Chapter 14 #3
I rolled my eyes because if I did not, I might do something much worse.
Like admit he was right.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
“Drew.”
“Post me.”
“You are deranged.”
“Post me, and I’ll stop talking for five minutes.”
I pulled out my phone with a sigh dramatic enough to deserve applause. “Fine.”
He immediately threw an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side.
Too close.
Too warm.
Too good at this.
I opened the camera and aimed it at us. On screen, I looked annoyed, polished, and secretly alive. Drew looked smug enough to be prosecuted. His cheek was close to my hair. His hand hung over my shoulder, big and easy, fingers brushing my collarbone like he belonged there.
I took the picture.
He looked at it and nodded. “Good. Caption it—Obsessed.”
I typed: He’s obsesed.
He laughed.
A real one.
Then he bent and kissed my temple before I could prepare myself.
Quick. Casual. Public.
My heart did something stupid anyway.
The story went up.
Within thirty seconds, he reposted it with:
She misspelled obsessed.
I stared at my phone.
Then at him.
“You are going to ruin my life.”
“Nah.” He squeezed my hand. “I’m improving the brand.”
By late afternoon, I was exhausted from pretending not to enjoy my fake boyfriend.
PT did not help.
My hamstring was tight and mean, the kind of ache that made every movement feel like my body was reminding me who was actually in charge. Tiffany had me doing controlled work on the table while I stared at the ceiling and tried not to make faces.
“You’re quiet today,” she said.
“I’m meditating.”
“You’re threatening the ceiling with your eyebrows.”
“I’m from Texas. That’s still our face.”
She snorted.
The training room was busy, but not packed. A couple swimmers were icing shoulders. A baseball guy had his ankle wrapped. Two cheer girls were stretching near the wall, whispering while pretending not to look at me.
Or at the door.
Which opened five minutes later.
Of course.
Drew walked in with a protein shake in one hand and my backpack slung over one shoulder.
My backpack.
I sat up on my elbows. “Why do you have that?”
“You left it in the cafeteria.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You were going to. I prevented it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when I’m right.”
He crossed the room like he had every right to be there and dropped into the chair beside my table, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Tiffany looked at him. “You injured?”
“Emotionally.”
“Then leave.”
He handed me the shake. “Drink.”
I looked at it. “What is this?”
“Chocolate protein. Before you start, it tastes like a milkshake if you lie to yourself.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You’re rehabbing. You need protein.”
“You are not my nutritionist.”
“No, I’m better-looking.”
Tiffany made a sound like she was trying not to laugh.
I took the shake because refusing would only make him more pleased with himself. “You’re obnoxious.”
“Hydrated, fed, and healing,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
I sipped.
It was actually good.
Drew’s gaze dropped to my leg while Tiffany guided me through another movement. His face changed subtly when I winced. Not panic. Not pity. Something tighter. Controlled.
“You hurting?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“No athlete says that and means anything but catastrophic denial.”
I froze.
Because Tristan had said almost the same thing once.
Same training room. Same injury. Same kind of concern.
But it felt different from Drew.
With Tristan, I had collected the attention like proof. See? He noticed. He cares. This means something.
With Drew, I did not have to make it mean something.
He was just there. Handing me terrible protein shakes and carrying my bag and watching my face like he cared whether I lied.
“Isa,” he said, voice lower.
Not Texas.
Not baby.
My throat tightened.
“I’m okay,” I said, softer this time.
He nodded once.
Not fully believing me.
Staying anyway.
Across the room, one of the cheer girls whispered something to the other and looked over. Drew followed my gaze, then leaned forward in his chair.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
I hated that he read me so fast.
Before I could stop him, he stood and moved close to the table. “Tiffany, she good for a break?”
Tiffany glanced at me, then at him, then back at my leg. “Two minutes.”
Drew held out a hand.
“I am literally on a treatment table.”
“Good observation.”
“Where are we going?”
“Corner.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“It’s strategic.”
I should not have taken his hand.
I did.
He helped me down carefully, one hand firm at my waist when my balance wobbled. Then he led me the short distance to the shadowed corner near the equipment shelves where extra foam rollers, towels, and bands were stacked.
It was not private.
Not really.
But it felt private, which was apparently all my body required to make poor decisions.
Drew backed me gently against the wall.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Rule compliance.”
My heart kicked. “Drew.”
“People are watching.”
“People are always watching.”
“Exactly.”
Then he kissed me.
Not like the training room kiss.
