Chapter 16
FOCUS, NOT FIREWORKS (WREN)
Iwake to my phone vibrating across the desk like a hornet’s nest. Winter-gray light fills the room. The radiator ticks. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs—residue from last night’s arena crowd still ringing in my head.
My phone buzzes again.
I grab it, squinting at the screen.
AUbrEY
ARE YOU AWAKE
HELLOOOOOOO
Pick up pick up pick up
You wore his jersey
He scored
He POINTED AT YOU
Then tapped his chest like “for her” and the Dog Pound lost their collective mind
My body braces before my mind catches up.
WREN
What are you talking about?
What’s Dog Pound?
AUbrEY
Ohmygod
I have video
Brace yourself
A link appears. I hesitate, then tap.
The clip loads—a replay from some student account. Kieran streaks down the right side, cuts in, quick hands, top shelf. The arena roars through my phone, bright enough to prickle behind my eyes.
He circles the net. Slows. Taps his glove over his heart. Lifts his chin toward the student section.
Toward where I’d been standing.
Aubrey’s calling now. “I thought he was fixing his pads,” I say.
Aubrey is shrieking, voice so bright I hold the phone away. “You thought he was— Wren. When a campus hockey star points at you, it’s not a pad adjustment.”
“He’s not—” I start.
“You wore his jersey. You. Wore. His. Jersey.” She drops to a scandalized whisper. “Do you understand what that means?”
No.
I watch the clip again. The tap. The look, like the rest of the arena doesn’t exist.
My pulse kicks hard. I can suddenly feel every eye that was on me last night.
“I wore it thinking maybe Theo would notice,” I say weakly.
“Forget Theo. You wore a jersey that says O’CONNOR across the back in giant letters.” A beat. “That’s not merch, Wren. That’s a claim.”
My chest does something complicated. “We’re fake dating. It’s optics.”
“That wasn’t for Theo. That was for you.” A pause. “Did he kiss you after?”
“What? No.”
Another beat. “Did you want him to?”
“I want to pass Engineering 204,” I say, standing up. “Can we discuss my fictional love life later?”
“Fictional,” she snorts. “Text me when you’re done pretending you’re not falling for him.”
“I’m not—”
She hangs up.
I stare at the frozen frame of Kieran with his hand over his heart, something warm and terrifying blooming in my chest.
Focus, I tell myself.
My phone buzzes again. Larisa’s face fills the screen the second I answer—too close, upside down.
“I got a discount code.”
“For what?” I ask, even though I know.
“Billie in February at Radio City Hall.” She flips the phone; the kitchen ceiling blurs, then I see her grin. Messy buns. Illicit eyeliner. Home.
“February when?” I grab my towel. “The twenty-first?”
“Friday night. Mom’s worried about the subway that late.” She attempts a stern-mom voice and fails. “She said, ‘we’ll see if we can afford it and if someone responsible can go with you.’ Then she stared at me like she was trying to summon one.”
“I can be responsible.” A beat. “Sometimes.”
“You do math. That’s basically responsibility.”
I laugh. “I’ll be home that weekend. We’ll go.”
Her face lights up—soft lilac, the way our hallway used to glow during movie nights. “For real?”
“For real.”
“Wren, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I mean it. “Early birthday present. For both of us.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We hang up. I flop back on the bed and do the math anyway—tickets, bus fare, food. The numbers settle heavy in my chest.
The tutoring money isn’t extra anymore. It’s necessary.
Which means I need to keep Kieran as a client.
I dress fast, knot my hair, zip my coat, and head to campus to do the one thing I’m actually good at: solving problems.
The study lounge on the third floor has terrible lighting and one table that doesn’t wobble. I claim it, lining up the things that give order to chaos: notebook, mechanical pencil, graph paper, highlighter.
Theo arrives first, careful smile in place, a stack of printed slides nobody asked for.
“Afternoon,” he says.
“Hey.” I glance at the pile. “You brought slides.”
“Sometimes it helps to see it.” He’s already pulling up the stress–strain curve lab. “I was thinking we isolate the variable we couldn’t get clean in simulation—”
The air shifts.
White-gold at the edges of my vision, warm and bright.
Kieran drops into the chair beside me. When he leans in to look at my notes, his shoulder brushes mine.
My grip tightens on the pencil.
He doesn’t look like a campus hockey star right now. Just someone who skated hard and slept badly—beanie low, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms. Present in a way that makes the space tilt.
“Hey, Rules.” Steel blue, threaded straight through me.
I hate that I recognize the difference between tired and teasing. Hate that I like it.
Theo lifts a hand. “Nice game last night.”
“Thanks.” Kieran grins, then nods at my sketch. “Did I miss the part where we named a new alloy after me?”
