Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
Blair
I sit up slowly, the air cool against my skin, and reach for my notebook.
Studying is supposed to help. It’s part of the routine.
Something solid. Something I can control.
I flip through my notes, highlight a few lines, and try to recite a definition under my breath.
But the words blur. My focus slips. Every page feels like static.
I close the notebook and look across the room.
Kinsley is still asleep, curled into her comforter like she’s part of the mattress.
Her hair spills across the pillow in tangled waves, one arm flung over her face like she’s blocking out the world.
I have to pry her out of bed most mornings, threaten her with cold water, yank the covers, and bribe her with coffee. But I won’t today.
It’s Saturday.
And I need the quiet.
The jersey is still there, folded neatly on the chair.
Grey, white, and hunter green. University of Northern Tennessee.
The Riverhawks. Kane’s team. His world. I stand and walk over, fingers brushing the stitched number.
It smells like him, faint sweat, cedar, something darker underneath. I hesitate, then slip it over my head.
The fabric is heavy. Oversized. It hangs past my hips, the sleeves grazing my arms. I feel swallowed by it. Claimed. Like I’m wearing a secret.
I walk to the mirror and stare at my reflection.
I don’t look like myself. Not exactly. I look like someone who’s already made a choice. Someone who stepped off the ledge and hasn’t hit the ground yet. Someone who’s already his.
And I don’t know if that terrifies me or makes me feel more real than I ever have.
I stand in front of the mirror a moment longer, staring at the jersey hanging off my frame. It’s too much. Too loud. Too his. I peel it off slowly, folding it with careful hands, like it might shatter if I’m not gentle.
It goes back on the chair.
Right where it was before everything shifted.
I pull on leggings and a hoodie, neutral, forgettable, mine. I tie my hair back, swipe on a little concealer, and grab my phone and student ID.
I slip out of the room and into the hallway, the air cooler than I expected. My steps echo faintly against the tile, and I count them without meaning to.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I’m not hungry, but I need the motion. The routine. The illusion of normal.
And maybe, if I keep moving, I won’t feel the weight of Kane’s jersey still pressed into my skin.
I step into the hallway, hoodie zipped, hair pulled back, trying to look like someone who slept. Like someone who’s fine. The walk to the dining hall is quiet, just the hum of vending machines and the distant thud of someone’s door closing.
But then it hits me.
The kiss.
Last night.
His hands on my waist.
His breath against my cheek.
The way he looked at me like he was memorizing the moment before he claimed it.
My first kiss.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was him, all heat and possession and the kind of hunger that made me forget how to count. His mouth on mine, coaxing me open, pulling me under. My fingers curled in his shirt, my body pressed to his like I was trying to disappear inside him.
I’d never been kissed like that.
I’d never been kissed at all.
And now I can’t stop replaying it.
The way he whispered my name between breaths.
The way he didn’t ask, he knew.
The way I didn’t want it to end.
I blink hard, trying to focus on the hallway ahead. But my lips still feel swollen. My chest still feels tight. And the jersey back in my room feels like a promise I don’t know how to keep.
I sit at my usual spot in the dining hall, corner table, second row from the windows, the one with the chipped edge and the view of the quad.
It’s early enough that the crowd hasn’t hit yet, just a few scattered students and the hum of clinking trays.
I scroll through my phone, not really reading anything.
Just trying to keep my mind busy. Trying not to replay last night in my head.
Kane’s mouth on mine.
My first kiss.
The way it felt like surrender and ignition all at once.
I swipe to the next screen, then back again. My thumb moves, but my thoughts don’t.
A shadow falls across the table.
Micah slides into the seat across from me without asking, like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he belongs there.
I glance up, startled. “Hey.”
He doesn’t smile. Just nods toward my chest. “No jersey today?”
I blink. “It’s in my room.”
Micah leans back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the dining hall like he’s looking for something. Or someone.
“I wonder how many other girls will be wearing that number today,” he says casually. “Kane’s got fans. You know that, right?”
I stiffen. “It’s not like that.”
He shrugs. “Maybe not for you.”
I don’t respond. I just look down at my tray, suddenly nauseous.
Micah taps his fingers against the table. “Just hope you’re not one of many, Blair. That jersey looks better when it means something.”
Then he stands and walks away, leaving me with a half-eaten banana, a cold coffee, and a storm rising in my chest.
Am I just another girl to him?
Was breaking down my routines a game to him?
Why is it that Micah’s there at every turn, warning me about Kane?