The entire week after THE party, I spent every available minute on the Internet researching Killian like some obsessed fan. I couldn't help myself.

Twenty-five years old, star quarterback in college, first-round draft pick when he turned pro at twenty-one. Two years ago, he took over the starting quarterback position for the Scorpions. One year ago, he was one of the country's most eligible bachelors. But, as always, there was a downsidehe was known to have a quick temper, use his fists when push came to shove, and for a non-thug position like quarterback, he had a thug reputation. And I couldn't forget- the face of an angel.

I dug deeper. His single mom raised him along with one brother, but no other articles gave insight into his family. An in-depth feature about his high school years shed some light on his temper. He grew up in Richmond, California, and attended a predominately non-white high school. There, he learned to use his fists until his throwing arm caught the eye of the varsity football coach his sophomore year. His teammates became his gang and they had his back. An early picture showed a big, cocky white kid, surrounded by five dark-skinned teammates, and the same angel's face without the refinement it showed now. The boys all sneered with their arms strung across each other's shoulders.

Killian MacGregor was a bad boy.

What every girl found attractive. But not me. At least not until Killian MacGregor held my hand and then kissed my forehead when he said goodbye.

I couldn't get him out of my mind, so I did what I always did. I ran. Albeit early in the mornings because the desert heat tried to melt my body to the concrete, but I ran nonetheless.

I slipped on running shorts over my sheer-blue bikini panties, followed by a form-fitting sports bra and a white tank top. My socks and favorite running shoes came next, then I secured my hair in a tight ponytail. I jumped on my toes a few times, circled my arms, and set off at a leisurely pace for about a mile. Then I stopped, stretched my warmed muscles for ten minutes, and began the real part of my run. The endorphin high entered my bloodstream on the fifth mile.

Legs-he'd called me Legs.

I continued running until all thought focused on my next step. At twelve miles, I reached a point where nothing matteredthe scenery, temperature, or Killian memories, and I kept going. Eventually, I hit the last low-angled hill, which took me back to my apartment.

But- it didn't matter how many miles I ran, I still couldn't get a good night's sleep.

Two weeks after the party, I wore out my track shoes and bought a new pair. I hit the pavement hard. Three weeks and I stopped watching television news, reading Internet articles, or even listening to gossip about Killian MacGregor or his team. I realized I needed sleep, food, and a shrink; the order was optional. I was nothing but a lovesick groupie who had to get on with her life so-one month post the party I did.

I still hadn't forgiven my sister, but per in her usual demeanor, this didn't seem to bother her. I was boring and no fun to hang out with and basically a complete stick in the mud. She'd asked if I saw the girl at the party who came between Stump and Killian. She had no idea it was me, and I wasn't going to tell her. She didn't even apologize for not being around to give me a ride home.

I applied myself to my summer classes and prepared for spring track season. Ignoring the fact that professional football was gearing up for its first pre-season game, I refused to think about Killian MacGregor. Well almost. Big Ben, my ever-faithful, battery-operated, hot pink, six-inch fountain of joy knew all my deepest, darkest thoughts, and they all centered on one star quarterback.

Regular classes began in August along with twice-weekly practice overseen by my running coach. My fantasy world, or trying to get past it, had me ready for everything the coach threw my way.

Still no possibility of me winning at this level.

In high school I was the starthe tall running giant. Entering the college arena put my Olympic dreams into perspective. I, Rebecca Lesley Cavanaugh, was middle of the pack; nothing special in the world of long-distance runners. On the bright side, many runners didn't hit their full stride until their thirties. Still, by then I'd be completely into my future career, running simply to stay in shape, and not looking back. I'd given up on my dream long ago and moved on.

My class load was heavy, but I still managed two blind dates, fixed up by my best friend, Amanda. Both times the men and I didn't quite meet eye to eye. I was an inch or two taller even though I wore flat shoes. My head tilted slightly downward to speak and I hunched my shoulders when I walked beside them. The last thing I felt was small. Obviously, like my previous dates, my height intimidated men. I knew Amanda gave the guys fair warning, but seeing me in person, even in flat shoes, was a lot more sobering. I'd even taken more than my normal time to get ready for the first datea little eyeliner to make my blue eyes stand out, a touch of blush to liven my tanned cheeks, and my favorite date outfit.

The second man didn't get so lucky, because I didn't bother with the extra makeup or putting on my favorite skirt and blouse. Not that skirt, I might never wear that one again. None of my lack of preparation mattered, because my thirty-something-year-old second date couldn't get past my tall frame and my ordinary, non-super-model looks. Life sucked, and then I compared every man to Killian MacGregor.

I went back to concentrating on college.

The multi-leveled, stadium-styled classroom held more than two hundred students. I sat in the fourth row dead center, taking notes and trying to stay awake throughout the lecture. The side door opened and a man walked toward the professor. Doctor Lanovitch didn't bother turning off the microphone when the man spoke.

"I have a special delivery." The voice resounded through the room as he showed a medium-sized envelope to the professor.

He now had the attention of the entire class.

The instructor's eyes skimmed us students, landed on me, and said right into the microphone, "Miss Cavanaugh."

Holy shit.

I stood slowly, squeezed behind the seats of my fellow row mates, and then walked down the side stairs toward the man interrupting my college class. He held out the envelope and after I tentatively took it, he turned and walked out the same door he'd entered.

The professor's eyebrows shot up before I looked down. Rebecca Cavanaugh was handwritten in a bold scrawl on the front. I muttered an apology, not looking up, and returned to my seat. The lecture resumed and I tried hard to focus but my eyes kept returning to my name. I no longer had any problems staying awake, but at the same time, I didn't hear another word or take a single note.

After class, I walked outside into the one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat and zombied to the library. My ass hit a chair, I drank half my water bottle, and then went back to staring. The fluttering in my chest had me longing for one thing, but I knew I was being an idiot. Killian MacGregor would never send me anything. I lifted the envelope, took a deep breath, and opened it slowly.

Three tickets slipped out along with a small slip of paper.

Legs,

Bring two friends.

K

I was too young for a heart attack, or so I thought. Yes, the outside heat left my body overly warm, hot even, but all the blood left my head and traveled who knew where. A wave of dizziness washed over me and I took a quick sip of water. I realized that wasn't helping, so I turned sideways and put my head between my knees.

My reaction-completely ridiculous, over the top and borderline psychotic. But it didn't matter. Killian sent me tickets to his first home pre-season game. My legs trembled and I rapidly sucked in air, trying to get myself under control. I finally managed, barely, to sit up straight and re-read the slip of paper. The four words and one initial hadn't changed. I lifted the paper to my chest and stayed like that for countless minutes while I tried not to panic.

Fantasy was one thing, reality totally another. I, simple and plain Rebecca Cavanaugh, was not football god material. I think I liked the dream better. I checked the tickets again. This Sunday, the Phoenix Scorpions played in their first home game and I had three passes.