surrounding me, it’s more beautiful than I ever imagined it would be. The crisp New England air carries the faint smell of autumn leaves and pumpkin spice. Okay, maybe the last part is exaggerated, but that’s all I see around here—pumpkin spice this and pumpkin spice that. I do have to admit that pumpkin spice lattes are amazing.

It’s not quite dark. The sun is still peeking through the leaves and kissing my skin. Skin that I just now noticed is losing its golden bronze color. How is it that I only left the island a couple of months ago, and I’m already losing my tan?

Home. I miss it. I miss wearing flip flops or sandals instead of tennis shoes and boots. I miss my family. I miss shorts and tank tops. Most of all, I miss the sand beneath my toes and the sound of the water crashing into the shore. I miss it just like I thought I would, but much sooner than I expected.

Don’t get me wrong; I love it here. It’s exactly what I wanted—a smaller school with diversity and seasons that changed in vivid, living colors.

Maui has been my home my entire life. My family’s ancestry chart reaches back hundreds of years on both sides. You can’t get more native than that. I plan to return when I’m finished with my degrees, running the law department of my family’s hotel business. Until then, I want to experience other parts of the world. Vermont was my first choice. My parents were apprehensive, but my ex begged me to stay. He is attending university in Maui, and so is my ex-best friend.

I’m not sure who I feel most betrayed by—him or her. My best friend and my boyfriend got caught in the act … by me, one week before graduation. On my family’s restricted beach, of all places.

They are attending the same university he talked me into going to because he “couldn’t imagine not seeing me every day.” He emotionally manipulated me by saying, “If you love me—if you’re serious about us—you won’t leave.”

It’s been nearly six months, and I’m finally at the point where I no longer question what I may have done wrong or why I wasn’t enough. I now realize he’s simply a vile human being, and she’s an opportunistic bitch.

I reach into my bag and pull out my cream-colored cable knit sweater. Pulling it over my head, it covers the flimsy T-shirt sporting my letters, all while I try not to ruin my perfectly plaited hair.

“Are you insane?” Sofia’s eyes widen in astonishment. “Lani, it’s seventy degrees and sunny.”

Laughing, I pull my hair out from the collar. “I’ll survive. It’s just going to take some time to get used to it.”

“Babe, here in Vermont, seventy is not something you get used to; it’s something you celebrate.”

“I’ll celebrate the hell out of it when I’m wearing hats, gloves, boots, and a parka,” I agree. “I just didn’t expect tonight to be so chilly.”

“Any excuse to accessorize,” Sofia chides as she pulls two tumblers from the bag we brought from our dorm.

“Damn right,” I agree.

She hands me mine. “The alcohol will warm you up; the dancing will keep you that way.”

“If the band ever starts.”

She holds up her drink. “Cheers.”

I tap it. “Hipa hipa.”

After taking a drink, she declares, “You’re hooking up with someone tonight.”

“I’m open to the possibility.”

Sofia makes that face, the one I’m sure I make when I see a perfect wave coming in from behind me, her body almost shaking with excitement. I know the only reason she hasn’t dived on me is because I’m still holding my drink to my lips.

“You’re going to live your Hallmark dream,” she all but squeals as I set the tumbler down. And just as I knew she would, she dives on me.

I correct her, “We’re too young for Hallmark moments. We watch the movies to prepare ourselves for being miserably single at thirty during the holidays and snowed in at a quaint B the fact that they’re good is a happy coincidence. More and more people begin to dance as they start playing covers.

Amongst the warm hues, in the fading sun, my eye catches a group of big guys standing a few yards away. One in particular causes me to pause. He’s tall; at least a foot taller than me and a few inches taller than his friends. Even in this light, I can see he’s athletically built—his broad shoulders taper down to a trim waist. His body looks … powerful. I can tell his skin is darker than most of the others—he’s tan—which leads me to believe he must love the outdoors. Same . His hair is thick, jet-black, with a nice wave to it. When he turns, I see a strong, square jawline and full lips. Well, at least his left side. It would be a shame if the right didn’t match.

