But Foster isn't looking at us. He's looking at the whiteboard.
He steps inside and studies the diagram. "Interesting approach. Historical data to validate contemporary observations." He turns to look at us, a small, cryptic smile on his lips. "Impressive work, gentlemen."
"Thank you, sir," I manage. Sam nods.
"I expected nothing less from my two top students," Foster says. He checks his watch. "Late night for a Saturday. I like it."
He turns to leave, then pauses, his hand on the doorframe.
"The competition for the Johnston is going to be fierce this year," he says. "Marcus Sterling is heading up the board, and from what I hear, he's looking for something special. A singular vision."
He looks between us.
"Interviews are next Friday," he adds. "I hope you're both ready to show him what you can do.Alone."
He nods once and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I look at the whiteboard, our shared work. Then I look at Sam.
Sam is staring at the doorway, his hand going to his neck, covering the mark.
"Next Friday," Sam whispers.
"One week," I say.
The whiteboard doesn't look like a triumph anymore. Because Foster is right. We built this together. But only one of us can walk through that door and win.
Sam
Trying to eat a spicy chicken wrap while yanking the collar of my hoodie up to my ears is a special kind of hell.
Salsa is leaking onto my fingers, the hoodie is thick as a blanket, and it has to be seventy-five degrees in the student center. I'm definitely sweating.
"You look like a turtle trying to hide in its shell," Jionni says, leaning back in his chair. He kicks his combat boots up onto the empty seat next to him, ignoring the glare from a passing freshman. "A very sweaty, guilty turtle."
"I'm cold," I lie. I take a bite of the wrap. Salsa drips onto my thumb. "Circulation issues, iron deficiency, it's a whole thing."
"It's seventy-five degrees, Sam," Toby points out. He's organizing his bento box lunch with terrifying precision—carrots here, hummus there, grapes in a perfect pyramid. He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses and gives me his best Resident Advisor Look. "And you're vibrating."
"I always vibrate. I'm a vibrator. Wait, no. I have energy. I'm energetic."
"Jesus," Wes mutters. The quarterback is sprawled out at the head of the table, taking up enough space for two people. He's tearing into a sub sandwich like he hasn't eaten in a week. He pauses, sniffing the air. His nose wrinkles.
Then his eyes snap to me.
"Sam," Wes says, his voice dropping an octave. "Why do you smell like a pine forest in the middle of a thunderstorm?"
I freeze.
Braiden, who has been frantically highlighting notes in three different colors, looks up. "Pine? Like... an alpha's pine?"
"Like Morse," Jionni corrects, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. He taps his own neck, right over the gland. "Take off the hoodie, Sammy."
"No."
"Take it off, or I'm gonna assume you got a hickey from a vacuum cleaner."
I sigh, a long, deflating sound that takes all the fight out of me.
