Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
KAI
I wake up already tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep fixes but the kind that settles in your bones after you’ve cried too hard, thought too much, and replayed the same moment on loop until it loses all meaning and somehow still hurts.
My phone is face-down on my nightstand. I don’t check it to see how many times he’s called…or hasn’t. That’s the first victory of the day.
The ceiling above my bed has a faint water stain shaped like a misshapened heart, which feels fucking rude given the circumstances. I stare at it anyway, counting breaths until the tightness in my chest loosens just enough for me to move.
Today is thesis presentation day.
This was supposed to be an exciting day for me. Nerve-wracking, sure, but earned. A milestone. A culmination. Instead, it feels like I’ll be walking into a room where everyone already knows something about me that I didn’t give them permission to know.
There will be whispers.
There will be pity.
And there will be blood if I see a hockey bunny or whatever the fuck they’re called in my peripheral vision on campus today.
I feel like all of them are in cahoots and have been talking about me behind my back since this whole catastrophic relationship started.
To be fair, I’m sure the entire hockey team and now probably half of campus is too.
“You up for a little breakfast?” Sue says from the other side of my bedroom door.
“Uh-uh,” is all I manage to respond with.
“You have to eat, girl. It’s your big day.”
My big day, I sigh to myself. What a joke.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there longer than necessary, my hands curled into the sheets like I might accidentally fall back into yesterday if I’m not careful.
Get up, Kai.
I shower on autopilot. Nightshirt off. Shower cap on.
Slow jams playing on my bathroom Bluetooth speaker.
My washcloth smells sour (eww), and the water is too hot, but I let it burn because at least it’s a sensation I can control.
I most likely scrub several of my body parts twice because I can’t even remember in real time whether I’ve washed them.
Fuck it.
You can never be too clean.
I dress slowly but don’t wear the red suit.
Not today. I don’t feel powerful enough to wear it.
I feel…blah. I choose a charcoal blazer and a light grey cotton tee underneath, the fabric familiar and grounding.
I grab an old pair of fail-safe jeans that fit perfectly because they have the right amount of stretch.
And the heels I choose are ones I’ve worn a million times before, nothing new.
They are a pair of basic black pumps with a heel short enough to get me across campus without falling on my face.
I twist my silver ring around my finger while I do my makeup, over and over, until I catch myself.
Stop it, Kai.
I drop my hand to the counter and meet my own gaze in the mirror. “You can do this,” I tell the girl staring back at me. “You’ve done harder things.”
That part is true.
The walk across campus feels longer than usual. Every laugh I hear from passing groups of students feels amplified, like the world forgot to dim itself just because mine exploded. I keep my eyes forward, shoulders back, posture locked in place, the way my mother taught me.
Even when you’re scared, you don’t show it, Kai. We don’t have that luxury.
Inside the Communications building, the air smells like instant coffee and old mop water.
It’s one of the older buildings on campus and gets the least amount of attention.
You can tell what schools the university cares most about because most resources are top-notch for the athletic department and the business school.
I spot my name on the schedule pinned to the wall outside the lecture hall, and my stomach flips.
Kai Vega — Capstone Presentation.
Suddenly, as if it were divine intervention, I get a text from Sue. I swear she has bestie telepathy.
Sue: Go kick their asses, girl! There’s a batch of warm brownies waiting for you when you get home.
Just the thing I needed to hear. I should hold up a sign that says “will work for sugar”.
I smile to myself and exhale slowly.
I’ve got this. This is mine.
Whatever people on this campus think about some of my poor decisions, this one isn’t it. I did the research. I did the work. I know what I’m doing. I’m going to kick ass.
Period.
The room fills quickly. I see a few professors I recognize and a few I don’t.
My other fellow presentees are here too.
No doubt, here to take notes on what not to do, since I’m going first. There’s also the familiar noise of students whispering, laptops open, and pens tapping, but something about that grounds me instead of rattling me.
I set up my laptop, arrange my notes (I’m old-school and printed them out), and straighten my blazer for the third time. My heart is racing, but it’s a normal reaction. Like booting up a computer.
