“Booster-owned place,” he said. “Compliance cleared it. Athletic housing exception, donor program, all that boring paperwork stuff. I don’t do well in dorms.”
I looked back at him.
He shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “Too small. Too noisy. Too many people. I need quiet.”
Something about the way he said it made me stop teasing.
He saw that too.
“I have OCD,” he added, casual in tone but not in his eyes. “Had it forever, I guess. I need things a certain way. Not cute little color-coded planner OCD. Real kind. Order helps. Noise doesn’t. Clutter messes with my head.”
My chest tightened.
Drew Travers, who had shoved Tristan Vale in front of half the athletic department.
Drew Travers, who ate three cheeseburgers like a competitive event.
Drew Travers, who kissed me on a beach like the moon had personally offended him.
Standing in his spotless entryway, telling me this like he expected me to flinch.
I hated that I wanted to touch him.
So I looked at the shelves instead.
Books. Actual books. Sports psychology. Biomechanics. A thick finance textbook. A novel with a cracked spine. Film notes stacked neatly beside a laptop.
“You study,” I said before I could stop myself.
His brows lifted.
I winced immediately. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Yeah, you did.”
My face heated.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, watching me without cruelty. That almost made it worse.
“I’m not the dumb jock, Calloway,” he said. “Even though you put me in that category the second you met me.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Because he was right.
I had.
Not all the way. Not consciously. But enough. I had seen the hoodie with the hacked-off sleeves, the swagger, the girls, thebody, the mouth, and sorted him into a convenient box so I wouldn’t have to take him seriously.
Until he kept showing up.
Until he noticed everything.
Until he fed me and carried my bag and watched my pain with more honesty than most people watched my face.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
