Chapter 2 #2
"It works," Miller said. "Look at Brady. He got engaged, and suddenly the press stopped talking about his DUI and started talking about his wedding registry. People love a romance, Jerry. It makes you look human. It makes you look... safe."
Safe.
The word made my skin crawl. I wasn't safe. I was the storm.
"I don't have time for a girlfriend," I said, standing up. "I have a championship to win. I'll watch the penalties, Coach. I'll smile for the cameras. But I'm not hiring an actress to hold my hand."
"It's not a request, Jerry," Miller said softly.
I stopped at the door, my hand on the brass knob. I turned back.
"Excuse me?"
"Your scholarship," Archibald said, his voice trembling slightly. "It's contingent on conduct. If you get one more major penalty... if there is one more incident of 'unnecessary aggression'... we will have to review your standing as Captain. And if you lose the Captaincy..."
He didn't have to finish the sentence. If I lost the Captaincy, my father would pull his funding. He would disown me. Not legally—he needed an heir—but he would cut me off. The trust fund, the access, the future... it would all be frozen.
He had done it before.
I stared at the two men. The puppets of my father’s will.
"Is that a threat?" I asked.
"It's a reality check," Miller said. "Fix your head, Vane. Find a way to look like a nice guy. Or you're done."
I walked out. I didn't slam the door. That would have been aggressive.
I closed it with a soft, terrifyingly gentle click.
The Collision Course
I needed coffee.
I didn't drink coffee for the caffeine—caffeine was a stimulant that messed with my cortisol levels—I drank it black, bitter, and scalding hot because the pain of it grounded me.
I walked across campus, ignoring the stares. It was lunchtime, and the Quad was packed. Students parted around me like a school of fish avoiding a shark. I could hear their whispers.
"That's him. The Judge."
"He looks pissed."
"God, he's hot."
I tuned it out. My mind was racing, calculating variables.
Problem: I need to look "safe." I need to look "human."
Solution: A relationship.
Constraint: I hate people. I despise small talk. I cannot tolerate someone who wants me for my money or my status.
I needed someone who didn't care about Jerry Vane. I needed someone who could be bought, but who wouldn't try to own me.
I needed a business transaction disguised as a romance.
I turned the corner toward "The Daily Grind," the overcrowded, student-run coffee shop near the library. It wasn't my usual spot—I preferred the Italian place downtown—but I was already on this side of campus, and I needed to get away from the staring eyes on the Quad.
I pushed open the door. The smell hit me first. Burnt beans, sugary syrup, and wet wool. It was loud. Indie folk music blared from the speakers.
I stepped into the line, checking my watch. Inefficiency. The line was six people deep.
I looked at the menu board, debating if I should just leave.
And then I heard it.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't just order 'the big one.' We have sizes. Tall, Grande, Venti."
The voice.
It wasn't singing this time. It was strained, tight with forced politeness. But the timbre was the same. A little husky, a little melodic.
I stepped out of the line, moving to the side to see the counter.
There she was.
The Rink Mouse.
She looked different in the daylight. Less like a drowned rat, more like... a frayed wire. She was wearing a green apron over a oversized black t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but wisps of gold escaped to frame her face.
She looked exhausted. Her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights. There were dark smudges under her eyes that matched the ones I saw last night.
She was dealing with a customer—a frat bro in a lacrosse hoodie who looked like he had never heard the word "no" in his life.
"Just give me the large coffee, babe," the guy said, leaning over the counter, invading her space. "And put your number on the cup while you're at it."
I saw her spine stiffen. I saw her hand grip the edge of the register until her knuckles turned white.
"I can get you a Venti," she said, her voice cool. "That will be three-fifty. And my number is unlisted for people who can't read the menu."
The frat bro laughed, a condescending sound. "Feisty. I like that. Come on, don't be a bitch. I'm just being friendly."
My blood went cold.
Don't be a bitch.
The air around me seemed to crackle. The noise of the shop faded into a dull roar. All I could focus on was him. Leaning over the counter. Smirking at her.
And her.
She wasn't looking at him with fear. She was looking at him with the same defiance she had given me last night. But underneath it, I saw the tremor in her hands. She was tired. She was cornered.
"Sir," she said, "please pay or step aside. There's a line."
"I'm not moving until I get a smile," the guy said, reaching out to tap her hand on the counter.
That was it.
