#preview!

Granted, this doesn’t apply universally. You can’t exactly sham shock when you walk into your very first lecture in behavioral science hosted by none other than FBI (that word should’ve rung a bell) legend J. (as in Jason) Gideon and suddenly clock the ratio.

You may have misled yourself with the word behavioral. So much psychology. So little pew-pew guns. Which implied, naively, that actual brain usage would be required to succeed. And since consistent brain deployment is not exactly a statistically dominant trait among male specimens, the probability of a sausage party should’ve been low.

And yet. Hope is a powerful delusion.

Nothing screams sausage party quite like the good old FBI Academy in Quantico. Three versus twenty-four is… not ideal. It could be worse, sure - but it’s bad enough that the three of you instinctively sit next to each other. Out of solidarity? Perhaps. More likely survival.

You’re still settling in when you overhear the murmur in front of you.

“Agent Cavenaugh transferred from the BAU to lead a team in ViCAP. The BAU’s running one agent short now,” says Unidentified Sausage #1 to Sausage #2.

“Who?” Sausage #2 asks.

A third sausage chimes in. This one is sporting such an exemplary bowl cut that you seriously consider submitting his headshot to Webster’s as the official visual definition.

“SSA Matthew Cavenaugh was the very first agent Rossi and Professor Gideon added after founding the unit. Specializes in sex crimes. He’s the one who caught the Daytona Rapist in under forty-eight hours-”

You don’t even have to look to know he leaned forward without being invited. The micro-tension in the other two’s jaws says it all. Apparently, no one likes a know-it-all sausage. Not even other sausages.

“He identified the unsub through victim pattern clustering and-” Yes, yes. Applause and confetti to this one Agent Cavenaugh for solving something in under forty-eight hours… boring!

And while we’re on terminology - can this even be called a sausage party if it’s just twenty-four sausages and minimal garnish?

Meaning - there’s something strange in the air. Electricity. Maybe an actual loose wire sparking somewhere behind the walls. Or maybe it’s just the collective voltage of concentrated male ego trapped in an enclosed academic space with poor ventilation and worse self-awareness.

Rumor has it Gideon is… particular.

Which, for people who did not accidentally stumble into the last ten minutes of one of his conferences last year and decide on the spot to reorient their entire professional trajectory, may be discouraging. Not everyone hears “temperamental genius” and thinks sign me up. So yes, perhaps the whispers filtered out a few of the faint-hearted.

Still. With all due respect, this course has fewer attendees than the excruciatingly dull crisis negotiation crash course you endure on Wednesdays. And that’s what’s strange. You can’t quite articulate it, but something just feels off.

“Good morning-”

Every spine in the room straightens a few degrees when the door swings open and Jason Gideon strides in like a man who remembered he had a class approximately thirty seconds ago. He’s already halfway to the board before the door finishes swinging behind him.

Gideon doesn’t even apologize when the door nearly takes out the poor unfortunate soul trailing him.

The man sidesteps just in time to avoid being flattened and then - as if nothing unusual has happened, or more accurately as if nothing could have happened - takes up position beside the desk with the rigid composure of a Swiss Guard assigned to guard the Pope.

After approximately three seconds of observation, you’re fairly certain this man has never experienced joy a single day in his life.

You’re not sure what’s more concerning - the complete absence of visible personality, or the fact that the only identifiable traits he seems to have are being tall and relentlessly committed to his job. He is, frankly, a little (very) terrifying.

He’s conventionally attractive, sure. But you’re not entirely convinced how anyone is supposed to cope if he brings that exact same constipated expression into the bedroom.

Gideon, on the other hand-

He’s… striking. In a way that feels almost aggressively out of place in an academic setting.

Even standing next to what you assume is his assistant - a much younger man (sausage number… you’ve lost count) with raven hair shellacked into place with an excessive amount of gel, dressed in the crispest black suit you’ve ever seen, tie included, for a class that technically starts at eight in the morning - Gideon still looks like he got dressed while thinking about something infinitely more important than impressing a room full of rookies.

Civilian clothes. Slightly rumpled. Oddly, it makes the whole thing feel more… intimate.

“I don’t know what terrible things you’ve done in your lives that resulted in you wanting to be seated in this room… but you’re here. Which already separates you from several hundred others who are not.”

It’s remarkable how Gideon manages to sound vaguely insulting while his body language remains almost aggressively casual, like he’s chatting with friends over a beer.