That one had been a bomb.
This was slower. Smaller. His hand slid along my jaw, thumb resting just below my cheekbone, and his mouth touched mine like he had all the time in the world to make a lie convincing.
I told myself to stay stiff.
For strategy.
For boundaries.
For New Year’s Eve and clean breaks and not falling in love with the most impossible man on campus.
Then his mouth moved against mine, and I forgot every rule I had ever made.
My fingers caught the front of his hoodie.
He made a low sound against my lips.
Not loud.
Not showy.
Just enough that I felt it in my bones.
When he pulled back, his forehead hovered close to mine. For one second, neither of us moved.
The training room noise returned slowly.
Towels. Voices. The slap of tape. Somebody laughing too loudly.
I opened my eyes.
His were already open.
“Was that for them?” I asked.
His thumb brushed once along my jaw.
“At first.”
My stomach dropped clean through the floor.
Then he stepped back, like he knew exactly what he had done and did not trust himself to stay.
“I’ll wait,” he said, voice rougher now. “Finish your PT.”
I stared at him.
He walked back to the chair beside my table and sat down like nothing had happened.
Like I was supposed to go back to hamstring exercises after a man admitted the fake kiss stopped being fake halfway through. Like the heat burning low in my belly and my thighs didn’t remember the dirty things he did to me before.
I wanted to throw something at him.
I wanted to crawl into his lap.
I wanted to call my mother and scream that I had a fake boyfriend who was better at being real than the boy she had told me to catch.
Instead, I went back to the table and finished my rehab with shaking legs that had nothing to do with my injury.
The next home game was two days later.
I told myself I was not going.
Then Drew texted me a picture of his jersey lying on what looked like his bed.
Drew: Wear it.
Me: No.
Drew: That wasn’t a request.
Me: I’m not one of your little football fangirls.
Drew: Good. They don’t get my jersey.
I stared at that one too long.
Then another text came through.
Drew: It’s on your dorm door. Don’t pretend you didn’t smile.
I did not smile.
I absolutely did not.
I opened the door ten seconds later.
The jersey hung from the knob on a black hanger, freshly washed, red and white and enormous, TRAVERS across the back and his number beneath it. It smelled faintly like detergent and him, which felt illegal.
There was a note clipped to the hanger.
Rule compliance. Also, you’ll look hot.
I looked down the hall both ways, snatched the jersey inside, and shut the door.
Lana watched from her bed, grinning.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I said nothing.”
“You are saying it with your face.”
“You’re wearing it.”
“I’m considering it.”
“You’re wearing it.”
I wore it.
With boots.
Because I had dignity.
Or at least the remains of some.
The jersey swallowed me, hitting mid-thigh, loose through the shoulders in a way that should have looked ridiculous but somehow did not. I belted it slightly at the waist, left my hair down in soft waves, put on gold hoops, and stared at myself in the mirror with my pulse doing something reckless.
It was a costume.
A fake-girlfriend uniform.
A strategic visual.
That was all.
Except when I turned and saw TRAVERS across my back, something warm and possessive unfurled in my chest.
Not owned.
Not claimed like property.
Chosen.
Which was stupid because this entire thing had an expiration date.
I reminded myself of that all the way to the stadium.
It didn’t help.
The game atmosphere was electric. Stanford football under the lights had its own kind of religion—music shaking the stands, student section screaming, cameras flashing, the field impossibly green. I limped carefully down the steps with Lana beside me and my heart in my throat.
People noticed the jersey immediately.
A girl near the aisle whispered, “She’s wearing Travers.”
Someone else said, “That’s actually iconic.”
I pretended not to hear.
I absolutely heard.
Down on the field, players were warming up in controlled chaos. Helmets, pads, sharp cuts, bodies moving with violent precision. I found Drew without meaning to.
He was running a route.
Fast.
I had seen him on campus. In class. At dinner. At lunch with fries in his hand and arrogance all over his face.
I had not really watched him work.
Not like this.
Drew on a football field was different. Bigger somehow.
Sharper. All that ridiculous physical confidence suddenly made sense when he cut across the turf and separated from the defender like the air itself owed him space.
The ball came, spiraling hard and clean, and he caught it without breaking stride.
My breath caught.
He was not just pretty muscle and bad decisions.
He was good.
Brilliant, maybe.
That did something to me.
Something humiliating.
Lana leaned close. “You look proud.”
“I look normal.”
“You look like your fake boyfriend just discovered fire and you want to clap.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”