Chapter 5
Liam
If you had told me a week ago that I would be spending my Thursday night in the basement of the Performing Arts Center, surrounded by fifty years of moth-eaten velvet and fake furs, listening to Sofia Thorne lecture me on "Personal Brand Synergy," I would have checked you into a psych ward.
But here I was.
And the worst part? I wasn't hating it.
"You're not listening, Liam," Sofia said, tapping her pen against the screen of my battered laptop.
"The thesis statement is too aggressive.
You can't just say 'The NCAA operates a modern-day plantation system.
' I mean, you can, and you're right, but Professor Henderson is a conservative dinosaur.
You have to massage the ego before you stab the heart. "
I leaned back in the creaky wooden chair she had dragged out from the props department.
The room—she called it "The Archive"—was a cavernous, windowless space beneath the theater.
It was filled with rows of rolling racks, stacked high with costumes from every production Blackwood had staged since 1950.
It smelled like dust, old cedar, and that omnipresent vanilla scent that seemed to radiate from Sofia's pores.
"I don't massage egos," I grumbled, rubbing a hand over my face. I was exhausted. The morning shifts at the shop combined with the brutal practices were catching up to me. "I block shots. I state facts."
"And that is why you are currently getting a C-minus," she countered, not looking up from the screen.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, rewriting my intro paragraph.
"You treat writing like hockey. You just want to hit things.
Writing is about seduction. You have to lead the reader to the point where they think they came up with the idea. "
I watched her.
It was becoming a problem—the watching.
For the last four days, we had fallen into a bizarre, clandestine rhythm.
In the mornings, I enforced her authority in the locker room.
When Jaxson made a joke about her nails, I didn't laugh.
I stared at him until he apologized. When the freshmen left their towels on the floor, I made them pick them up while she held the clipboard.
It was working. The team was terrified of me, so by proxy, they were terrified of her. She had stopped twisting her rings. She walked with her chin up.
And in the evenings, we hid down here.
Tonight, she was wearing oversized sweatpants and a tight, cropped tank top that showed off a sliver of caramel skin at her waist. Her hair was piled in a messy bun, held together by a pencil. She looked comfortable. Soft.
It was infinitely more dangerous than the silver dress.
"There," she said, spinning the laptop around to face me. "Read that. Tell me it's not better."
I leaned forward, reading the screen.
While the amateur status of the collegiate athlete is rooted in the tradition of sportsmanship, the modern financial ecosystem of the university relies explicitly on the monetization of player likeness, creating a dissonance between value generated and value received.
"It's... good," I admitted grudgingly. "It sounds smart."
"It is smart," she smirked, looking pleased with herself. She picked up her iced coffee—which she had somehow snuck past the building security—and took a sip. "You have the ideas, Liam. You just have the vocabulary of a brick. I'm just polishing the stone."
"Did you just call me a brick?"
"A very sturdy, dependable brick," she teased, her eyes dancing.
This was the new normal. The banter. The ease. It was terrifying how quickly I had gotten used to her presence. She wasn't the spoiled brat I thought she was. Or rather, she was a brat, but she was also sharp, funny, and surprisingly hardworking.
She had already sold two of her old designer bags at the consignment shop in Burlington. She handed me an envelope of cash yesterday—six hundred bucks. She didn't make a big deal out of it. She just slid it into my locker and walked away.
I paid the utility company. The lights stayed on.
I looked at her, really looked at her, and felt that familiar, dangerous pull in my chest. It wasn't just gratitude. It was hunger.
"So," I said, trying to distract myself from the way the strap of her tank top was slipping down her shoulder. "We're done with the intro. Can we take a break? My brain feels like mush."
"Weak," she declared, but she closed the laptop. "Fine. Five minutes. But don't think you're getting out of the bibliography section."
She stood up and stretched, her arms reaching high above her head. The movement lifted her shirt, exposing her midriff, the smooth curve of her ribs, the dip of her navel.
I looked away, clenching my jaw. Look at the costumes, Vanner. Look at the dusty Elizabethan ruffs. Look anywhere but at the girl you’re not allowed to touch.
"This place is creepy," I said, gesturing to the rows of clothes. "Why do you like it down here?"
Sofia wandered over to a rack of vintage furs, running her hand along a heavy, black mink coat.
"It's quiet," she said, her voice dropping a little.