“My name is Jason Gideon. This is Behavioral Analysis.” (As if anyone in this room didn’t already know that.) “Unlike many of my colleagues at this Academy, I’m not particularly interested in teaching large groups of people who will never use what they’re being taught. So before this course was announced, we reviewed your files.”

His gaze sweeps the room. The authority Agent Gideon carries is so destabilizing that even in the fraction of a second it lands on you, it manages to dry up your throat and ignite a fire in your face before he moves on to dissect the next person.

“This room is what remained. So… congratulations. At some point in your very short professional lives, each of you managed to do something that suggested you might be capable of thinking. But the bad news is that behavioral analysis has very little to do with what most of you think profiling is.”

At that point, Gideon casually reaches over, grabs his assistant by the arm, and physically steers him away from where he’s been standing beside the desk like a particularly well-dressed piece of furniture.

The assistant allows this public manhandling with the quiet resignation of a man who has clearly endured this maneuver before.

Gideon positions him in front of the class and gives him a single approving pat on the shoulder. The man looks… unexpressively elated.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, this is SSA Hotchner.”

Hotchner gives a brief nod to the room.

Gideon leans in and mutters something close to his face. You reconsider what you once believed were perfectly respectable lip-reading skills, because all you manage to catch is the beginning of an “Aaron-”, and only because he doesn’t lower his voice quite fast enough.

Hotchner responds with… yet another nod.

Apparently, his conversational style consists entirely of silent acknowledgments delivered in increasingly microscopic increments, since the man has yet to open his mouth even once. Either that, or if he does open it, the only thing that will come out is a bark. (Woof.)

Still, this line of inquiry becomes far less interesting when Gideon abruptly exits the classroom without warning, leaving the untalkative assistant (now the professor) behind to take the room hostage. Woah.

The only thing that feels certain now is that Coconut-Head Sausage is about to burst into flames if Agent Hotchner keeps openly squaring him like that. You didn’t even know swallowing could be audible, but evidently sausages do produce a remarkably distinct gulping sound under pressure.

“Unlike many of your other instructors at this Academy,” Agent Hotchner begins (so he can speak) “the Behavioral Science course is not designed to familiarize you with the theoretical frameworks of criminal psychology. We already expect you to be familiar with the foundational concepts. That knowledge is the minimum requirement to succeed in this class - and to participate in it.”

You already preferred him when he wasn’t talking.

Sausage #1 raises his hand… or rather, lifts it halfway and immediately starts talking, because apparently being a man comes with the optional feature of waiting for permission switched off.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa-” Ah. The animalistic register. Astounding. “Isn’t this a beginner course? You’re not gonna, like, teach us the types of serial killers and stuff like that?”

Agent Hotchner makes the face of a man who has just realized that the saying there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers is, in fact, complete bullshit. Still, he somehow keeps his expression composed enough.

“Agent Gideon and I introduced several modifications to the course this year,” he replies evenly, “with the objective of providing you with a more extensive understanding of both advanced theory and - more importantly, as Agent Gideon would argue - practical application. Not every unsub - that is, unknown subject - is a serial offender. However, every serial offender begins as an unknown subject.”

Ouch. A clean, surgical correction of Sausage #1’s terminology.

“- and every offender we study,” Hotchner continues, “will present a distinct behavioral structure.”

Coconut-head sausage in the very front row raises his hand. Unfortunately for him, Sausage #1 is operating under the assumption that manners are for lesser men.

“What do you mean?”

At least he hasn’t asked why it takes an extra thirty seconds to decode whatever Agent Hotchner is trying to say. The man speaks in such an aggressively formal register it sounds like he rehearsed the whole thing in front of a mirror beforehand like a fucking loser.

“I mean-” he repeats, probably on purpose. (You wonder whether, while selecting which tie best suited the occasion this morning, he also factored in the level of stress a room full of rookies would inevitably inflict on him) “each week you will be presented with either an active BAU investigation or a previously adjudicated case. You will be provided with the relevant materials, which you will analyze in order to formulate a working offender profile. If called upon, you will then defend your reasoning in discussion with us.”

Us. Will Agent Gideon actually be present for any of these discussions? Or was that dramatic appearance his entire teaching contribution for the semester? Why isn’t he here now?

Coconut Head raises his long, skeletal arm again, waiting to be acknowledged. This time Agent Hotchner allows it.

“Would the level of participation - and the accuracy of the conclusions we present - affect the final evaluation determining whether we pass the course?”

