Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Killion
The Huddle Encounter
“I’m not going to miss this,” Lucian says, tossing a crumpled hoodie onto his bed. “Do you think our parents will let me declare for the draft sophomore year?”
No. Absolutely not. I barely got away with declaring during my junior year—and that came with the condition I finish my degree online within the next four years. I’m still amazed our parents didn’t insist that I graduate before stepping anywhere near a professional field. Lucky me, I guess.
But Lucian? He’s dreaming. Our parents would rather eat glass than let him bolt after barely a year in college. Although, to be fair, they let Kaden, my twin, head to Canada at sixteen to start training. Meanwhile, I’ve been treated like the backup quarterback of our family—good enough to play, but only after the star gets his shot.
Okay, fine, I know why he got to leave. I’m the party guy. The one who’s raised more havoc than touchdowns. Maybe I wasn’t exactly a poster child for good decision-making, but I could’ve entered the draft sophomore year too.
Instead of launching into my usual rant, I lean back against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. The edge of the wood digs into my shoulder, but I’m too tired to care. My shoulders ache from drills, and my brain feels fried after another marathon training session with Dad. All I wanted tonight was to sit on the couch, watch something brainless, and not think about the next playbook.
“So why do we have to go to this party?” My voice comes out flat, edged with frustration. I shift my weight, rolling the stiffness out of my neck, but it doesn’t help. “I just wanted one night to chill, Luc, not babysit you at some secret society kegger.”
I flick him a glance, hoping he’ll take the hint, but with Luc, it’s always a gamble. He just rolls his eyes, jamming a pack of gum into his pocket. “It’s not babysitting. It’s me letting you bask in my collegiate glory while you recover from Dad’s version of military boot camp.”
“Bask?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
He spreads his arms wide, a grin plastered across his face like he’s unveiling the eighth wonder of the world. “Witness the future NFL star in his natural habitat. You, on the other hand, are going to be . . . average.”
Average? I can’t be fucking average. Not when I have to at least be as good as our father. Truth to be told the comparison with Dad is starting to wear me down. Maybe I should’ve chosen a different position—like Luc, who’s a running back with stats that made college scouts drool. His high school record? Impressive. His college stats? Even better.
So many teams in the league want him.
Mine? Well, mine aren’t bad. In fact, they’re solid. But being solid isn’t enough when your dad’s a legend. People don’t just watch me—they scrutinize me. Every pass, every play, every decision is measured against the great John Crawford, and I’m not even playing professionally yet. It’s like running a race with a shadow that’s always ten steps ahead, no matter how fast I go .
I groan, letting my head thump back against the wall. “Dad’s killing me, you know. Every day it’s ‘run this, throw that, now review game tape until your eyes bleed.’ When I agreed to skip the second half of junior year and train, I thought he’d ease me into it.”
Lucian snorts, grabbing his phone off the desk. “Ease you into it? It’s Dad. The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He has two speeds: win or die trying.”
“Yeah, well, he’s killing me, Smalls,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m starting to think I made a mistake.”
Lucian grins, grabbing his keys with the kind of smug confidence only a younger brother can pull off. “Lucky for you, tonight’s your chance to forget all about it. One party. No football. Just hot girls, alcohol, and no Dad breathing down your neck. Let’s go.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. The last thing I want is to spend the night dodging drunk college kids while pretending I’m not dead inside. But Lucian’s looking at me like he actually wants me there—not as backup, but as his brother.
“Fine,” I say, pushing off the wall. “But we’re not staying all night.”
Lucian’s grin widens as he opens the door. “We’ll stay as long as necessary.”
“Not reassuring,” I mutter, following him out. “At all.”
The Alpha Sigma Delta house isn’t so much a house as a mini-mansion perched on the edge of campus. It screams “trust fund” and “future senator” at the same time, with glowing windows that radiate warmth and a faint bass-heavy thrum that hints at questionable decisions being made inside.
As we walk up the sidewalk, the music grows louder, and the muffled sounds of laughter and shouting spill out. Inside, the scene is exactly what I expected: loud, buzzing, and packed with people who definitely pre-gamed a little too hard before arriving. Expensive furniture has been shoved aside to make room for a makeshift dance floor that’s already sticky with spilled beer.
