Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
DREW
I lay awake on the oversized couch long after the rain stopped.
The fire had burned low, nothing but embers now, casting a soft orange glow across the living room.
I hadn’t moved us upstairs. She’d been too heavy with it all—the crying, the exhaustion, the way her body finally gave out on her—and I hadn’t been willing to let go of her long enough to carry her to my bed.
So we stayed right here. Her in one of my old Stanford shirts, curled on her side. Me wrapped around her from behind like I could keep the whole damn world off her if I just held on tight enough.
Her hair was spilled across the arm in dark, messy waves. I’d cleaned her up after warm cloth between her legs, another across the mess I’d left on her. Every time I remembered it, something dark and satisfied twisted low in my gut.
She was out cold now. The kind of sleep that only comes after you’ve cried so hard your body taps out. Her breathing was slow and even against my arm. One hand tucked under her cheek. The other resting on top of mine where it was banded across her waist.
I should’ve been asleep too.
Instead I was wide awake, staring at the back of her neck, breathing her in. Rain and my detergent and that sweet, addictive scent of her skin that had been fucking with my head for months.
My cock was half-hard again just from having her this close.
From remembering how she’d sounded when she came on my tongue.
From the way she’d moaned in Spanish like she couldn’t stop herself.
From the way she’d looked up at me, wrecked and wanting, right before I pulled back and finished all over her stomach instead of inside her where I really wanted to be.
Making out and getting each other off hadn’t fixed a damn thing.
If anything, it made everything worse.
Because now I knew what she tasted like. Now I knew the exact sound she made when she came. Now I knew she kissed like she was starving and still somehow managed to taste like heartbreak the whole time.
And she was still in love with Tristan Vale.
My jaw locked tight. I pressed my face into the back of her hair and exhaled slow through my nose, trying to keep the anger from waking her.
I wasn’t stupid. I’d seen it the second she answered that call from her mother.
The way hope flickered back to life even while she was still crying over another man.
The way she’d looked at me after — guilty, torn up, like she wanted to want me but couldn’t quite shut off the part of her still bleeding for him.
I hated it.
Hated that she was this cut up over a guy who’d wanted someone else the entire time.
Hated that Tristan had looked at Stella Cortez like she was the only thing that mattered and still kept Isa on a string long enough to break her.
Hated that her own mother was already in her ear, coaching her on how to play the long game and win him back.
But mostly I hated how much it still hurt her.
Because I’d wanted her for a long time. Longer than the flowers.
Longer than the Thai food runs and waiting outside her practices.
I’d wanted her since the first time she rolled her eyes at me and called me a caveman.
Since the first time she let me walk her home and didn’t tell me to fuck off when I got too close.
I’d wanted her the way Tristan had wanted Stella.
And that sat like a stone in my chest.
She stirred in her sleep, a small sound catching in her throat. I tightened my arm around her waist without thinking, pulling her back against me until her ass was tucked against my hips and her back was flush to my chest. She settled again with a soft sigh, one leg sliding between mine.
My hand spread wide over her stomach, fingers brushing the hem of my shirt where it had ridden up. Something primal and possessive curl low and mean in my gut.
Mine.
The thought came vicious and uninvited.
I wasn’t going to let her keep running from me.
Not after tonight. Not after the way she’d clung to me in the rain like I was the only solid thing left.
Not after the way she’d come apart on my mouth and still looked at me like she didn’t know what the hell to do with any of it.
Not after she’d let me mark her and then fallen asleep in my arms like some part of her already knew this was where she belonged.
I brushed a strand of hair off her cheek with the backs of my fingers. She didn’t wake.
“You’re a fucking mess, Isa Calloway,” I murmured against her hair, voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “And I’m probably twice as stupid for wanting you anyway.”
She didn’t answer. Just kept breathing, slow and trusting, like even in sleep she knew I wasn’t going to hurt her.
I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the back of her head.
I didn’t know what tomorrow was going to look like. I didn’t know if she was going to wake up and pull away, try to rebuild the walls she’d let me knock down tonight. I didn’t know if she was going to keep chasing a guy who had already chosen himself over both of us.
But I knew one thing for certain.
I was done standing on the sidelines.
Not while she was still hurting. Not while she was still pretending her body didn’t light up for me the second I touched her. Not while there was even a chance she could want me back if she just let herself.
I was done watching her break herself over Tristan Vale.
If she was going to keep running, fine.
But this time, I was running after her.
And I had no intention of letting her get away. I picked her up gently and carried her off to my bed… the one she always belonged in.
I snuggled in closer, one arm sliding under her pillow so I could pull her fully against my chest. She made a soft sound in her sleep and settled back into me like she belonged there. I let out a long, slow sigh against the back of her neck, breathing her in one last time.
For the first time in months, I actually slept.
Deep. Heavy. No tossing. No waking up at three a.m. thinking about her with another guy. Just her warm body tucked into mine and the steady rhythm of her breathing pulling me under.
When I woke up, the sun was barely up. Pale gray light was leaking through the blinds. The first thing I noticed was the flowery smell.
Her.
Sweet and warm and a little like rain. For one stupid second I smiled into the pillow, still half-asleep, reaching out for her.
My hand landed on cold sheets.
I opened my eyes.
She was gone.
The spot where she’d been was empty. The blanket was folded back like she’d tried to make it neat on her way out. The only proof she’d even been here was the faint smell of her on my pillow.
Like a fucking dream.