Oh. Someone has clearly been studying Hotchner’s linguistic operating system.

“Good question, Agent Reid.” Woah. So Agent Hotchner really did read everyone’s files if he already knows Coconut-Head’s name. That wasn’t just an intimidation tactic. “Yes, continuous performance will factor heavily into your evaluation. Additionally, this year the highest-performing trainee in this class will be offered the opportunity to work with the BAU. We are currently operating one agent short on the team. As you-”

But whatever clarification follows is immediately swallowed by the room detonating. (Figuratively, unfortunately.)

The collective reaction of twenty-four sausages discovering that their wildest professional fantasy might materialize two years ahead of schedule produces a level of noise that renders the rest of poor Agent Hotchner’s sentence completely unintelligible.

“…Cavenaugh-”

“…they’re replacing-”

“…that Daytona case agent-”

Ironically, the explosion of sausage chatter is the only reason you manage to piece together what he was saying. (Sausages can be useful sometimes… who would’ve thought.)

The competitive tension in the room begins thickening almost immediately. You’d bet Agent Hotchner’s perfectly sculpted hair this is about to devolve into one spectacularly unhealthy environment, and you are not thrilled about spending the next several months watching grown adults regress into elementary school tactics.

Starting with the way Agent Hotchner manages to silence an entire pandemonium with nothing more than a small, controlled gesture of his hand.

“During the semester,” he says, “you will also rotate through observational assignments with the BAU, based on your performance record. Consider those opportunities to demonstrate your capabilities.”

Like… real cases? With real agents?

“But remember this: in the field, you will not be solving theoretical exercises. You will be dealing with someone’s life. I would strongly encourage you to keep that as your priority - rather than impressing us. That, is what will make you a good agent.”

That’s a very noble sentiment. Because announcing that one person in this room gets a golden ticket to the BAU and then asking everyone not to compete for it is obviously going to work. That’s like handing someone a winning lottery ticket and saying, “Now remember: money isn’t everything.”

Sure thing, Agent Hotchner. We all live in a beautiful, ethical utopia where humans are famously immune to ambition. You almost envy that level of optimism.

Life must be incredibly peaceful when you believe things like that.

There’s an old saying (actually old this time) that goes: never meet your heroes.

You’d like to add a footnote: especially not when they come accompanied by a suited-up assistant with terrifying eyebrows who can somehow turn one perfectly innocent question from the teacher’s pet (or assistant’s pet, since Gideon has been mysteriously absent for the past hour and a half) into a thirty-minute legal dissertation on every statute Ted Bundy managed to violate on the night of his arrest.

You’re just that lucky… the exact moment your brain finally starts surrendering to the sweet, merciful pull of unconsciousness, Gideon materializes again in the projector beam.

“Everybody,” he says, as if he never left, “conference room in ten.”

That’s it. A man of very few words, apparently, because before anyone can attempt the radical concept of asking for clarification, he vanishes again. Hotchner follows him out immediately, just as silent. How riveting.

Also worth noting: there are, conservatively speaking, about twenty conference rooms in this building complex. Surely it would have been unreasonable to specify which one out of the two dozen we’re supposed to meet in.

And of course, given the delightfully competitive atmosphere Gideon and Hotchner have so thoughtfully cultivated, teamwork is clearly not an option. No one even considers coordinating, so all you can do is… take a guess.

Instinct (common sense) tells you Gideon probably doesn’t mean one of the Academy lecture halls. The man already seems to have forgotten he was teaching this class once today, so there’s no reason to believe he suddenly developed the organizational discipline required to reserve a room in advance for a group of trainees he clearly does not give a shit about. Much more likely, he meant the actual BAU conference room.

Perfect. Problem one solved.

Problem two: you have no fucking idea where the hell it actually is, other than somewhere in the impossibly sprawling Federal Towers on the opposite side of where you currently are at the Academy. And time is not on your side.

You’re slightly (generously) hoarse from running through a maze of entrances, being redirected by a series of equally unhelpful people who have all, somehow, pointed you in completely different directions before funneling you… here. By the time you reach the right lobby, you’re running on fumes.

In a rush, you shove your name at the secretary just long enough for her to slap a visitor badge onto your chest, gesture ambiguously (is she… is she fisting…?) toward the elevators, and dismiss you without a single word - no floor, no door, not even a hint of which elevator you’re supposed to take. Good enough?

