* * *
The door to my dorm clicked shut behind me, and I leaned against it, breath catching like I’d just sprinted a mile.
What the hell was I doing? After my conversation with my dad this morning, and now here I was, doing the exact thing he warned me not to.
I dropped my bag on the bed and crossed to the wardrobe crammed in the corner. My fingers hovered over the row of hangers, every sensible blouse and shift dress a reflection of my father’s expectations, not mine.
I shimmied out of my jeans and peeled off my sweater, tossing it onto the bed with more force than necessary. My reflection in the mirror looked back at me, pale and stubborn, like she was waiting for me to cave.
Not tonight.
I reached past the neat dresses to the back corner, where I shoved things Dad frowned at. My jeans were faded, soft, and torn from use, paired with a fitted black tee with a deep V and a hem that skimmed the top of my jeans. My leather jacket was non-negotiable — a biker jacket like my boots, and still no bikein sight. I wondered if Dante drove one of those enormous, fuck-off, environment-killing trucks.
Pulling on my clothes felt like shrugging into another version of myself — one who said yes to football parties — but one who I didn’t look away from when I met her stare in the mirror.
I checked my phone. No text yet. Of course not. He wouldn’t follow up. He expected me to show. I swiped mascara over my lashes and put on pale, tinted lip gloss.
I would not make an extra effort just for him. His ego was big enough.
I tugged on my boots, brushed my hair out, running the hairdryer over it where the rain had caught it, despaired of the inevitable frizz, smoothed it back into a sleek ponytail, and gave the mirror a once-over. Not polished. Not proper. But me.
The flutter in my stomach wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation.
My phone buzzed against the desk, and I snatched it up like it might disappear before I could read it.
QB10: I’m right outside. Don’t make me come in and face your RA
He came for me.My heart gave one traitorous lurch. I shouldn’t be smiling like an idiot over that fact.
I typed back quickly.
Me: Give me two minutes. Meet me at the back!
Another buzz.
QB10: One. I’ll start counting.
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt, but the stupid smile still tugging at my lips betrayed me. Jacket zipped, boots laced, I shoved my phone into my pocket and grabbed my keys.
When I opened the door, light from under Bev’s door told me she was home. I left without saying anything, feeling guilty for doing so, but not wanting to have to explain what I was doing. The hallway was quiet, every shadow suddenly conspiring to make this feel like sneaking out.
I ran swiftly down the back stairs and, waiting for me beyond that door, was Dante. No entourage, no spotlight, no quarterback swagger — just him, tall and broad, leaning casually against the railing like he belonged there. A black umbrella rested over his shoulder, catching the light from the streetlight, rain pattering softly against it.
I pushed open the door, laughing when he moved forward to cover me.
“This is a service I don’t usually get,” I told him.
“Two minutes?” he said, smirking. “You took three. Sloppy timing, Sav.”
My breath puffed out in the cold, sharp enough to sting. “You’re unbelievable.”
“True,” he said easily, stepping forward and tilting the umbrella so it covered me too. “But I’m also dry. You’re welcome.”
I should have said something smart. Something funny. Instead, I found myself under the stupid umbrella, close enough to smell the clean scent of rain clinging to him.
That was the problem with Dante Spence — he made standing in the dark, in the rain, in the middle of a questionable decision feel like the only place I wanted to be.
“Better,” he murmured, shifting just enough so I had more coverage. The movement brought him closer — his shoulder brushing mine, his hand steady on the handle above us.