I didn't make a decision. My body moved before my brain could sign the permission slip.
I crossed the distance in three long strides. The crowd seemed to sense the shift in atmospheric pressure, parting instantly.
I stopped directly behind the lacrosse player. I didn't touch him. I didn't have to. I just let my presence radiate.
"She asked you to pay," I said.
My voice was low. Not a shout. A rumble.
The guy froze. He turned around slowly, annoyance on his face, ready to tell whoever it was to back off.
He saw me.
His eyes went wide. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He was tall, maybe six-foot, but I had four inches and fifty pounds of muscle on him. And I had the reputation.
"V-Vane," he stammered. "I... I was just joking around."
" It wasn't funny," I said. I stared at him. I imagined I was on the ice. I imagined putting him through the boards. The intent must have shown on my face, because he took a hasty step back.
"Right. Yeah. My bad." He threw a five-dollar bill on the counter and grabbed the empty cup she hadn't even filled yet. "Keep the change."
He scrambled out of the shop like the building was on fire.
Silence descended on the immediate area. The other customers were staring.
I turned back to the counter.
To her.
She was staring at me. Her mouth was slightly open, her lips pink and parted. Her eyes were wide, scanning my face, my suit, my hands.
She didn't say thank you.
"You," she breathed.
"Me," I agreed.
"Are you following me?" she asked. Her voice was a hiss, low enough so her manager—who was busy at the espresso machine—wouldn't hear. "First my office, now my other office? Do you have a tracking device on me?"
I leaned against the counter. It was too low for me. I had to hunch slightly.
"I wanted coffee," I said. "And you have a lot of offices for someone who misses spots."
She flushed. A bright, lovely crimson that started at her neck and rose to her cheeks. It made her look alive.
"I didn't miss a spot," she snapped. "And you can't just... Hulk out on customers. He's going to complain."
"He won't complain," I said. "He's terrified."
"Well, I'm not," she lied.
"I know."
And I did know. That was the thing that fascinated me. She was shaking—I could see the tremor in the hand holding the sharpie—but she stood her ground. She was a paradox. Fragile and unbreakable.
I looked at the nametag pinned to her apron. It was crooked.
HEATHER.
Heather.
The name rolled through my mind. Soft. Common. A flower that grew on the moors, wild and resilient.
"Heather," I said. Testing the weight of it.
She blinked, startled by the use of her name. "What?"
"Large black coffee," I ordered. "Venti. No sugar. No room."
She stared at me for a beat longer, her gaze searching mine for... what? An apology? A joke?
She wouldn't find either.
"Three-fifty," she said, her voice regaining its business-like crispness.
I pulled out my black AMEX card. I placed it on the counter.
"Put it on the tab," I said.
"We don't have tabs," she said, pushing the card back toward me with one finger. Her fingernail was short, unpolished, and bitten. "Swipe it yourself."
I took the card. I swiped it. The machine beeped.
She turned to make the coffee. I watched her. I watched the efficient way she moved, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with her wrist to avoid contaminating the cup.
She turned back and slammed the cup onto the counter. A little coffee sloshed over the rim.
"Careful," I murmured.
"Here," she said. "Now go away."
I took the cup. The heat seeped through the cardboard, burning my fingertips. It felt good.
"You're working tonight," I said. It wasn't a question.
She paused, rag in hand. "Yes. Unfortunately."
"Good," I said.
"Why is that good?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
I took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter. It was perfect.
"Because," I said, leaning in closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "I checked the glass this morning. You left a smudge in the corner of section 104."
Her mouth dropped open. "I did not!"
"You did," I said. "Fix it tonight, Heather. Or I'll have to supervise again."
I turned and walked away before she could respond. I could feel her glare burning a hole between my shoulder blades.
I walked out of the shop, the coffee warm in my hand.
Heather.
I had a name. I had a location.
And as I walked back toward The Spire, the plan began to form in my mind. It was cold, calculated, and absolutely ruthless.
The Dean wanted a girlfriend? Fine. I would give him a girlfriend.
I would give him Heather.
She needed money—that was obvious from the boots, the frantic work ethic, the terror in her eyes last night. I had money.
She hated me. That was perfect. It meant she wouldn't fall in love with me. It meant it would be a clean transaction.
I would buy her time. I would buy her smile. And in exchange, she would make me look human.
I took another sip of coffee.
The game was on. And I never lost.