Like a ghost who’d slipped out before the sun came up and pretended none of it had happened.
My hands fisted in the sheets. Hard. I sat up, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
I was mad.
Not just annoyed. Not just frustrated. Straight-up pissed.
I’d had plans. Stupid, soft plans I hadn’t even realized I was making until right now.
I was gonna wake her up slow. Make her coffee the way she liked it— too much cream, not enough sugar.
Cook her a real breakfast. Eggs, bacon, the works.
Maybe even sit her between my legs on the couch and braid that wild hair of hers while it was still messy from sleep, just so she didn’t have to deal with it before class.
Then I was gonna drive her to campus myself.
Make sure she got there safe. Make sure she knew last night wasn’t some one-off thing I was gonna let her run from.
All of that went up in smoke the second I realized she’d snuck out like a damn Cinderella who couldn’t face the morning.
I grabbed my phone off the coffee table, thumb swiping hard across the screen.
6:40 a.m.
Maybe she had an early trainer session. Maybe she had class. Maybe she just needed space.
Bullshit.
I knew her. She’d probably called an Uber the second she opened her eyes and realized where she was. Ran before I could wake up and make her deal with any of it.
My thumbs moved before I could talk myself out of it.
Running, Cinderella?
I stared at the message for a second, thumb hovering over send. Then I hit it.
It went through. Delivered.
No reply.
I waited.
Still nothing.
I tossed the phone onto the cushion beside me and dragged both hands down my face, exhaling hard through my nose.
She could run all she wanted.
But I wasn’t letting her disappear on me again.
Not after last night. Not after the way she’d come apart in my arms and still looked at me like she didn’t know whether to kiss me or cry. Not after she’d let me hold her while she fell apart over another man and then fell asleep in my bed like she was finally safe.
Isa Calloway could ghost all she wanted.
But Drew Travers wasn’t done.
Not even close.
I got up, jaw still tight, and yanked on a pair of sweats and a hoodie. The shirt I’d given her last night was gone. She’d walked out wearing it. That detail sat in my chest like a live wire.
I didn’t bother cleaning up the couch. Just grabbed my keys and headed out.
By the time I got to the football locker room, the sun was barely up and most of the guys were already there. Morning drills. Weights. Film. The usual grind. Normally I’d be loud — cracking jokes, talking shit, keeping the energy up. Today I didn’t say a word.
I changed in silence, taped my fingers, and hit the field like the grass had personally pissed me off.
First set of sprints, I was quiet.
By the third set, I was running like something was chasing me — or like I was chasing something I couldn’t catch. Every rep on the sled, every hit on the bags, I put my whole body into it. Harder than I needed to. Faster than the rest of them.
“Yo,” one of the linemen called out between drills, breathing hard. “Angry Drew is a fucking beast today.”
“Travers in beast mode,” another one laughed, but it was half nervous. “The hell crawled up your ass, man?”
I didn’t answer. Just reset and hit the next bag like it owed me money.
They kept trying, though. The whole morning they poked at me between sets.
“Girl trouble?”
“Somebody finally tell you no?”
“Or did somebody say yes and then ghost your big ass?”
I stayed quiet. Let them talk. Let them guess. I wasn’t giving them shit.
But the rest of the locker room wasn’t quiet.
Everybody was talking about last night.
The library showdown. Tristan Vale. Stella Cortez. And Isa.
I heard pieces of it while I changed after drills.
“—heard she straight up cried in front of everybody—”
“—Stella went nuclear, man. Dropped that shit about Isa’s mom trying to lock down Vale for the money—”
“—Vale just walked out. Left both of them standing there—”
“—Isa looked wrecked—”
I kept my head down and didn’t say a word, but every mention of her name made my blood run hotter.
After a long, scalding shower, I headed to the training room for stretching and tape on my shoulder. The place was half-empty this early. I was almost to the table when I saw him.
Tristan Vale.
Coming out of one of the side rooms, duffel over his shoulder, that clean, pretty-boy look still somehow intact even after everything that went down last night.
Our eyes met.
I didn’t slow down.
I grunted once — low, dismissive — and shouldered him hard as I passed. Not enough to start a full fight in the middle of the training room, but enough to make it clear I wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit.
He stumbled half a step.
I kept walking, but I couldn’t help myself. The words came out before I could stop them.
“She’s a fucking queen,” I said over my shoulder, loud enough for him and anyone nearby to hear. “Tasted like one too.”
Then I winked.
Tristan’s face went dark in half a second. He dropped his bag and swung.
The right hook came fast — I barely got my head out of the way in time. His fist grazed my jaw instead of connecting clean. I was already turning, ready to put him through the nearest wall, when two of my teammates grabbed me from behind and one of his grabbed him.
“Yo, chill—!”
“Travers, stand down!”
“Vale, what the fuck, man?!”
I didn’t fight the hands holding me back. Just stared at him over their shoulders, breathing hard, jaw throbbing where his knuckles had grazed me.
Tristan looked ready to murder me.
Good.
Let him.
Because while he was busy swinging at ghosts and choosing himself, I’d had her in my arms. I’d had her coming on my tongue. I’d had her falling asleep wearing my shirt.
And if he thought he was getting another shot at her without going through me first, he was even dumber than I thought.
I shook off my teammates’ hands, rolled my shoulder, and walked out without another word.
Let them talk.
Let him swing.
I wasn’t done with Isa Calloway.
And I sure as hell wasn’t done with him.