Chapter 8
eight
BEN
I came to the library to study feedback control systems.
Instead, I got something very different.
The deal is settled and it’s a win-win. She gets creeps off her back, and I get the guys off my back, but if I’m being honest, I’m still short-circuiting from the fact that I didn’t run for the hills when she started talking to me. And, after that, I’m pretty sure something amazing happened.
She flirted with me.
My heart is still hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to punch through bone and make a break for the exit. Because this is uncharted territory. This is me, sitting in a study carrel, speaking with a woman who terrifies me and who flirted with me, and not dissolving into a wreck.
I should feel victorious. But instead, there’s this jittery, electric current running through me, the same sensation I get right before a big game when Coach is about to call my name and I know I’m about to be tested. Except now the test involves being near her.
Regularly.
In public.
Where people will be watching.
Where I’ll have to act like a guy who knows how to be around a girl.
Where I’ll have to—fuck, will I?—touch her.
Jesus Christ, Kellerman, what did you just do?
Before I can answer the question or bail on the deal, Cass pushes away from the study carrel, her entire posture radiating the kind of easy confidence I can’t even begin to comprehend. Her smirk is wry, knowing, like she can see right through the calm I’m desperately trying to project.
“Well,” she says, matter-of-fact, “if we’re going to sell this, we should probably practice not looking like you’re about to pass out.”
My stomach drops. “Practice?”
The word comes out strangled, higher-pitched than I intended, and I watch her eyes flash with something that might be amusement or pity. It’s a look she seems to give me quite often, like I’m a cat doing funny tricks, and I can’t decide which is worse.
But before my brain can process the terrifying implications of that statement—before I can ask what the hell “practicing” even means—she steps forward, into the space between my knees, and then leans down and hugs me.
And each one of my neurons simultaneously short-circuits.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
My brain knows this is fake, a dry rehearsal for the performance we’ll have to put on for my teammates and the bozos who go to her shows, but my body is not getting the memo right now. Because my face is pressed into the soft, warm curve of her chest.
My senses are completely overwhelmed by the reality of this… of her. The softness of her breasts through the thin fabric of her band shirt, the heat radiating from her skin, and the clean, citrusy scent of her hair. Combined, it’s arousing and absolutely, paralyzingly terrifying.
And then a new thought cuts through the static: she knows.
She has to know what this is doing to me, which makes it clear this isn’t just practice. It’s a test, a deliberate push, shoving me into the deep end of my comfort zone to see if I’ll drown or if I can hack it. And the faint ghost of a smirk I can feel against the top of my head confirms it.
My hands hover uselessly in the space near her hips, frozen in complete paralysis. Where am I supposed to put them? Do I wrap them around her waist? Is that part of the practice? Or do I just sit here and let her do all the work?
Do something, you idiot. You’re supposed to be her boyfriend. Act like it.
I force my arms to move, lowering them slowly, cautiously, until my hands rest against her back. The contact is light, barely there, like I’m afraid she’ll dissolve if I press too hard. But the second my palms settle against the battered leather of her jacket, a deep, visceral heat ignites in me.
No.
No, no, no.
This is a business transaction. She needs a visible deterrent. I need a social shield. If I start confusing the setup with reality—start acting like this is real and we are possible—then this whole thing collapses before it even starts.
I summon every boring, unsexy thought I can think of: signal processing equations, the derivative of a sine wave, the smell of the locker room after a double practice, the time Stiles ate gas station sushi and spent an entire road trip destroying the bathroom on the team bus.
But then she shifts slightly, adjusting her grip, her thigh brushing against mine, and the mental firewall I’m building collapses like wet cardboard. Heat floods my face, and lower—oh God, lower—my body is responding in a way that is immediate, involuntary…
…and potentially a very big, humiliating problem if this persists.
I shift my weight, trying to create some distance—any distance—without making it obvious. I angle my hips back slightly, a microscopic retreat that I pray reads as a natural adjustment and not the panicked damage control it actually is.
Think about literally anything else. The Fourier equation. Nash’s face…
She starts to pull away, and relief crashes through me like a wave, followed a second later by a feeling of loss. My rational brain shouts and curses at the rest of me, but I can’t ignore the fact that being in her arms—even fake, even for just a few seconds—felt nice.
So, of course, instead of taking the escape route she’s offering, I say something stupid. Because that’s what I do. “Wait,” I say. “Uh… could we…?”
She pauses, her hands still resting against my back, and looks down at me with a smirk. Her blue eyes are sharp, assessing, and there’s a faint crease between her brows, like she’s trying to figure out what the hell I’m asking for.