“Yes,” I say. “Hot Ego.”
His laugh is soft, lower. Pewter. My pencil skids a millimeter. I fix it.
“We’re setting up the test matrix,” Theo says, sliding a sheet over. “We need consistent boundary conditions.”
“Story of my life.” Kieran meets my eyes. “Do I pass if I dedicate more goals to our boundary conditions?”
Theo snorts. I don’t. The pencil tip snaps.
“Please don’t call me a boundary condition.”
“What should I call you?” That half smile. “Professor? Coach? Captain of pretending you didn’t see me point at you from center ice?”
Heat floods my neck. “I didn’t know what you were doing.”
“Looks like someone explained it.” His eyes hold mine. “Next time, wave back.”
Theo clears his throat, suddenly fascinated by his backpack. “I’m gonna bow out before this gets any more…athletic.”
He emails me the file, then hesitates. “Send me the updated measurements. I’ll rerun the simulations.”
Concern, not jealousy. Sage-green with a thin gray edge.
That’s always been Theo—steady, safe.
A month ago, that steadiness would’ve felt like hope. Now it just feels like friendship.
The crush doesn’t end with drama. It just…goes quiet.
“See you in class,” I say, and it feels like closing a door I don’t need anymore.
Theo smiles—small, sincere—and leaves.
The room exhales.
So do I.
“So,” I say, turning back to the table and straightening our notes. Order to chaos. Always. “Division of labor: you handle the prototype geometry, I’ll finish the sensor housing and draft the structural section. Theo will tweak the simulation once we send updated specs.”
“Perfect.” Kieran leans in, sleeves pushed up, forearms distracting. “I’ll rework the 3D model tonight.”
I refocus on the outline. “If we push next week, we can finish the design portion before Presidents’ Day.”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
My stomach tightens. “What now?”
He rubs the back of his neck. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he is nervous.
“My brother and some of his teammates rented a place upstate for the long weekend,” he says. “Mid-season reset. Board games, hiking. Pretending the world isn’t on fire.”
“The Defenders?” I ask.
“Yeah. Both my siblings. A bunch of the crew.” His mouth curves, softer than usual. “Liam invited me a few days ago. I haven’t seen them in months.”
He pauses. Looks at me.
My pulse stutters.
“We’d have space to work,” he adds, quieter now. “The place is huge. Quiet. No roommates. No Dog Pound. If we can get the data set to behave next week, we could draft the report while we’re there.”
Quiet.
The word settles low in my chest.
I should say no. This is crossing a line—from fake dating into something messier. Real time. Real proximity.
But the idea of a weekend without dorm noise or campus eyes pulls at something worn thin inside me.
Maybe I want to go.
Not for the project.
For him.
“Kieran, I don’t know if that’s—”
“It wouldn’t be weird,” he says quickly. “You won’t be alone with me. There’ll be people everywhere. My sister will probably adopt you before we unpack.” A beat. “And I think you could use a break. From all this.”
He gestures vaguely at the campus beyond the windows.
He said it without me explaining.
That understanding hits harder than any color.
I look down at my notes. Then back up at him.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll come.”
His shoulders drop in unmistakable relief.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His smile this time isn’t practiced. It’s open, unguarded.
“We’ll leave after lunch on Friday,” he says, standing. “It’s gonna be good, Rules.”
I watch him walk away, my heart doing something I don’t have a formula for. The lounge settles into hush. I flip to a clean page and write one word at the top.
Focus.
It doesn’t stick.
Tomorrow will be quiet.
Tomorrow will be productive.
Tomorrow will be ordinary.
I tell myself that until it almost sounds true.
Later, in my dorm, I open my laptop to review the project specs.
Instead, I click the video.
Kieran circling the net. The tap over his heart. The way he looks straight at the camera—at me—like the rest of the arena doesn’t exist.
I watch it again. Then once more before I catch myself.
This was supposed to be simple. Fake dating. Clean variables. Measurable outcomes.
Theo doesn’t make my pulse race anymore. Somewhere between late nights in the library, Kieran’s hand warm in mine and his jersey on me, the lines blurred.
I close the laptop and stare at the ceiling.
Focus, I tell myself.
But how am I supposed to focus when the thing I’m trying not to think about just invited me away for three days?
My phone buzzes.
KIERAN
Upstate gets cold at night. Pack warm
You’re going to love my sister
Fair warning, she asks a lot of questions
Looking forward to it, Rules
Looking forward to it.
Not see you there. Not something careful.
I type back before I can overthink it.
WREN
I’ll be ready
The lie glows on the screen.
Because I’m not ready.
Not for a weekend away.
Not for whatever this is becoming.
But I’m going anyway.
And that might be the most dangerous variable in the entire equation.