"And... I like the history. These clothes have been other people.
They've lived lives. When I'm up there," she pointed toward the ceiling, "I have to be Sofia Thorne.
The Brand. The Heiress. Down here... I can just be the girl who likes old clothes. "
She pulled the mink coat off the rack. It was huge, thick, and looked like something a Russian mobster's wife would wear in the eighties.
"Try it on," I challenged, leaning back in my chair. "Let's see the drama."
She grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Careful, Liam. You might like it."
She slipped her arms into the heavy coat. It swallowed her whole, coming down to her calves. She wrapped it around herself, popping the collar so it framed her face.
She turned to me, striking a pose. Hand on hip, lips pouted, eyes heavy-lidded.
"Where is the money, Giovanni?" she purred in a terrible, fake accent. "I need the diamonds."
I laughed. A genuine, chest-rattling laugh that felt foreign in my throat.
"Terrible," I said. "You sound like a cartoon villain."
"I am a villain," she said, sashaying toward me. She stopped right in front of my chair, the heavy fur brushing against my knees. "I'm the evil heiress corrupting the noble, blue-collar hero."
She was playing. I knew she was playing. But the air in the room shifted. It grew heavier, thicker.
She looked down at me, her face framed by the dark fur. The contrast was striking—the softness of her skin against the harsh, black coat. She looked expensive. She looked untouchable.
And I wanted to ruin it.
"You're not corrupting me," I said, my voice dropping to a low rumble. I didn't move away. "You're just annoying me."
"Am I?" she asked softly.
She took a step closer. She was standing between my spread knees now. It was a power move. She was testing her boundaries. She was testing me.
"You keep looking at me, Liam," she whispered. "When you think I'm not paying attention. In the locker room. In the library. Even now."
"I'm keeping an eye on you," I lied. "Making sure you don't break anything."
"Liar," she murmured.
She reached out—slowly, deliberately—and placed her hand on my shoulder. Her fingers curled into the cotton of my T-shirt.
"I think you like me," she said. "I think you hate that you like me. I think it drives you crazy that the 'spoiled brat' is the only person who can make you laugh."
My heart hammered against my ribs. The scent of vanilla and musk was overwhelming.
"You think highly of yourself, Princess," I said.
"Don't call me Princess," she said, but her breath hitched.
"Why not?" I asked. I reached up, my hand hovering near her waist. I didn't touch her. Not yet. "It fits. You like things your way. You like people to do what you say. You like to be in charge."
"Maybe I'm tired of being in charge," she whispered.
The confession hung in the air between us.
Her eyes were wide, dark pools of vulnerability. She was standing there, wrapped in a coat that cost more than my mother's life earnings, admitting that she was exhausted by the weight of her own armor.
And something in me snapped.
The "Wall" crumbled. The discipline I prided myself on—the restraint that kept me in the crease, that kept me from punching rich kids, that kept me sane—evaporated.
I moved fast.
I reached out, grabbed the lapels of the fur coat, and yanked her forward.
She gasped, stumbling, falling right into me.
I caught her. My hands slid around her waist, under the open coat, finding the warm skin of her back exposed by the tank top.
I spun us around, standing up and backing her into the nearest clothing rack.
The metal rack rattled, costumes swaying.
I pinned her there. My body pressed against hers, hard and unyielding. The fur coat was a soft barrier between us, but I could feel every curve of her body beneath it.
"Liam," she breathed, her hands coming up to rest on my chest. She didn't push me away. She clutched my shirt.
"You talk too much," I growled.
I looked down at her. Her lips were parted, swollen. Her chest was heaving. Her pupils were blown so wide her eyes looked black.
"Make me stop," she challenged.
It was a whisper, barely audible, but it hit me like a physical blow.
I lowered my head and crushed my mouth to hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't a movie kiss. It was a collision. It was weeks of frustration, anger, resentment, and undeniable, scorching attraction pouring out all at once.
She tasted like coffee and sugar. She tasted like trouble.
I groaned into her mouth, my tongue sweeping in to claim her. She met me, stroke for stroke. She wasn't passive. She kissed me back with a ferocity that matched my own. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, anchoring me to her.
I walked my hips forward, grinding against her. Even through the denim of my jeans and the layers of her sweatpants and the coat, the friction was electric.
"Fuck," I muttered against her lips.