I sat cross-legged on my bed, his class schedule spread across my knees.

"Closed film session," I muttered, ticking off the discrepancies in red ink.

For three weeks, Chase had used that exact excuse whenever he vanished on Wednesday nights. He never went dark on me before this semester. He used to text me play calls while ice-bathing. Now he knew when the cheer squad practiced tumbling, when their buses departed for away meets, and which dining hall they frequented after strength workouts.

Then came the bigger lie.

On his official printout, tucked right between Kinesiology and Team Leadership, was *SMGT 310: Sports Leadership Seminar*. Tuesdays and Thursdays, two in the afternoon, Hallam Hall.

I opened the university course directory on my laptop.

There was no SMGT 310. Not in Hallam Hall. Not anywhere in the college catalog.

"You're just misreading the section numbers," I told myself, my voice cracking in the quiet dorm. "He probably swapped into an independent study."

On Thursday at one-forty, I yanked a dark baseball cap low over my brow and sat on the brick bench facing Hallam Hall's double doors.

Students streamed in with backpacks and coffee cups. The campus clock tower struck two.

Then two-fifteen.

By two-forty, the steps were deserted. Chase never came.

A knot twisted hard in my gut, choking the remaining air out of my chest. The excuse-making died right there. He hadn't swapped sections. He wasn't studying. He had invented an entire course to buy two free hours every Tuesday and Thursday.

I walked toward my three o'clock elective like a ghost, the autumn chill biting my ears.

Environmental Policy was packed. I dropped into the last empty seat in the back row, my vision blurring as heat gathered behind my eyelids. I dragged the back of my sleeve across my cheek, biting the inside of my lip to keep from breaking down in front of sixty people.

A crinkling sound snapped me out of it.

A small, unopened packet of paper tissues slid onto my desk.

I glanced up.

The guy sitting beside me wore a faded gray hoodie, his dark brown hair falling across his forehead. He didn't look over. He just stared straight ahead at the professor's slides, an uncapped pen balanced between his lean fingers.

Quiet. Lean. Completely devoid of Chase's loud, dominant posture.

It was Noah Whitmore. The boy from Brielle's bonfire video. The one she called *Mine* two weeks ago.

I picked up the packet. "Thanks."

He gave a slight, polite nod without turning his head. "Don't sweat it."

We sat in silence through fifty minutes of water conservation regulations until the professor clicked off the projector.

"Hey," I said, packing my spiral notebook with unsteady hands. "Noah, right?"

He blinked, turning to face me fully. His brown eyes held a guarded, solitary reserve. "Yeah. Sloane, from the roster?"

"Yeah. The group project next month—the professor said we need pairs for the field study." The lie came out faster than I expected. "Do you have a partner yet?"

Noah paused. He looked at my notebook, then at his own empty binder. A flash of hesitation tightened his mouth. "Not yet. I usually work solo."

"We could just split the data collection," I offered, holding up my phone. "Less hassle. Swap numbers?"

He hesitated another second, then pulled an older-model phone from his pocket. "Sure. Just text me the assignment breakdown when she posts the rubric."

"Will do."

I typed his digits into my phone, my fingers prickling. He didn't know. He sat there packing his cheap pens, completely unaware that his girlfriend was chasing my boyfriend through athletic facility hallways.

Once outside, I skipped the library and walked straight toward the athletic quad.

Chase’s location hadn't updated in two hours, but his morning text had been crystal clear: *Film until five, Carter. Long day.*

Behind the fieldhouse sat an old equipment shed surrounded by tall maples, hidden away from the main pedestrian paths. Footing was soft on the damp grass as I rounded the brick corner.

There he was.

Chase leaned against the trunk of a broad oak, wearing the charcoal training fleece I’d washed and folded for him yesterday morning. His cleats were gone, replaced by gray sneakers.

The heavy door of the cheer facility swung open fifty feet away.

Brielle stepped out. She wore her crimson warm-up jacket, blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. The second she spotted him, her entire face lit up. She broke into a run, her sneakers scuffing the pavement.

Chase pushed off the tree. A wide, easy grin stretched across his jaw—the exact smile he gave me when I met him at the goal line after rivalry games.

Brielle reached him, sliding both of her hands straight into his large, open palms.

