Benji deadpanned, “In his defense, they are pretty powerful clouds.”
I cackled, nearly spilling my drink. “God, I missed you guys.”
We fell into easy chatter, filling each other in on jobs, roommates, failed attempts at adulting. There were promises of brunch dates andno really, let’s actually do it this timehand squeezes. And for a second, I let myself believe them.
Chatting with them both was…nice. Nostalgic. Even if the “what have you been up to?” questions made me want to tattoostill figuring it outon my forehead.
I ducked out to refill my plastic cup of cheap chardonnay and nearly collided with a tall brunette in a sleek blazer and sneakers that probably cost more than my rent. Something prickled in the back of my mind with recognition. I knew her.
“Ivy?”
She turned, blue eyes flicking over me before recognition softened her expression. Ivy Emerson. Central State royalty. The woman every kinesiology major had worshiped, now head athletic trainer for the Rampage, if my occasional doomscroll through sports articles was right.
“Em Sanders,” she said, lips tugging into the faintest of smiles. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”
“Same,” I admitted, clutching my wine like a shield. “I thinkthe last time I saw you was…in the rec center? Sophomore year? You were making everyone cry during conditioning.”
Her mouth curved a little. “Sounds about right.”
I braced for the polite small talk before she surprised me by pulling out her phone. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to say—your stuff always pops up on my feed. Look.”
She scrolled quickly, then angled the screen toward me. There it was: one of my posts, a cropped Rampage hoodie I’d hand-stitched into a bomber jacket, saved in her screenshots folder. Another swipe—custom jersey corsets, bright colors and clean lines, taggedEmSandersDesigns.
My stomach flipped. “You…kept those?”
“They’re amazing,” she said simply, as if me seeing my work in her phone wasn’t the coolest thing anyone had ever told me. “A couple of the guys on staff passed them around the group chat when they went viral last month. I had to explain why a linebacker probably wasn’t going to get his hands on a lace-up crop top.”
I barked out a laugh, heat rising to my cheeks. “Oh my God. That’s—ridiculous. And kind of amazing.”
“Don’t downplay it,” Ivy said, calm as ever. “You’ve got an eye. Players love gear that feels different, not just the standard issued stuff. Fans are obsessed and are always looking to be a part of something. Don’t be shocked if you get calls.”
My throat tightened. “I mean, that’s…the dream. Turning this into something real. Right now, it’s just Etsy, TikTok, some random DMs, but…” I shrugged, suddenly aware I sounded like I was pitching myself. “I’m waiting for my big break, I guess.”
Her gaze was steady, like she was already a step ahead of me. “Keep at it. You never know what life will throw at ya.”
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen, already tucking it back into her blazer. “Anyway, I’ve got to check in with someone, but…it was good to see you, Em.”
“You too.”
And like that, she was gone, leaving me standing there with cheap wine and a heartbeat that felt like it might knock me off my feet. Her words lingered, though—like a little spark I wasn’t sure I was allowed to believe in yet. I wasn’t bold enough to pitch myself to an organization like the Rampage. I was a nobody. Sure I had some viral hits and made money, but most of my income came from working at the department store and ghostwriting copy ads for stores. My family pushed me to try to get my brother’s team to take a chance on me, but I refused to use him for anything but being my dumbass brother.
If I was gonna achieve something, it’d be on my own.Call it independence or stubbornness, but earning my own way mattered to me.
While I could daydream about doing a custom merch line for a team, landing that gig wouldn’t be anytime soon.
By the time I circled back, an hour had passed. My cup was refilled, my throat was sore from laughing too hard at Benji’s reenactment of his college stand-up set, and my hands still gestured wildly at some story when I felt it.
That prickle. The sense that someone was watching.
I turned, and there he was.
Noah Abbott.
Bigger than I remembered, which was saying a lot. Six-foot-four, shoulders broad enough to block out the skyline, hair still damp from a shower, because of course he’d roll in like he didn’t care and still look unfairly good. He wore a faded Central State hoodie, sleeves shoved up to reveal forearms that had no business being legal, and a quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
And he was staring straight at me.
My stomach flipped, traitorous and giddy, like I was twenty again and about to do something stupid in the student union.