You pick one at random. There isn’t enough time to rely on the Tibetan method. The building is far too sprawling for logic to be useful, which leaves luck as the only operational strategy.

The elevator stops at six consecutive floors. Every time the doors open you lean halfway out to check whether you’ve accidentally arrived at Accounting, Counterterrorism, IT...

Finally, the doors slide open onto the BAU floor. You step out just in time. Only about half the class made it.

If the behavioral science class qualifies as a sausage party, then the BAU, at first glance, operates on an entirely different scale of sausage production. This is industrial level. A full processing facility.

Agents - all of whom somehow look and dress suspiciously like Agent Hotchner to the point you begin to wonder if this is actually a family business - move everywhere in very expensive dress shoes. There are so many of them cutting across the floor at once that you and the other trainees end up squeezed into a corner near the parapet, safely out of the traffic pattern.

Papers move constantly from desk to desk, to printer and back again. The combined cacophony of keyboards and mouse clicks firing off in every direction is already making you consider forcing every single agent into a constricting shirt, one by one, just to make it stop. Even your internal monologue is struggling to compete.

This place has a way of stripping you of your individuality and blending you into the average of the rest of the sausages.

One quick glance into those vacant eyes is enough to tell you that every single trainee standing beside you is imagining the exact same thing at the exact same time: which desk might someday, hopefully very soon, become theirs.

Which one out of the horde of messy corner desks clustered in the middle of the open floor plan will eventually hold their stationery, their photographs, their case files. Small attempts to reclaim some personality from the slow bureaucratic suction the Bureau seems determined to apply to every last one of you. At least, that appears to be how most agents here cope.

Except for one.

The desk on your far right looks like it belongs in an entirely different building.

Immaculately clean. So aggressively clean, in fact, that the gigantic framed picture of the American flag with a bald eagle becomes agonizingly visible to your sleep deprived eyes. As if this place needed any additional reinforcement of nationalism.

Does anyone here truly benefit from having an extra American flag within arm's reach at all times?

If this man (it has to be a sausage, because no woman alive would willingly decorate a desk this bleakly) were not obnoxious enough already, there is also a glass paperweight with the White House trapped inside it. Why.

But the real offense sits neatly arranged along one edge of the desk, positioned so that every single one of them is visible while still occupying the absolute minimum amount of space possible. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Seven trophies. Seven trophies and not even a picture. Ouch.

“Out of all these guys, who do you think is the loser overcompensating for having no friends with official validation from the Bureau?” you ask the bright-eyed assistant’s pet. (You forgot his name already. Coconut-head sausage.)

“That would be me.”

The voice comes from directly behind you, from a sausage standing exactly where your back has been comfortably leaning against the parapet.

You would have to be spectacularly obtuse not to recognize it after spending the better part of the day hoping it would choke on its own legal jargon while explaining statutes and procedural bullshit. You suddenly feel a profound reluctance to turn around.

Unfortunately, you have to.

The terrifying lack of space between Agent Hotchner’s thick eyebrows and his eyes makes you seriously consider employing the classic prey strategy of playing dead in the hope that the predator will lose interest and wander off. Although, admittedly, it may already be too late for that.

Realistically speaking, on a scale from one to ten, how hopeless are your chances of winning the grand prize of working here if you have already managed to land yourself on the professor’s assistant’s kill list on day one? And this is the very first impression he has of you.

“Where’s the rest of the class?” he asks in that particular annoyed tone that somehow implies everyone in the room already owes him something.

A verbal response is somewhat out of the question at the moment, so you lift one shoulder in the universal gesture for I have absolutely no fucking idea, while his terrifying eyes remain fixed on you, patiently waiting for a satisfactory answer that, unfortunately, does not exist.

He sighs, disappointed, as if you are personally responsible for wasting precious time he could have maybe spent polishing his seven already spotless trophies. He pulls out his phone and calls someone, about something you are far too deep in survival mode to even attempt to overhear.

Agent Hotchner’s eyes stay locked on you for the entire duration of the phone call. (Play dead. Play dead.)

“While we wait for the rest of your colleagues to catch up, I could walk you through the BAU and show you around,” he says, projecting his voice.

There must be a glitch in the matrix, because you just witnessed Agent Hotchner raise the slightest corner of his mouth. You suddenly realize why he almost never does it. The deep dimples carved into his cheeks soften his face so much he ends up looking dangerously close to approachable.

The expression vanishes the moment his eyes land back on you.

You are so fucked.

