Then another text came through.
Drew:It’s on your dorm door. Don’t pretend you didn’t smile.
I did not smile.
I absolutely did not.
I opened the door ten seconds later.
The jersey hung from the knob on a black hanger, freshly washed, red and white and enormous,TRAVERSacross theback and his number beneath it. It smelled faintly like detergent and him, which felt illegal.
There was a note clipped to the hanger.
Rule compliance. Also, you’ll look hot.
I looked down the hall both ways, snatched the jersey inside, and shut the door.
Lana watched from her bed, grinning.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I said nothing.”
“You are saying it with your face.”
“You’re wearing it.”
“I’m considering it.”
“You’re wearing it.”
I wore it.
With boots.
Because I had dignity.
Or at least the remains of some.
The jersey swallowed me, hitting mid-thigh, loose through the shoulders in a way that should have looked ridiculous but somehow did not. I belted it slightly at the waist, left my hair down in soft waves, put on gold hoops, and stared at myself in the mirror with my pulse doing something reckless.
It was a costume.
A fake-girlfriend uniform.
A strategic visual.
That was all.
Except when I turned and sawTRAVERSacross my back, something warm and possessive unfurled in my chest.
Not owned.
Not claimed like property.
Chosen.
Which was stupid because this entire thing had an expiration date.