He’s looking in this direction, so I can’t shield my eyes to check him out further without being obvious, which sucks. As he moves, more light shines from behind him, and I can no longer see his face at all. But I do see the way he moves through the crowd.

His dark Henley stretches across his chest, accentuating his extraordinarily defined muscles. Paired with his light-colored jeans, he looks more casual than his stature should allow.

While moving closer, people stop him. He pauses, leans down, and gives them his attention. I’m enchanted by the way people seem to be drawn to this mountain of a man who could easily be intimidating yet exudes a casual charm.

“Who is that?” I ask who I thought was Sofia, but it’s Lauren.

She hmms before answering. “That’s The Cock.”

“The Cock?” I laugh.

“ The Cock .” She nods as if some understanding has just passed.

It hasn’t. I’m clueless.

Not wanting to seem that way, I nod as I step back and right into a hard body as the music stops. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The deep voice sends a shiver up my spine. “Dance?”

“Sure?” I ask, looking at Sofia, whose jaw is dusting the ground.

“You positive?” He chuckles.

“She’s positive.” Sofia gives two thumbs-up, and I have to bite back a laugh.

Two hands grip my hips, and heat begins to emanate where they flex and then relax. The female guitar player takes the mic and begins to sing.

I close my eyes, trying to stay lost in the music, in this moment—the present, not in my past—as we begin to sway to Miley Cyrus’s “Flowers.”

His hands grip a little firmer, but the feeling is still gentle as he moves us in sync with the melody. Nothing about the way he holds me makes me think of my ex, and although his touch is foreign, it feels so familiar. Maybe it’s because I want it to be. Maybe it’s because I miss physical contact so much that, at this point, I’ll take what I can get.

I flinch at my self-deprecating thought, causing his hands to immediately loosen, and then … then I feel his thumbs begin to make a soothing, circular motion against my exposed skin. Yep, I ditched the sweater when we started to dance, and I’m so glad I did because … fuck him—the ex, not The Cock—for the epic mind-fuck which included but was not limited to blowing up my social media when I downloaded Tinder a month after the breakup. The messages, things like, “Where is your self-respect?” or “Are you that desperate?” and “Are you trying to embarrass me by fucking around with *insert every damn guy I chilled with, even friends who happen to have a penis* because it’s you who should be embarrassed.”

It got to the point he was calling me a whore and … worse. I never once responded to his messages, but I did finally have enough self-respect to block him.

It’s not any of those things, though. I’m actually nervous to turn around and face this man, knowing that as much as I want to let myself get to a place that allows me to be vulnerable again, a part of me knows I’m not ready. A bigger part of me knows that relationships of every kind are precious to me, and falling in love is unwise as a first-year student in college. All that added to the fact I know I’m going on to law school then back home to work with those I cherish the most—my family.

Holy shit, get a hold of yourself , I scold myself. He asked you to dance, not to get married.

I turn to face the man who has, in the most ridiculous way, already been judged and sent into exile for breaking my heart. Facing his broad chest, I lift my chin to meet his eyes.

“Holy shit,” I mumble as I finally see the entirety of his stunning face.

His lips turn up slightly, and his eyes—he has gorgeous eyes—are twinkling cognac pools of sexiness. “Aloha.”

I bite my lower lip to stop the spread of what I know will be a smile so disturbingly largehe’ll run for the hills if I don’t take a moment to tone it down.

I swear to God, I’m going to kill Sofia , I think, after I ask the world’s most poorly timed and wildly inappropriate question. “So, they call you The Cock; why?”

He sucks in his lips, suppressing a grin, but it doesn’t hide the insanely deep dimples on both sides of his stunning face.

“Jesus, really?” I ask more myself than him as I turn away, fully intent on walking all the way back to the dorms, crawl in my bed, and text Sophie to bring me back some hot cocoa and donuts to feed insecurities.