Adam stops in front of me, still smiling. "I didn't know you'd come tonight."
"Well, yeah," I say, "Zach invited me over."
He tilts his head, smirking in that teasing, too-knowing way. "I saw. So, I'm guessing things are goingverywell between you two?" he says, taking a slow sip of his beer.
I press my lips together, fighting back the grin threatening to take over my face, and give a tiny nod.
"That's great, Care," he says genuinely, voice softening a little.
"Wait—what do you mean you 'saw'? Were you at the stands last night too?"
He chuckles. "Nope. I've seen the videos."
"Videos?"
Adam grins wider, all mischief now. "Haven't you heard? Westbrook's little performance went viral. And no, I'm not talking about his game stats. Though, to be fair, hedidplay great last night. But I'm talking about him going full-on Swiftie for you."
Before I can even respond, he's already unlocking his phone and holding it up.
On the screen—there it is. Zach singingYou Are In Loveto me in front of hundreds of people. The video's sitting at over1M viewswith thousands of comments flooding in.
I snatch the phone from Adam's hand, mortified, and tap one of the hashtags.
#SingItLikeWestbrook
My eyes widen as more videos load—different angles, fan edits, slow-mo clips, reaction stitches, captions like"find you a man who looks at you like Westbrook looks at her"and"proof that men do listen to Taylor Swift... when they're in love".
My cheeks flame so hard I could probably toast marshmallows with them.
Sure, I expected people to talk about it around campus—but notthe entire internet.
Adam leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Congrats," he says, grin widening. "You've officially become the most envied girl in town for stealing the golden boy's heart."
He gestures subtly with his beer bottle, pointing around us. I follow his gaze—and that's when I really see it.
Practically half the room is staring.
Groups of girls clustered together, whispering behind their drinks. Some giving me side-eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. Others just flat-out glaring, like I'm public enemy number one for daring to exist in their golden boy's orbit.
"Sothisis why they've been glaring at me since I got here..." I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. "Ugh."
"Yep," Adam says, popping the "p" with way too much satisfaction, clearly enjoying every second of my social nightmare.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face while Adam just keeps snickering beside me like this is the best entertainment he's had all week.
"Come on," he says, grinning. "Let's dance before another batch of bunnies comes sniffing your way."
"Adam—"
Too late. He's already grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the center of the living room, where the "dance floor" is basically just sticky hardwood and people shouting lyrics over each other.
"Espresso"by Sabrina Carpenter starts blasting, and Adam immediately breaks into the goofiest dance I've ever seen—something between a dad groove and a full-body shimmy. I lose it completely, laughing so hard.
Then"Dance The Night"by Dua Lipa takes over, and he somehow ups his game—twirling me dramatically like we're in a glittery music video. I'm cackling, cheeks hurting, completely forgetting about the people staring at me from earlier.
It's just music, laughter, and Adam being... Adam.
He spins me again—once, twice—maybe three times, and the room starts to blur around the edges. My head spins, a rush of dizziness bubbling up like I'm tipsy, even though I haven't had a single sip of beer.
