Chapter 3 #2
“Well, statistically speaking,” he says, deadpan, “you're more likely to be murdered by a pop star than a college athlete.”
I let out a laugh. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Probably on ChattySnap. But hey, if I was planning to kill you, I wouldn’t have paraded you across campus.”
Fair. He’s not exactly hiding me, and true to his initial letter, this is a tour of Wittmore.
I swallow my concerns as we turn a corner and step off the main road.
The noise fades, replaced by the occasional sound of campus life.
Wittmore unfolds in front of us–wide lawns, old buildings, glowing lamplight washing the sidewalks in warm gold.
He points to a red brick building on our left. “That’s the comms building. My second home, basically. I’m a journalism major.”
I blink. “Wait–really?”
“What, don’t I look like the sensitive, ethical media type?”
“I just assumed your major was... gym.”
“Ouch.”
“You know what I mean. You exercise for fun.”
He chuckles, not offended. “Yeah, well, turns out I like writing almost as much as checking guys into the boards. If this hockey thing doesn’t work out, I’m hoping to end up in sports media. Maybe TV.”
“That actually makes sense.”
He tilts his head, looking at me. “Because I have a face for print?”
God no. He has a face that could be plastered on the cover of magazines and not just the sports ones. But the cocky smirk tugging at his mouth tells me he knows that. “I think it’s smart to have a second skill.” I look away from his exquisite jawline. “So where are we going?”
He flashes a grin, a little secretive now. “You’ll see. But I promise it’s safe, quiet, and has no frat bros or sorority hos.”
A laugh slips out. “You did not just say that.”
“I’m pretty sure I did.” Jefferson glances down at me with that lazy grin that should probably be illegal. “The arena.”
“You’re taking me to the one place I’ve already been and will perform in tomorrow?”
“I told you. It’s safe and quiet. No Ingrid Flockton fangirls or boys allowed,” he says, then winks. “Well, maybe one, but you reached out to me, and I brought food.” He then holds up a plastic card. “As a senior and alternate captain, I have a keycard, which gives me access twenty-four seven.”
I snort, thinking of the private clubs I’ve been to, the exclusive memberships. “I’m not sure that’s as impressive as you think it is.”
He leads me around the back of a wide brick building with a heavy metal door that clicks open when he swipes a card.
It’s a different entry point than where I came in earlier with Madison and Marv, and a part of me notes that I should point out the breach before the concert tomorrow.
But then I’d have to admit why I know about this and decide to file it away for later.
Inside, the hallway smells like leather, cleaning supplies, and that heavy scent that can only be identified as testosterone.
I was here six hours ago, doing mic checks and sound tests, pacing the stage in platform boots while Madison fought with lighting techs, and I pretended my chest wasn’t tight just being there.
I remember thinking it felt too echoey, too impersonal.
But now, peering through the glass window that looks into the space, without the stage lights and thumping sound systems, it feels different.
Still. Dim. Almost like the place is holding its breath.
Jefferson continues past the rink, that I know is now covered with flooring and a stage.
Instead, he leads me through a side hallway and into a room labeled Lounge.
It’s nothing fancy–a couple of couches, a scratched-up air hockey table, a vending machine missing most of its candy, and a big screen TV that takes up the majority of the back wall.
He gestures to the couch. “Welcome to the inner sanctum.”
“Very elite,” I murmur, collapsing onto the cushions with a grateful sigh. “Smells like body spray and victory.”
“More like sweat and Febreze,” he admits, walking over to a refrigerator and opening the door.
The inside is filled with water and sports drinks.
He grabs two water bottles and sets them on the table, then sits next to me.
“But we’ve had a hell of a run. A few more days and we’ll go down in the history books as either winners or losers. ”
Something tells me Jefferson Parks doesn’t like losing.
He opens the bag and starts handing me food. I unwrap the burger and it’s just like he said, double cheeseburger, bacon, avocado, the works–and it smells absurdly good.
“Holy shit,” I say around the first bite, barely managing not to groan. “This is… dangerous.”
Seriously. I think my mouth is having an orgasm.
“I’m not stupid. You want to impress a goddess, you show up with the best food in town.”
I give him a look. “You call every girl you meet a goddess?”
He grins. “Only the ones who sell out stadiums and make me feel things I didn’t know songs could make me feel.”
My cheeks warm under the hoodie, and I look down at the fries like they’ve suddenly become fascinating.
“How long have you been listening?” I ask even though I know it’s tricky territory. One wrong word and this whole fantasy dissolves.
He shrugs, then leans back, chewing a huge bite of food. Everything about him is big. His jaw, his hands, his legs stretched out into the room. “Since I was fifteen. Your first album. A girl I had a crush on played it nonstop, and at first, I wanted to stab myself in the ear–”
“Talk about ouch.”
“But,” he continues, “after a while, I started listening to the words. I’d go sit outside in my brother’s Jeep and put Lace & Lead on repeat until I knew every line. It just felt like, I don’t know, you knew how to put all those feelings into words. Like the songs got there before I did.”
I stare at him, stunned by the honesty in his voice.
Most guys either fanboy too hard or pretend they’ve never heard of me.
Jefferson Parks isn’t trying to do either.
He’s just here, telling me his story.
“What about you?” he asks, like it’s his turn. “What made you want to do this? Music?”
I chew slowly, then swallow. “It wasn’t a choice, really. I mean, I’ve always loved it. Writing. Performing. I was that kid who sang in the mirror and cried at bad commercials. But it’s also, I guess, what I was good at, even when I was younger. It made sense when everything else didn’t.”
“And now?” He takes another bite.
“Now I’m really good at it. Maybe the best in my generation,” I admit with zero pretense. The downloads, the album sales, the merch, and sold-out venues… I don’t have to prove myself. It’s all there in black and white.
“But…”
Our eyes meet. I can tell in this light that his are a bluish gray. “But, I’m just not sure I like it all the time.”
“Too much pressure?” He asks like he understands it.
“Sometimes. Maybe more like, there’s too much noise,” I say. “Everyone wants something. Everyone’s always watching. Waiting for you to slip. Sometimes I just want to go out for a burger without someone selling the photo five minutes later.”
“Well,” he says, “Since I’m supposed to be getting ready for the biggest games in my career, the last thing I need is for someone, primarily my captain or coach, to know where I am and what I’m eating–so no cameras. Your secret is safe with me.”
I smile. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Let me guess,” he says. “You thought I was some loud-mouthed jock hoping for a selfie and a blowjob?”
I snort-laugh so hard I almost choke on my fry. “Pretty much.”
“I mean,” he chuckles, reaching for his drink, “I wouldn’t say no, but I’m not just that.”
“No?”
“No. I’m incredibly skilled at giving oral, not just receiving, I’m remarkably humble, and,” his head tilts toward the game table, “I’m very good at air hockey.”
At the oral comment, I choke on my water. This guy. His ego is massive, possibly the biggest I’ve ever encountered, which says a lot coming from the industry I’m in and the men I’ve been exposed to over the last decade.
“Remarkably humble,” I repeat, plucking a fry between my manicured nails.
The room feels warmer. Closer. Like we’ve carved out this little bubble of unreality.
“You gonna sing Lace and Lead tomorrow?” he asks, quieter this time.
I nod. “It’s on the set list.”
“I can’t believe I’m missing it.” Something flickers across his face–disappointment, maybe. Then he leans in just slightly, not enough to scare me, just enough to make my breath catch. “I guess you’ll just have to play it for me another time.”