You also take a teeny-tiny amount of comfort in the fact that if your assessment of Agent Hotchner’s trophies had been wrong, he probably would have corrected you.

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“Who is that asshat?” Katniss asked. “Also, ‘HawthorneHotness’?” She snorted before handing a flushed Gale the phone and turning to Peeta. “What happened between you two?”

“About a month ago, we had a race up at Twin Peaks, and I won. He didn’t take it very well because he lost a bunch of sponsorships after someone posted the whole thing on Instagram.”

“It probably didn’t help that Johanna hooked up with his girl that night too,” Thresh added with a snort. “Now we all know what’s under his hood.”

“And what’s under his hood?” Katniss asked with a grin.

Gale pinched his thumb and index finger. “Not much.”

“That’s not good,” she replied. “I think the way a person drives is pretty spot on to the way they have sex.”

Peeta raised a brow. “Really?”

“Trust me, I’ve done the research.”

“Not sure if I like the way this is going.”

Thresh peered at her in curiosity. “Tell me more about this research.”

“Can we just please get back to this whole Cato thing?” Gale called out. “How are we going to respond?”

Katniss held out her hand.

“Peeta, give me your phone.” He handed it over easily and she smirked. “So trusting.” She typed quickly; her greys fastened on the screen before giving his phone back to him. “Friday night on the Great Highway. Also, cute handle.”

“You think ‘Speeda­_Mellark’ is a cute handle?” Thresh teased. “You are really into this boy.” He ruffled Peeta’s lock good-naturedly.  “And what’s happening on Friday?”

“Cato called Peeta out. I handled it,” Katniss replied easily.

Quickly reading her response, Peeta tucked his phone into his pocket.

“Cato wants a race so I’m giving him one.”

“And it’s going to cost him,” Katniss added.

Gale turned to her. “How?”

“We’re racing for pinks,” Peeta informed them. “I’ll have to look over the work done on Cato’s ride, but you could get a good amount of cash for it.”

Katniss nodded resolutely. “That was the plan.”

“After work, come by the shop and I’ll make sure your ride is good,” Thresh told him. He yawned loudly, his arms stretching up. “I’m hella tired!” He kissed Katniss on the cheek. “Night mama.”

Katniss smiled. “Night Thresh.” She turned to Gale and Peeta. “You both should get some rest.”

Gale nodded. “Have a good night.”

He turned and headed toward the stairs but not before giving the couple a quick glance.

Finally alone, Peeta pulled Katniss close and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

“Can I take you on a date tomorrow?”

Katniss’ face lit up and she drew his mouth back to hers. Peeta fell easily into the kiss, his arms tightening around her waist. She pressed her chest to his, her nipples brushing along his pecs. The sensation shot through his body and he let out a groan.

Katniss smiled against his lips. “Yes, I’d love that.”

“So trusting,” he replied, nipping at her bottom lip.

Her eyes, full of tenderness, remained locked on him.

“I’d go anywhere with you. Ride or die, right?”

His hand reached to cup her cheek, throat tight at her words.

“Honestly,” you say, pushing the front doors of your dorm open perhaps a little too hard, “the fact that we have a P.E. requirement is homophobic. Like, I stopped playing sports after high school for a reason.”

“The reason being you were just using them to get into college,” your friend, Charlie, says drily as they follow you outside. 

“Hey, you’re in exactly the same boat as me,” you point out. “Ugh, I wish I’d just gotten it over with freshman year.”

“Good thing you didn’t, because then I’d be alone.” Charlie slings an arm over your shoulder. “And you would’ve been, too.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” you agree. “At least it’s just volleyball.”

“Easy for you to say,” Charlie snorts, nudging you with their hip. “I haven’t played since middle school.”

“The deterioration of those kinds of skills is, like, exponential,” you reply. “So it’s the same.”

“Right.” They brush some of their hair out of their face. “Tell me that again when you flatten all the poor souls taking this course with us.”

“I’m not gonna do any flattening,” you say, tugging the doors to the gym open and gesturing Charlie inside before you. “I’m just gonna lay low and try to be as inactive as possible.”

“Which is why you brought your kneepads and your old court shoes, right?” Charlie quirks an eyebrow at you, pointing to your gym bag.

“It feels sacrilegious to go without them!” you defend, placing a protective hand over the lump from your shoes.