Say something. Anything. Don’t just sit here like a mute idiot.
I hold up my phone, the screen a blank shield for my real, desperate need. “My friends… they’re going to want proof.”
It’s not a lie. Nash and Stiles and the entire team will demand photographic evidence of this miracle. But that’s not the only reason I’m asking. The truth—the truth I can barely admit to myself—is that I need this moment captured.
I need proof that this happened.
That I didn’t run.
That I sat here, in her arms, and didn’t completely fall apart.
That for once in my life, I was the guy who got the girl.
Even if it’s all pretend.
Her expression is unreadable, a mask of cool assessment that gives nothing away. But after a beat, she nods. “OK,” she says.
My relief is immediate. And so is the fresh wave of panic.
I fumble with the phone, my fingers slippery and uncooperative, swiping past my lock screen and opening the camera app with all the grace of a drunk toddler. I try to angle the phone to get us both in the frame, but the operation feels like I’m trying to pilot a crane I’ve never been trained on.
Cass doesn’t say anything. She just leans against my side, her body fitting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of her seeps through my shirt, a fresh jolt that makes my pulse spike all over again.
Her head tilts toward mine, and when I glance down at the screen, I see the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. It’s a performance smile, the same one she probably uses on stage when she’s pretending the crowd isn’t full of assholes.
I snap the picture.
The photo is slightly off-center, but we’re both there. Me, looking vaguely shell-shocked and flushed, my eyes wide and my mouth caught somewhere between a nervous smile and outright panic. Her, leaning into my side with that faint, knowing smirk, looking effortlessly cool.
It’s perfect.
It’s proof.
“Got it,” I manage, my voice rough.
She nods and steps back, putting a safe distance between us.
The loss of her warmth is immediate and jarring, like stepping out of a heated room into the bitter cold of a January night. My mouth opens, and I want to say something—thank her, apologize for being so goddamn awkward—but nothing comes out.
She doesn’t seem to notice.
Or, if she does, she’s kind enough not to call me out on it.
“Good,” she says. “Send that to your buddies. Make it believable. Tell them I gave you a blowjob or something…”
I blink, but my brain isn’t able to compute. “Uhhh,” I stammer. “I’m not sure if—”
She smirks, suggesting that’s the exact reaction she wanted, then she turns and walks away. “Bye, lover,” she says over her shoulder.
I sit there, my ass apparently glued to the chair, watching her go until she disappears around a bookshelf. Only then do I sink back into my chair, my legs suddenly too shaky to support my weight. The adrenaline is finally draining out, leaving behind a strange, buzzing exhaustion.
Holy shit.
I didn’t run. I didn’t bail. I negotiated. I made demands. I asked for a photo. I touched her. It was a close call, with some confusing emotions, but I’m still here and still functional. And I wonder if this is what it feels like to not be a coward.
It’s fake, my brain screams. She’s using you. You’re using her. Don’t get confused.
But the “fakeness” is what makes it perfect. This is the cheat code I’ve been looking for: an experiment, a controlled environment where I can practice being the guy who doesn’t run away. She doesn’t expect me to be smooth or charming. She just expects me to show up.
I can do that.
I think.
And, on top of getting the guys off my back, maybe—just maybe—I can use this to learn how to be the man Mia thought I was. The “one good one.” The guy who doesn’t just stand there in silence, trying to blend in, while other people get hurt.
My phone buzzes on the desk, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. Feeling bolder than I have in my entire twenty years on earth, I open the Devils’ team group chat—a digital arena that has been the source of so much of my torment—and attach the photo.
I hit send.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Then my phone explodes.
Nash:
NO FUCKING WAY KELLERMAN
Stiles:
YOOOOOOO
THE SASQUATCH ACTUALLY DID IT
I KNEW YOU HAD IT IN YOU brO
Nash:
How the hell did you pull this off
Stiles:
Did you roofie her
Rook:
Erik:
Well. This is unexpected.
Leo:
I’d go with “statistically improbable.”
Rook:
Guys let the man have his moment
KELL THE SASQUATCH PRINCE HAS RISEN
The messages keep coming, a chaotic flood of disbelief and joyous celebration. I stare at the screen, a grin so wide it actually hurts, because they believe it. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not the punchline.
Even if it’s a lie, even if it’s a carefully constructed business transaction, that picture is a weapon. It’s a match I can use to burn down every humiliating memory—every failed attempt, every Kellerman Retreat, every night spent alone wondering what the hell was wrong with me.
For now, I’m the guy who got the girl.
And I’ve never felt better.