Chapter 14 #8
He pulled back just enough to let me breathe, but not enough to let me go. His hands stayed on my hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the jersey like he liked seeing his number on me almost as much as he liked touching me in it.
“Think we convinced them?” he asked.
My brain was still trying to reassemble itself.
“Convinced who?”
He nodded toward the bonfire without looking away from me. “Anyone wondering if this was fake.”
My pulse stumbled.
Fake.
Right.
The word came back like cold water.
I looked over his shoulder. A few people were absolutely watching.
Jace had both hands raised like he’d just witnessed a religious event.
Dante looked amused and vaguely pained. Tristan stood rigid near the other fire, face unreadable.
Stella had her arms crossed and one brow raised like she was already bored with men again.
Drew’s thumb moved once over my hip.
I looked back at him.
There was humor in his face, yes.
Swagger.
Trouble.
But beneath it, something else had flickered at the word fake.
Something I might have imagined.
Something he hid too fast.
I lifted my chin because I needed my pride back. Because my mouth was swollen, my body was humming, and my fake boyfriend had just kissed me like he wanted to ruin the concept of distance forever.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I said.
His grin deepened.
“Baby, you moaned.”
My face went hot enough to light the beach.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“That was outrage.”
“That was not outrage.”
“You are delusional.”
“You’re in my jersey, kissing me back, and lying badly.” His hand slid up my side, stopping at my waist. “I’m having a great night.”
I should have stepped back.
Instead, I stayed exactly where I was, caught between his body and the ocean, between anger and want, between a fake relationship and a very real problem.
“You’re still an ass,” I said.
“Yeah.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “But I’m your ass.”
The words should have been a joke.
They weren’t. And that was the danger of Drew Travers.
He said impossible things with that wicked mouth, wrapped them in arrogance, and left just enough truth underneath to make me wonder if I was the only one pretending.
I pressed one hand to his chest, right over the hard beat of his heart.
“For now,” I said.
His gaze sharpened.
Then his smile came back, bright and cocky and protective enough to make me furious.
“For now,” he agreed.
By the time we left the bonfire, I had sand in my boots, Drew’s taste still on my tongue, and a deep suspicion that fake dating had become the most dangerous sport at Stanford.
Drew drove one-handed, his other hand resting on the console between us like he was giving me the option to take it without making it obvious.
I did not take it.
Mostly because I wanted to.
The Pacific slipped by in dark flashes beyond the windows, moonlight catching on the water whenever the road curved close enough.
Drew had turned the music low, some old rock song with a rough guitar line and a man singing like love had ruined his credit score.
Neither of us spoke for the first few minutes.
Which was fine.
Silence with Drew was different from silence with Tristan.
Tristan’s silence had always made me wonder what he was holding back.
Drew’s made me wonder what I was.
My leg ached from too much sand, too much standing, too much emotional warfare in boots. I shifted carefully in the passenger seat, trying not to wince.
Drew noticed anyway.
Of course he did.
“You hurting?”
“No.”
He glanced over.
I looked out the window.
“Texas.”
“I said no.”
“You said no in the voice athletes use when they’re one wrong step from seeing stars.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
“You limped the last twenty yards to the car.”
“I was making a stylish exit.”
“You were making me want to carry you.”
My pulse tripped.
I kept my face turned toward the window. “You carry me too much.”
“You keep being tiny and injured.”
“I am not tiny.”
“You’re wearing my jersey like a dress, baby.”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah,” he said, too softly. “You keep saying that.”
The rest of the drive went quiet again.
His house was tucked off a clean, tree-lined street just far enough from campus to feel removed from the noise but close enough that I knew the rent had to be ridiculous. It wasn’t some giant mansion. That would have been easier to mock. It was worse than that.
It was tasteful.
Modern California lines, pale stucco, black-framed windows, warm light spilling through glass. Low landscaping. No beer cans in the yard. No folding chairs. No tragic collection of mismatched athlete furniture on the porch.
Inside was even more unfair.
Clean. Just like I had remembered.
Orderly. Expensive. Quiet.
The entry smelled faintly like cedar, laundry detergent, and something sharp and green.
Shoes lined up near the wall. Keys in a tray.
Mail stacked perfectly. The living room had a gray sectional, a low wood coffee table, shelves arranged with books and framed photos and not one single empty protein tub pretending to be decor.
