He's green eyes. He's a brilliant smile. He's an interesting shade of artfully messy hair.

He's exasperating. He's confusing.

He's just a teammate in our recreational soccer club.

A teammate who happens to be gorgeous.

But he's also incredibly egotistical, which is a major turnoff.

In fact, the first time I met Edward Cullen, I didn't particularly like him. We argued over something inconsequential in the dive bar we frequent after practice. We butted heads over some stupid thing I can't even remember now, and I spent the next two weeks thinking he was a jerk. Eventually, I forgave and forgot, and we became friends.

And now?

I want him.

I'm not completely sure when the flirting started, but it wasn't long after that insignificant post-practice clash. Maybe it was because of that clash. Maybe he liked it when I stood my ground and didn't give in to his pretty face and his sexy pout. Maybe somewhere deep down, I liked that he didn't give in either.

Thursdays have become my most favorite day of the week. All day, I'm overcome with anticipation. When Cullen walks onto the training field, my heart rate picks up even before I've taken a single running step. Every time. And afterwards, when we all adjourn to this hole-in-the-wall bar, I thrill at every word we exchange, every innocent touch. Sometimes I feel awkward when he's near, but sometimes I'm downright coquettish. A brushing of arms here, a poke in the side there. I try to avoid staring into sea green eyes, ogling leanly muscled arms, gaping at his gorgeous grin that hitches up a tad bit higher on the left than the right.

It's enough to make a girl want to go to pieces.

We've developed this weird bond. I'm not even sure if that's the right word for it. He picks on me. I pick back. We tease each other shamelessly. But he also talks to me. Tells me things. Truthfully, I still can't distinguish between fact and bullshit when it comes to him, but I think he's mostly genuine with me. I could be wrong, just like the rumored dozens of other girls he's left in his wake.

See, Cullen has this…reputation. According to stories that beg to be repeated again and again, he's something of a Lothario. But then there's this side of him—and I'm not sure how many people actually see that side—that makes him seem like he could be a good-hearted, caring person in a place where his reputation doesn't precede him. Though he has this devil-may-care attitude and an ego like whoa, there's so much more to him than that. I've seen tiny glimpses of a sweet, humble side. It's in there somewhere. I know it is.

I'm bound and determined to find it.

A light rain falls over us during Thursday evening practice. It feels amazing as it washes away the sheen of sweat that covers my body. I love to sweat, but hot damn, it's sweltering out. Charleston summers are brutal at best. The sun scorches. The air presses down heavy, sticky, oppressive. There are some days when the only relief comes in the form of an afternoon thunderstorm.

When the sky begins to grumble and threatens lightning, we cut out early and go straight to the bar. As soon as I arrive, I down a cup of water, drink a quick beer, and order some hot wings. When I return, Cullen is holding court, regaling the new guy—I think his name's Ben—with the infamous story of the girl who just wouldn't quit at the championships after-party last year. I wasn't there, hadn't joined the team yet, but I've heard the tale umpteen times. I struggle to suppress an eyeroll as I situate myself on a barstool next to where he's standing.

Needless to say, I don't particularly like this story.

"So I'm just standing at the bar, waiting to order a drink, right?" Cullen says, gesturing with his beer can. "This girl just sidles right up to me—"

"Sidles?" Jasper Whitlock, one of our teammates, says with a smirk on his face.

Cullen huffs. "Creeps, edges, whatever."

"Why can't she just walk? Why does she have to—"

"Fuck off, Whitlock! I'm trying to tell a story here."

I snort at their bromantic teasing, and Edward purses his lips and gives me the side-eye.

"Anyway, this chick's right next to me, and she starts rambling on about something. She's completely wasted. I can't understand half of what she's saying, right? So while she's talking, she starts rubbing my back in this really creepy way." He takes a moment to demonstrate on the closest person, which happens to be me.

My entire body stiffens, and I jump under the warmth of his hand spread out over my spine. Just as quickly as I felt his light touch, I feel the absence of it. The look on his face doesn't escape me as he switches his beer to the hand that was just touching me.

I'm left without explanation. What was that look? That glance that lasted no more than a couple of seconds? It almost looked like…hurt. Not that I'm sadistic and want him to be hurt. It's just nice to think that maybe his touch was more than just an illustration to accompany his story.

Wishful thinking, I tell myself. Because no matter how much I love to flirt with him, I'm not sure I could ever actually pursue anything with him. These stories…they can be pretty sordid. Granted, only a handful of them come from him, but like I said, he has this reputation. It's got to come from somewhere.

For now, I just delight in the tingly feeling his touch left on my skin.

A/N: This Edward is definitely a departure from the others I've written, but this will still be fun. The story takes place in my hometown of Charleston, SC, just because. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks to my dear Rachelfish for her help and enthusiasm, and thanks to you for reading!