Sweet as Syn

1: SYN/GREYSON-Kissed by a Chick I Thought was a Legit Dude

A splitting pain ricochets through my skull and down my spine as my body collides with the cheerleading gym floor.

"Synamie!"

I cringe, despising the sound of my full name, especially being hurled out as pure abhorrence by my back spot, Jackie.

"You smacked my face on your double down. Do it again, and I won't even attempt to catch you. Tighten your body," she scolds, holding her imaginary injury as if she's in agony.

"Sorry," I whisper, helping myself off the ground, trying not to fuss with my throbbing head.

I didn't hit her, she let me fall because she's pissed that as a senior, she's paired with a measly freshman as her flyer this year. God. For. Bid. The rest of my stunt group, Tori and Rachel, are too... And oh what a joy it is for me to have to live with them along with placing the trust of my body in their arms. I honestly think they might be trying to off me before football season begins. Is third-degree murder legal in Massachusetts?

I assumed I'd have the freedom to be me here, and that things would get better after I unhinged the jaws of my past and ran to the future I risked everything for. I wanted my Harry-Potter-leaving-the-cupboard-under-the-stairs-and-going-to-Hogwarts moment. But my guard is just as skin-tight, and I'm afraid it'll soon indefinitely etch itself to me. I wasn't made to be a doormat—really, I'm a fighter—but I've been hardwired to keep my mouth shut and stay invisible when nothing good could come from it. It's tough, though. I've got a phoenix in me, burning to flap its wings and escape. I've got a lot to say, but so far, here, no one worth saying it to. It's fine. The popular cheerleader stereotype does not apply to Synamie Blake. I'll survive.

The second we're dismissed, I throw on my shirt and Converse and slip out the gym door, more than thrilled to get out of this grueling practice. Of course the moment I reach the bottom of the steps, I remember I left my backpack two stories up in the weight room where I worked out before practice. Trying to exhaust my frustration, much?

Grunting, I make my way back up the stairs, my head pounding with each step from the concussion that's most probably brewing up there. I've taken several beatings since cheer season began two weeks ago.

Suddenly, my head stops spinning, and my world is fixated on the heart-skipping—mind you, a little terrifying—sight in front of me. I may be an eighteen-year-old who is discovering all the wonders college has to offer—insert sarcasm here—but I am not the boy-crazy, think with your hormones and heart type of girl. My brain is my most treasured appendage, but ho-ly macaroni, the raw dominance pouring off of this man is wrapping around said appendage and melting it down to nothing.

A sweat-drenched, grey Tee clings to defined ridges of abs and hugs around shredded arms. Black training shorts stretch across sculpted thighs. Fists ball, veins pulse like lightning strikes, eyes seize mine. He must be coming down from the weight room to go wherever angry looking, beautiful creatures go, but it feels like his destination is me. He's coming for me.

I'm tiny and easy to miss, but right now, I feel like I've been stripped of the clothes I hide under and placed on a pedestal like one of those nude statues in the Acropolis. Exposed, noticed, scrutinized. I should know, because I've watched those statues get admired on a family trip to Greece when I was little, and I felt secondhand vulnerability for them.

He is glaring directly at me through narrowed eyes as if he is mystified by me. Or enraged, maybe. I have no idea, but I've never felt anyone's eyes on me like I do his—like they're searing right through my skin and invading me to my core.

He looks dangerous.

I wait for the desire to come, the one to cloak and hide, to shield my target. I take another step. And I wait. Another... Nothing.