The gym is noisy and crowded. Some team is heading down the hall, talking loudly; other students hurry past, either coming from or heading to a workout. You see as you approach the courts that there are two nets already set up, and there are a few other students milling around in one corner. On the closer court are a man and a woman—the instructors, you assume, and a few other students in volleyball gear. 

You drop your bag and sit down beside it, changing into your aforementioned kneepads and shoes. Charlie waits with you, hand on their hip. 

Eventually, the instructors call all of you over. You and the dozen-odd other students form a haphazard circle.

“I’m Coach Pearson,” the woman says. She seems sharp and severe. “I’m the head coach for the women’s team.”

“And I’m Coach Ward,” the man says, waving jovially. “As I’m sure you can guess, I’m the head coach for the men’s team.”

“Some of our varsity players were free and decided to stop by,” Coach Pearson says. “If you could introduce yourselves, starting with the students?”

The handful of students you saw by the court when you walked in quickly go down the line. You immediately forget their names, too worried about your own introduction to focus. Charlie was right, though; pretty much all of them barely played volleyball in their lives, and you’re about to flatten everyone, whether you mean to or not.

You realize it’s your turn. “Ah, I’m [Y/N],” you say. “I played through middle and high school, but stopped after I got to university. Oh, and I’m a junior.”

You see a couple of the varsity players exchange looks as Charlie introduces themself.

Eventually, you get back around the circle to the coaches, who gesture for their players to make quick introductions. 

The last guy steps forward, and for some reason—you’re not sure exactly why—he catches your attention. He’s an average jock type with an easy smile and dyed-blonde hair. “My name’s John, but everyone calls me Johnny” he says, “and I’m a middle blocker. I’m a junior, a comms major, and also the vice president of Phi Sig. You might’ve seen me at a few parties.” One of his teammates snickers and jabs him; he laughs brightly, unabashed. 

The coaches give some initial instruction on forearm passing and then watch the class. After a couple of reps, Coach Pearson waves you over. “You don’t need to go through all this. Go scrimmage with the varsity players. We’ll bring everyone back together in a little bit for hitting lines and serving.”

“Okay,” you say dubiously, casting your eyes to the far court, where the varsity players are dicking around in a cramped game of 4-on-4 short-court. As you watch, Johnny throws a ball down around another guy’s block and bursts into a loud cheer.

You’re not sure you want to break up their fun, but Coach Pearson is watching you expectantly, so you shuffle over to the court, half-hoping they might ignore you.

But they see you approach, and one of the guys catches the ball mid-play. “Hey,” he says. You’re pretty sure his name is Jacob. “Coach send you over?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to sound nervous. “She told me to scrimmage with you guys while the others do drills.”

“Not surprised,” one of the girls pipes up. Joy, your brain supplies. “You look like you know what you’re doing. And you said you started playing when you were little, right?”

“Um, yeah.” All of them are looking at you now. “I don’t—I mean, obviously I’m not like you guys. I’m just… not a beginner.”

“No problem,” Johnny says. “We can play full court. Jacob can just switch sides based on who’s on offense. He’s the only setter here, anyway.” Jacob groans good-naturedly. “Oh, stop it, it’ll be good for you. What position did you play, [Y/N]? It is [Y/N], right?”

You nod. “Yeah. Um, I played middle.”

“Thought so,” Johnny says, giving you a grin. “Tall like me. Sehun, want to split us?”

Sehun, a tall, quiet guy, points you to the side opposite Johnny. A shorter guy greets you and introduces himself as San. “I’m a freshman,” he says with a grin. “And the libero.”

Libero, meaning basically the best back-row defender on the team. You raise your eyebrows. “You start as a freshman?” you ask. “You must be good.”

San shrugs, looking like he’s trying to hide his pride. “Yeah,” he says. “Coach likes me.”

Sehun divides the rest of the players. He keeps Johnny, but sends Joy to your side. There’s a shorter girl with them as well as a guy who seems close with Johnny. You get a handsome senior named Kai.

“Not gonna rotate,” Kai says. “San takes middle back; I’ll take the left and Joy can take the right. You,” he says to you, “Pull up when we’re serving and stack to the left when we’re receiving, okay?”

The other side arranges themselves into a similar formation while Sehun and Kai rock-paper-scissors for first serve. It looks like Sehun plays outside, just like Kai; the other girl takes the middle back position, and the other guy is on the right side. Jacob hovers at the net, waiting to see which side he’ll start on. Kai wins after a couple of ties, giggling and smacking Sehun when he glares. 