Then…something shifts.
I feel the energy before I see it. God knows, I always do.
The door opens quietly behind me, but the temperature in the room changes, like someone cracked a window in the middle of a Philadelphia snowstorm.
I don’t turn around right away.
I already know.
When I finally do glance back, Bass is there.
He’s walked to the back row, end seat, and he’s alone.
I pay close attention to his body language.
It’s different. He’s not sprawled out like he owns the place.
Nor is he flashing that crooked grin that always makes my core ache, and my panties drop.
He’s sitting upright, hands clasped loosely in front of him, jaw tight like he’s holding himself in check.
Our eyes meet.
And for one stupid, weak second, my chest aches.
Not because I miss him, but because I remember.
Hell, my whole damn body remembers. The way he used to watch me like I was the only important thing in the room.
The way he’d listen, actually listen, when I talked about my work.
The way his hands felt warm and steady on my hips like he was anchoring himself to something real when I rode his dick like a damn pro.
I look away before that spiral can take me down with it.
Focus, bitch.
You want the grade, you want this gig with Sabrina Stevenson, and you’ve only got one chance at this.
When I start speaking, my voice surprises me.
It’s steady.
Clear.
Professional.
I don’t rush the words, I don’t hide from the eyes trained on me, and I don’t need my notes like I thought I would.
I talk about athlete branding, about volatility versus consistency, about how public perception doesn’t care about intentions, only patterns.
I show charts, data, and behavioral shifts.
If I do say so myself, I’m on fucking fire.
When my anonymized case study hits the screen, there’s a subtle stir in the room.
Eyes shoot to the back row, then back to me.
Everyone knows who Hockey Player A is, and now looking back, it was pretty naive for my department to think we could keep his identity anonymous.
The hockey team members are like gods on VCU’s campus.
Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve been fucking him either.
“This subject,” I say, pointing steadily to the graph on the screen, “presented a high-risk profile of a talented, visible, charismatic, but inconsistent college athlete. The difference between success and collapse came down to accountability.”
I pause for a bit of dramatic effect.
“Not image repair,” I continue. “Not charm. But accountability.”
I hear someone furiously typing notes on their laptop. A professor nods in approval. And no one’s laughing. Okay, this might just be good. So I keep going.
I don’t sugarcoat any of the details, and I don’t protect Bass, or rather Hockey Player A, but I don’t exploit him either.
I talk about consequences. About responsibility.
About what happens when someone finally chooses to stop performing and start owning their impact.
By the time I finish, my skin is inexplicably tingling, adrenaline sharp and coursing through my veins.
When the applause comes, it’s loud enough to make my throat tighten.
I blink hard.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare. Especially not while he’s in the room.
The question-and-answer period comes next.
I defend my methodology. I hold my ground when someone pushes back.
Of course, my project nemesis, Jack, had a few things to say, no doubt trying to make me look bad in front of Professor Murphy, but I held my own.
The work is the work, and I stand firm on my conclusions.
By the end, my legs feel shaky, but I’m upright.
Standing. Whole.
Yo me guillao con esto.
I did the damn thing.
Afterwards, I make it a point to not look for Bass, which is fine because he doesn’t stick around to speak to me either.
Once he leaves the room, I feel like I can breathe again, and I stay back to chat with a few students who give me kudos on a job well done.
Then Professor Murphy pulls me to the side.
“That was an excellent job, Kai, especially considering all the extenuating circumstances.”
“Thank you, Dr. Murphy.”
“I will talk to the department head about giving you a pass on the code of conduct issue. It’s clear after my conversation with Mr. Morelli that he bears a good deal of the weight in what seems to have been a mutually bad decision. I appreciated him taking responsibility.”
“Did he?” I say somewhat dumbfounded. “You had a conversation with him?”
“Your hockey player has been making the rounds trying to protect you.”
“He has?”
“To be honest, Kai, he’s taken more responsibility for this…faux pas than you have.”
Faux pas? Seriously?
At this point, I’ve had enough of the verbal body blows. I decide it’s time for me to stand up for myself, no matter what the cost.