2. Mallory #3
The smell hit me immediately: citrus cleaner cutting through the mustiness of old wood with an undertone of a candle burning.
It was pleasant. I navigated past a tower of boxes and dropped Mom’s drink onto the kitchen counter.
She wasn’t picky when it came to coffee as long as it had caffeine in it.
The cup left an immediate ring of condensation on the white quartz.
“Well?” Mom’s voice floated from somewhere behind a box. She popped up holding a cast-iron skillet that could double as a murder weapon. “How was it? Up to your standards?”
I shrugged out of my tote bag, letting it slide down my arm onto the counter. “Cute. The matcha was decent. Will definitely go again.”
Mom’s eyes narrowed, gaze dropping from my face to my chest. “What happened to you?” She set the skillet down with a heavy thunk and pointed at the dark stain across my tank top.
I’d forgotten about the state of my shirt.
Rolling my eyes, I replied, “My fault.” I busied myself peeling the paper wrapper off her straw, rolling it into a tiny tube between my fingers.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going. And bam.
Iced coffee everywhere. Very tragic. Extremely humiliating.
But don’t worry, I bought him a new one. ”
“Him?”
Damn it.
I’d said too much. Or not enough. Either way, she was suddenly intrigued.
“I don’t know. Some guy,” I admitted, stabbing the straw through the plastic lid maybe more aggressively than necessary. “I haven’t had a chance to do a background check yet.”
“But you want to know more. What was he like?”
“Mom,” I groaned, unable to believe how easily she could read me. I might as well have been screaming his name.
“What? I’m curious.” She picked up her coffee, sipping through the straw while maintaining unbroken eye contact. “And I’m not the only one.”
“It wasn’t a thing,” I said, already inching toward the stairs because I knew where this conversation was heading and I wanted no part of it. Best to nip it in the bud. “Please don’t make it into something it’s not.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely making it a thing.” She grinned shamelessly. “Tell me you got his number or at least his name.”
I winced, one foot on the bottom step, hand gripping the banister. Escape was so close. I’d gotten his brother’s number and both their names, but she didn’t need any more ammunition. “I’m going to finish unpacking my room.”
Her laugh followed me down the hallway.
My room was still seventy percent cardboard boxes, thirty percent blown-up air mattress, and zero percent functional teenage sanctuary.
Instead of unpacking, because clearly, I was committed to living in chaos, I dropped onto the mattress.
It exhaled beneath me, the air shifting and settling until I’d created a Mallory-shaped depression in the center.
The fitted sheet had come loose on one corner, but I didn’t fix it.
I grabbed my laptop from where I’d abandoned it earlier, balanced it on my thighs, and opened a browser window.
The search bar blinked. Cursor waiting. My fingers hovered over the keys for just a second, long enough to acknowledge this was probably a terrible idea, but I was curious, and I needed to know more.
I typed: Maddox Corvo Elmwood
The results loaded instantly, and I immediately understood that Maddox Corvo wasn’t just some guy.
He was the guy.
Football articles dominated the first page. Headlines with words like “Legend,” “Dynasty,” and “Undefeated.” Local news posts about championship games and recruitment offers. A sports blog dedicated entirely to analyzing his stats like he was a professional athlete instead of a high-school senior.
I clicked the Images tab.
Photos flooded the screen, dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Maddox in his football uniform, number 63 stretched across his chest and back. Maddox holding trophies that were almost as tall as he was, helmets tucked under his arm, grass stains on his knees, sweat-soaked hair curling at his temples.
I scrolled slowly, clicking through images, building a mental file.
Every photo told the same story: this wasn’t just a guy who played football. This was someone who understood what it meant to carry expectations. I didn’t have to guess what he wanted to do after high school. Football seemed like the obvious answer.
People wrote about him like he was mythology built out of Friday night stadium lights and town-wide awe. Maddox Corvo, Elmwood’s defense golden boy. Four-year varsity starter. Team captain. State championship winner.
I lay sidelong on the mattress, staring at the screen, and snorted. This was the guy I’d crashed into. He couldn’t be further from my type.
I snapped my laptop shut, convincing myself I wouldn’t give Maddox Corvo or his twin brother another thought.
I didn’t want to waste my brain power or energy.
I hadn’t come to Elmwood for a boy. Not that having a boyfriend would be a horrible thing.
I just wasn’t into popular jocks like Maddox.
This might be my chance at a fresh start, but some habits didn’t disappear overnight, and being in the spotlight, like dating the football captain, gave me hives just imagining all the attention.
I had too many damn secrets to protect.