Why does this girl make me act like such an idiot?

Damien’s POV

Something is seriously wrong with me. Maybe I hit my head too many times on the field. Maybe I was born broken and it is only showing now. Whatever it is, I am not myself.

I do not date. I do not do relationships. I do not want a girlfriend, a partner, or anyone clinging to me long-term. Girls are distractions. Most of them want attention, money, or bragging rights, and I have never had time for that drama. My focus has always been simple: football, training, winning. End of story.

So why the hell am I standing in the shower, hard as steel, thinking about Elise Hawthorne?

Why her?

Why now?

The memory of her lips has me groaning, and I slam my fist against the tile. Pain shoots up my hand, but it does nothing to erase her from my head.

“Can you shut it?” Adrian’s voice carries through the wall. Of course. These frat house walls might as well be paper. No privacy.

I groan louder. “I cannot!”

Adrian sighs. “Damien, I am serious. I am trying to focus.”

“I am going through something!” I growl.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I can tell. You have been saying Elise’s name over and over, moaning, then stopping. Just get it over with already.”

I grit my teeth. I swear I will end him. Best friend or not, he is dead. “Stop listening like a creep!”

“I cannot help it. I am stuck in the bathroom with a stomach ache. You are the one making all the noise.”

“This idiot…” I mutter.

“You know you could just handle it,” Adrian adds, smug.

“Not when you are listening!”

“Then go to your room and lock the door.”

“I will, but not for that!”

“Sure. And I will not look up Elise Hawthorne while you are not doing it.”

My blood boils. “Do not even think about it!”

Adrian laughs. “What, are you shy? Everyone wants to date the quarterback who breaks hearts, but you never let any of them close. I just want to know your type. Or maybe what gets you worked up in the shower.”

“She is not my type!” I snap.

“I do not believe you. You have been chanting her name for forty minutes. At this rate, I might name my first kid Elise.”

“Adrian,” I hiss. “I will murder you in your sleep.”

“Empty threats.”

“I am serious!”

“Oh, Elise Hawthorne,” he goes on, mocking me. “Cute little thing with the pink cheeks? Small, quiet… never thought you had taste, Damien.”

“I swear to God, I will end you!”

His laugh is so loud I want to punch through the wall. Some best friend he is, turning this into a joke. He clearly has no clue what it feels like to be crawling out of your own skin over a girl you barely understand.

Christ, I had admitted it, at least to myself. There are plenty of girls way hotter than Elise, but none of them stay in my head the way she does. Wide eyes, soft smile, those small hands.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“I hate myself,” I mutter, kicking the wall before yanking a towel around me. My body aches with frustration, but I cannot give in. Not like that.

Touching myself while thinking about Elise would feel wrong. She looks at me like she is half-terrified. She barely breathes when I get close.

Restless and pissed, I storm into my room and drop onto the bed, my arm hanging off the side. I tell myself not to text her. I know better. But my hand is already reaching for my phone, chest rising too fast as I stare at the screen.

What the hell am I doing?

I have never texted a girl for anything other than hooking up. Never called, never cared. And yet here I am, typing out a message to Elise Hawthorne like some idiot with a crush.

Me: Do not stand me up tomorrow, Hawthorne.

The second I see “seen,” my stomach flips. Then I realise I am smiling. Smiling. While texting a girl. Where the hell did my pride go?

Elise: You added your own number to my phone.

Of course I did. I could not risk her ignoring me again. It was not because I liked her. No—it was control. Proof that she would not slip away.

Me: Yes.

Elise: And your earlier words… was that a threat?

A threat? Is that really how she sees me? Sure, I mess with people, but this?

Me: Not a threat.

Elise: You promise?

Me: Yes. Have a good night, Elise.

And there I was, staring at my phone like some desperate idiot, waiting for her reply. One kiss, one touch of her hand across my chest, and suddenly I was acting like she owned me.

I dragged my fingers through my damp hair and muttered, “I am pathetic.”

The phone buzzed, and I snatched it up faster than I had ever moved in my life.

Elise: Good night, Damien.

A stupid grin stretched across my face before I shoved my hand over it. “What the hell is wrong with me?” My chest tightened, panic crawling in. “I probably need therapy... or a doctor.”

My heart was pounding, my jaw thrumming with every beat, my stomach buzzing like I had swallowed lightning. Was this what a heart attack felt like? Was I dying?

I slid under the covers, forcing myself to breathe slower, when another message lit up my screen.

Elise: Thank you for driving me home today. I really appreciate it. The rain started as soon as you left, and I would have been soaked. That was thoughtful of you.

That flutter again. The one I kept trying to deny. I knew about the forecast. That was the only reason I offered her a ride. It was strategy, not kindness. She should not think otherwise.

Me: You are welcome.

I shoved the phone under my pillow with a groan. “Why does this girl make me act like such an idiot?”

The frustration pressed against my skull, making me restless. I could not fall for her. Not me. I was Damien Lancaster. I did not have feelings. I was supposed to be untouchable, ice-cold, immune.

Love was for fools.