There were no piles.
No chaos.
No evidence that a six-foot-four football menace lived here except for the massive sneakers by the door and a Stanford duffel dropped exactly on a bench like even his mess had rules.
I stood in the doorway too long.
Drew shut the door behind us and looked at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re making a face.”
“I am not.”
“You look shocked.”
“I’m not shocked.”
His mouth curved. “You thought I lived in a cave and I brought you to an AIRBNB last time?”
“I thought there would be more laundry on the floor.”
“Laundry goes in hampers.”
“You have hampers plural?”
“One for lights. One for darks. One for workout gear.” He paused. “And one for towels.”
I turned slowly. “You’re lying.”
“About towels?”
“No man has a towel hamper.”
“This one does.”
I stared at him.
Drew’s grin widened, and for one ridiculous second, he looked almost shy beneath the arrogance. Like he was bracing for me to make fun of him and prepared to pretend it wouldn’t land.
That did something to me.
Something small and sharp.
“So,” I said, glancing around again. “Is this yours? Are you renting it? You live here by yourself?”
His smile faded a little.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
“Booster-owned place,” he said. “Compliance cleared it. Athletic housing exception, donor program, all that boring paperwork stuff. I don’t do well in dorms.”
I looked back at him.
He shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “Too small. Too noisy. Too many people. I need quiet.”
Something about the way he said it made me stop teasing.
He saw that too.
“I have OCD,” he added, casual in tone but not in his eyes. “Had it forever, I guess. I need things a certain way. Not cute little color-coded planner OCD. Real kind. Order helps. Noise doesn’t. Clutter messes with my head.”
My chest tightened.
Drew Travers, who had shoved Tristan Vale in front of half the athletic department.
Drew Travers, who ate three cheeseburgers like a competitive event.
Drew Travers, who kissed me on a beach like the moon had personally offended him.
Standing in his spotless entryway, telling me this like he expected me to flinch.
I hated that I wanted to touch him.
So I looked at the shelves instead.
Books. Actual books. Sports psychology. Biomechanics. A thick finance textbook. A novel with a cracked spine. Film notes stacked neatly beside a laptop.
“You study,” I said before I could stop myself.
His brows lifted.
I winced immediately. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you did.”
My face heated.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, watching me without cruelty. That almost made it worse.
“I’m not the dumb jock, Calloway,” he said. “Even though you put me in that category the second you met me.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Because he was right.
I had.
Not all the way. Not consciously. But enough. I had seen the hoodie with the hacked-off sleeves, the swagger, the girls, the body, the mouth, and sorted him into a convenient box so I wouldn’t have to take him seriously.
Until he kept showing up.
Until he noticed everything.
Until he fed me and carried my bag and watched my pain with more honesty than most people watched my face.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
His expression changed.
Just barely.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I cut in. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
The house went quiet around us.
Drew looked at me for a long second, and something in his face softened so fast it made my stomach hurt.
Then, because he was Drew and incapable of letting tenderness live too long without poking it, he said, “Damn. Say it again. Slower.”
I rolled my eyes. “There he is.”
“Missed me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I shifted my weight and immediately regretted it. Pain tugged through my hamstring, a hot little warning.
Drew saw.
His whole face sharpened.
“Couch,” he said.
“I can walk to the couch.”
“Did I ask?”
“Drew—”
He moved before I finished saying his name. One arm slid behind my back, the other beneath my knees, and then I was off the floor.
Again.
I grabbed his shoulder. “You did not have to carry me across your living room.”
“I know.”
He set me down on the couch like I weighed nothing, which was irritating because I knew I did not weigh nothing. Then he crouched in front of me and started arranging pillows behind my back.
“I wanted to.”
The words were simple.
No wink.
No smirk.
Just there.
My throat went dry.
“You are very bossy for a fake boyfriend.”
“Perfect fake boyfriend,” he corrected, lifting my injured leg carefully onto the ottoman.
“The most perfect fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“How many have you had?”
“Thousands.”
“Slutty.”
I laughed before I could help it.
His eyes flicked up to mine, and the way he smiled—small, pleased, almost private—made me feel like he’d been trying for that laugh and winning it mattered.
Then he looked back down at my leg. “Brace off?”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.”
But he waited.
That was the thing.
He offered. He didn’t take.
I hated how much that mattered.
I nodded once.