Chapter 13 #2
“When people are watching. When Casey is nearby. When your teammates are being fake as hell. When Vale walks into a room looking like a sad perfume ad. When I feel like it.”
“That last one is not a valid strategic reason.”
“It is if I’m committed to the role.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yep.” His teeth flashed. “That’s why you love me. Smile, people are watching.”
Before I could ask what people, his hand came across the table and wrapped around mine.
I froze.
It was not dramatic. Not at first. Just his large hand closing over mine, warm and sure, his thumb settling against the inside of my wrist like he had already been there a hundred times.
The diner kept moving around us—plates clattering, fryer hissing, some guy at the counter arguing about extra pickles—but the booth shrank down to the exact point where Drew’s finger started moving.
Slow.
Back and forth.
A lazy stroke against the sensitive skin beneath my palm.
My entire body went stupid.
I looked down at our hands because looking at his face felt dangerous.
His knuckles were rough. Tape still circled two fingers.
His wrist was thick, his forearm dusted with hair and muscle, the kind of arm that looked like it could haul furniture, catch touchdowns, and ruin my ability to make rational choices.
“This is excessive,” I said.
My voice came out thinner than planned.
Drew’s thumb kept moving. “This is hand-holding.”
“This is psychological warfare.”
“So?” He shrugged lazily, knowing exactly what this was doing to me.
I should have pulled away.
Instead, I sat there while he rubbed his thumb over my pulse and smiled across the table like he could feel every tiny betrayal happening under my skin.
Maybe he could. Maybe that was the worst part.
Drew did not watch me the way Tristan had watched me.
Tristan’s attention had been beautiful but careful, always held back, always divided by whatever ghost still lived under his ribs.
Drew watched me like he wanted the whole answer and did not care how messy the truth got.
Holy hell.
Was I really going to survive falling for another athlete built like a moving truck and emotionally armed like a natural disaster?
No. No, I was not falling for him. I was sitting in a diner, holding hands with my fake boyfriend, while my actual life remained a five-alarm disaster. There was a difference.
Probably.
The food arrived, saving me from the inside of my own head. Drew released my hand only long enough to drag two baskets toward him like a starving caveman. Then he looked at my chicken sandwich with visible suspicion.
“That’s sad.”
“It is grilled.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m an injured athlete.”
“You’re a beautiful woman in crisis. You need a burger.”
“I need a better fake boyfriend.”
“You got the best one.” He picked up the first cheeseburger and took a bite so huge it should have required a permit. Then, mouth full, he added, “My rules are elite.”
“Your rules are controlling.”
He swallowed and sat back. “Then give me yours.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“You asked what you get out of this. You want rules? Make rules.”
I looked at him, and for one second, I hated how fair that sounded. I had been ready to fight him on every stupid demand because fighting Drew was easier than admitting some part of me liked how much he wanted my time. My posts. My hand. My nights.
My presence.
With Tristan, I had waited for crumbs and called them signs. With Drew, he sat across from me building an entire fake relationship schedule like my attention was a starting position he intended to win.
It should have offended me.
It did.
It also did something else, and I refused to name it.
“Fine,” I said. “Rule one. You do not speak for me in public unless we agree first.”
His expression sobered a little. “Fair.”
“Rule two. No using me to make Casey jealous.”
“I’m using you to make Casey disappear.”
“Drew.”
His jaw flexed. “Okay. No using you like bait. I can do that.”
“Rule three. No making me look stupid.”
His eyes sharpened. “Never.”
The word landed too fast. Too serious. It made my chest pull tight because I believed him.
Not because Drew was polished or careful or sweet in the way men pretended to be sweet when they wanted praise for basic decency.
I believed him because he looked almost offended that I thought he would ever let people laugh at me.
I pushed a fry around my plate. “Rule four. My dorm exists. I am not moving into your house.”
“No one said move in.”
“You said overnight logistics.”
“Yeah. Two or three nights a week at my place.”
I choked again. Apparently, this dinner was going to kill me.
Drew looked unbothered. “Your dorm beds are built for nineteenth-century children. I’m too big. I can visit, hang for a bit, make your roommate uncomfortable with my presence, but sleeping there? No. My back has a future.”
“You are not sleeping in my dorm.”
“Correct. Glad we agree.”
“I am also not sleeping at your house three nights a week.”
“Two, then.”
“Drew.”
“One and a half.”
“That is not a number.”
“It is if you leave at breakfast.”
I gave him my coldest pageant smile. “You are insane.”
“And yet, here you are, eating my fries.”
I looked down.
At the fry in my hand.
Damn it.
He grinned into his burger like victory tasted like beef and melted cheese.
I threw the fry at him.
He caught it with his mouth.
Of course he did.
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, quick and real and stupidly happy. Drew stilled for half a second, just long enough that I saw it register. Then his expression softened in a way that made my throat feel tight.
He liked making me laugh.
Not winning. Not flirting. Not performing.
Making me laugh.
I looked away first.
“Rule five,” I said, needing the ground back under my feet. “No falling in love.”
The booth went quiet.
Not the diner. The diner kept existing, loud and greasy and bright. But the space between us changed. Drew stopped chewing. His eyes stayed on mine, and for the first time since he dragged me out of the training room with his arm around my shoulders, he did not have a joke ready.
My pulse climbed.
Then he leaned back slowly, wiped his thumb along the corner of his mouth, and gave me a smile that did absolutely nothing to calm me down.
“Okay, Calloway,” he said. “Don’t fall in love with me.”
My chin lifted. “I think I can manage that.”
His grin turned lethal. “Yeah? When you’re calling me crying, asking me to buy you a five-carat diamond ring and begging for my love back, I’m gonna remember this moment.”
I stared at him.
He picked up his second burger like he had not just said something completely unhinged. “Princess cut or oval? You seem like an oval girl.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and winked. “But keep practicing. New skills are important.”
I folded my arms and tried not to smile. “I have one more condition.”
“Hit me.”
“New Year’s Eve.”
His brow lifted.
“We break up by New Year’s Eve,” I said. “No matter what. I want spring semester clean from all of this. No Tristan drama, no Casey drama, no campus gossip, no fake relationship hanging over me. We give everyone a show until then, we survive the holidays, and by January, we end it.”
Drew stared at me for a second. The humor did not leave his face exactly, but something moved underneath it.