Lucian disappears into the crowd with the kind of swagger only a freshman who feels invincible can pull off. I follow at a slower pace, dodging clusters of very wasted people. Someone offers me a beer, but I shake my head and stick to the bottle of water I grabbed from the car. Dad’s lectures about hydration—and avoiding drinks from strangers—are permanently burned into my brain. He’s probably still worried I’ll waste myself in college, though I wonder if he’ll be just as paranoid with my siblings.
“Luc,” I call, spotting my brother near the kitchen, already surrounded by a group of guys who seem to have adopted him as their new mascot. He’s in his element, flashing that easy grin of his while someone hands him a drink. I roll my eyes, weaving through the crowd, but before I reach him, someone bumps into me, and I turn to apologize.
That’s when I see her .
She’s standing by the window, a book in one hand and a red cup in the other, looking like she’s somehow wandered into the wrong house. The rest of the party is all neon lights and chaotic energy, but she’s calm, focused—like the eye of the storm. Her soft cardigan and colorful top seem at odds with the ripped jeans she’s wearing, and the loose waves of her red hair frame her face like she belongs in a completely different setting.
Her eyes flick up from her book, sweeping the room with a casualness that feels oddly intentional. Then they land on me. For a second—no, longer than that—we just look. Her gaze isn’t just curious. It’s bold, a little intense, like she’s flipping through a mental Rolodex to figure out where I fit in all this.
My pulse stumbles, like my body’s caught off guard by something it can’t define. Her expression is a challenge, a silent dare to explain why I’m here and what, exactly, I want. In the charged seconds between us, it happens—a spark, sharp and electric, igniting just below the surface, ready to blaze if I let it.
“You lost?” I ask, taking a step closer, my voice loud enough so she can hear me, but not so much that everyone becomes part of this moment between us .
She raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement tugging at her lips. “I could ask you the same thing. You don’t exactly blend in. Not preppy enough . . . or designer enough for this crowd.”
Is designer even a term? Instead of asking, I glance down at my hoodie and joggers, letting out a dry laugh. “Didn’t know there was a dress code.”
“There’s not.” She shrugs, her lips curving just enough to suggest she finds this all very entertaining. “But you still stand out.”
“Good to know.” I nod toward the book in her hand. “What are you reading?”
She lifts it slightly, just enough for me to catch the title: Foundations of Biochemistry . Her expression stays deadpan as she says, “Riveting stuff. I’d recommend it, but I don’t think it’s your style.”
“You brought a textbook to a party?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up. “Bold move.”
She shrugs again, this time more defensively. “I was studying when my roommate dragged me here. Something about living a little and finding my Charles. Apparently, that means standing in a corner while everyone else drinks punch that looks like antifreeze.”
“Finding your Charles?”
“Long, boring story,” she says, waving me off like it’s not worth the explanation.
I glance toward the dance floor, where Lucian is attempting what I can only assume is his version of a moonwalk. It’s bad. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who got dragged here.”
She follows my gaze, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Crawford is your brother?”
“Unfortunately.” I lean against the wall, letting out a long breath. “I’m in town visiting. He wanted me to come, so here I am.”
“Let me guess—big brother guilt?”
“Something like that.” I shrug a shoulder, as if confirming she’s right. She doesn’t need to learn that I’m ditching my parents for the night. Hopefully Pop will entertain Dad enough that tomorrow will be a light day.
“I’m Camille,” she says, holding out her hand. Her lips quirk into a knowing smile that somehow feels equal parts challenge and invitation. “You have one of those . . . names?”
“Killion,” I reply, taking her hand. The moment our palms meet, there’s a subtle jolt, the kind of spark that makes your brain stutter. Her hand is warm, her grip firm, and yet there’s this softness to it, like she’s letting me in just enough to keep me intrigued.
For a beat, the music fades, the crowd blurs, and it’s just us. Her green eyes hold mine, searching, assessing, as if she’s piecing together who I am and why I’m here. And judging by the slight tilt of her head and the ghost of a smirk on her lips, I’ve passed.
“Nice to meet you, Killion,” she says, her tone teasing. “ You going to let your brother have all the fun, or are you planning to live a little too?”
I glance back at Lucian, now attempting some kind of impromptu dance battle, then at her. “I think I’ll stick to the sidelines tonight.”
“Good choice,” she says, raising her cup in a mock toast. “Welcome to the corner crew.”
I lean casually against the wall beside her. Maybe this party won’t be such a disaster after all.