You start to play, and while you’re not spectacular, you find that you can keep up well enough. You even manage to block Johnny once, and Sehun twice, which both of them take in stride. As you play, you begin to figure a few things out.

Sehun and Kai are co-captains of the men’s team. However, they seem to be priming Johnny to take their position next year; they treat him almost as an equal. Captain of the volleyball team and probably president of his frat, you think. He’s your average all-American heartthrob—who peaks in college. 

Seulgi, the shorter girl on Johnny’s side, is one of the captains of the women’s team. She and Joy seem to be good friends—they taunt each other from across the court, grinning. Jacob is nice, if a bit reserved. In any case, he’s a talented setter, and quick on his feet. San is loud and competitive, but also eager to give others praise. By the time the coaches are calling all of you back over, you feel like you’ve started to make some friends.

“Not bad,” Joy says. “If you were a freshman, I’d tell you to try out.”

You laugh. “I’ll take it,” you say. “Thank you.”

Later, when you all head back to serve, you find yourself next to Johnny. He watches you struggle through a jump float. “Hey, at least it went in,” he says when you turn around.

“That was my first serve in almost three years,” you defend.

“I’m not making fun of you,” he says. He takes his serve; a beautiful topspin, traveling at a mean angle all the way to the back right corner of the court. On the other side, Sehun calls it in and gives him a thumbs-up. Johnny gives him a thumbs-up in return. “So what’s your story? How come I haven’t seen you around?”

“You mean at one of your parties?” You grab another ball. “Not really the partying type, I guess. At least not big parties.” You serve; this one is better than the last. The ball floats into the back few feet of the court, dropping just in.

“Nice spot, [Y/N]!” Joy calls, catching your ball off a bounce.

“Thank you!” you call back, pleased. 

“A pity,” Johnny says. “We could’ve met sooner.” He winks at you before taking another serve. It’s almost an exact duplicate of his last. He’s good, you admit grudgingly. Good, and also trying to flirt with me.

“Not sure that would’ve changed much,” you say lightly. “You’re not my type, Seo. I don’t like guys who flirt with every girl they meet.”

Johnny laughs. “Oh, and she has an attitude,” he says. “I like that. Okay,” he adds, holding his hands up. “No flirting. But if you want to come by this weekend, I can put you on the list. You can even bring a friend. I’ll put ‘[Y/N]-plus-one.’ Saturday at ten?”

“I don’t even know where the Phi Sig house is,” you say. This is a lie; you have a feeling it’s one of the grander ones on frat row. 

One of the coaches blows a whistle; you chuck the ball you just grabbed back in the basket. Johnny does the same. “I’ll give you the address,” he says. You jog back to where everyone dropped their stuff together.

“Sure,” you say, catching Charlie’s eye. They raise their eyebrows, looking between you and Johnny. You shrug, shaking your head quickly as you wait for the coaches to dismiss you.

“Good work today,” Coach Ward says. “We’ll start short scrimmages next time.”

“If anyone wants kneepads, I can bring some of our spares from the office,” Coach Pearson offers. “You’re dismissed.”

Johnny has produced his phone. “What’s your number?” he asks. “I’ll text it to you.”

You give him your number. “I might be busy,” you warn. This is not a lie; you did promise one of your friends dinner on Saturday, and you’re not sure how late it will go. “But I’ll try to swing by.”

He grins, pocketing his phone. “Well, I hope you can make it.” The other varsity guys approach behind him; Sehun slings an arm over his shoulder, giving you a nod. “Guess I’m going,” Johnny says with a laugh, letting Sehun turn him away. “See you, [Y/N]!”

“Bye,” you reply, not staying to watch him go.

“Um, hello,” Charlie says. They’re grinning mischievously. “That Johnny guy sure seemed interested in you, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. “He invited me to his frat party this weekend. I dunno if I’m gonna go.” You kick off your shoes, peeling your kneepads off and throwing them in your bag. “He did say I could bring a guest, so if I do decide to go, you have to come with.”

Charlie shrugs easily. “Free alcohol, right? I’ll be there.”

You walk back together. Charlie gripes about an essay they already have and you half-listen, watching the sun set beyond the trees. Johnny’s smile pops back into your mind. You shake yourself. Stop it, you scold your stomach, which has insisted on doing a complex series of backflips at the thought of him. There’s no way I have a crush on him, because I’m a grown-ass woman, and I don’t get crushes. Especially not on arrogant frat boys named John.