I turn my head.
And there he is.
Drew Travers.
Wide receiver.
Highlight reel addict.
Six-foot-whatever of muscles, noise, and misplaced confidence.
The kind of man who probably thinks subtlety is a European disease.
He’s standing beside the empty chair next to mine in sweats and a sleeveless Stanford training shirt, one massive forearm wrapped in tape, dark hair still damp from lifts, looking at me like I’m cotton candy at a county fair and he just got handed cash.
I hate him instantly.
I have always hated him instantly.
Everything about him is excessive.
Too broad.
Too loud.
Too smirky.
Too comfortable taking up space that does not belong to him.
There is probably not a single thought in his head that doesn’t arrive wearing shoulder pads.
He drops into the seat beside me before I can tell him not to.
“Good morning,” he says.
I blink slowly.
“Is it?”
That grin gets bigger.
“Touchy.”
“Observant.”
His gaze flicks to my phone, screen-down in my hand.
Then to my face.
Then back again.
He knows.
Everyone does.
He leans back like we’re just two friends having a nice little chat and not one girl actively holding herself together with acrylic nails and grace.
“I can be your new hashtag,” he winks.