"Took you long enough," she chirped, her laughter carrying clearly through the crisp air.

"Film ended early," Chase said.

His voice hit me like a physical blow.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he lifted his right hand and gently tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her neck. Then he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to hers.

Brielle tilted up onto her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck, sinking into him.

The breath tore out of my lungs.

My feet moved on instinct. One step. Two. I wanted to march into that clearing, grab him by the throat, and scream his lies into his face until the whole department poured out of the building. I wanted to rip that stupid little leather football off her bag and fling it into the dirt.

Then, mid-stride, my boot planted in the mud.

*Stop.*

If I stormed over there right now, what would happen?

Chase would turn pale. He'd stutter. He'd chase me across the parking lot, crying about stress and scouts and how it didn't mean anything. Brielle would play the innocent victim who didn't know about me, or worse, she'd wear his jersey to Saturday's kickoff while I looked like the hysterical ex-girlfriend who couldn't handle college athletics.

They'd get ten minutes of awkward panic. And I'd walk away with six years of my life reduced to campus gossip.

"No," I whispered.

My pulse pounded in my temples, hot and frantic, but the fog in my head cleared into something ice-cold.

I stepped back behind the brick wall. I lifted my phone, zoomed the lens, and centered the frame.

*Click.*

His hand was on her hip. Her lips were on his. Crisp, clear, undeniable.

I pocketed the phone, spun around, and walked away without making a sound.

***

At seven-thirty, a familiar knock rattled my dorm room door.

I unlocked it. Before the wood fully cleared the frame, two thick arms hooked around my ribs from behind, pulling my spine flush against a broad chest.

"Missed you," Chase murmured, resting his chin on the crown of my head.

A wave of vanilla perfume washed over me, sweet and sickening, clinging right to the collar of his pullover.

My stomach heaved. Bile surged up the back of my throat. I swallowed it down, planting both feet firmly on the floor.

I turned in his grip, painting a warm, bright curve across my lips.

"Long film session?" I asked softly, smoothing my hand over his chest.

Chase didn't flinch. His blue eyes met mine without a flicker of shame. "Yeah. Coach kept us forever. Broke down sixty plays from the secondary."

"Must be exhausted," I said.

I reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing closer to him than I had all week. I rested my cheek against his jaw, feeling the stubble there.

Chase blinked, startled by the sudden heat. A pleased smirk broke across his mouth, and his arms tightened around my waist. "Look at you. Feeling clingy tonight?"

"Just happy you're here," I whispered into his skin.

He chuckled, kissing my temple. "Let's get burgers. My treat."

I let him hold my hand all the way to the truck, swinging our joined fingers like two kids who still had their whole lives ahead of them.

***

By midnight, he was back at the athletic dorms, and Chloe was asleep.

I stood before the full-length mirror attached to the closet door.

I took in the messy bun, the washed-out gray Westbridge sweatshirt that practically swallowed my frame, the worn-out sneakers by the baseboards. For six years, my calendar had rotated entirely around his training blocks. I had spent every autumn Saturday standing in the cold, editing his highlight reels until two in the morning, managing his fan pages, defending his poor stats in forum threads.

I didn't lose him because Brielle was prettier.

I lost myself because I had made Chase Bennett my only project.

I unlocked my phone.

I created a new folder in my private cloud storage: *GAME ON*.

I dragged the clearing photos into the vault, watching the loading bar hit one hundred percent.

Then I closed the app and pulled up Noah Whitmore's contact card.

My finger hovered above his number. The screen glowed white in the darkened room, illuminating the steady, cold smirk on my face.

They wanted to play games behind everyone's backs?

I pressed the screen.

"Holy shit," Chloe blurted, dropping her mascara wand onto the vanity. "Who are you and what did you do with my roommate?"

I ran my fingers through the clean layers framing my jaw. Four hours at the salon took care of the dull split ends, cutting away months of neglect. In place of the oversized Westbridge football fleece, I wore a ribbed sapphire knit dress that skimmed down to my mid-thigh.

"I got tired of living in laundry piles," I said, checking my reflection.

"Well, keep getting tired of it. You look insane."

Downstairs, Chase stood by the brick pillars of the dorm entrance, scrolling on his phone. When the front door swung open, his head snapped up.

He didn't move. His gaze traveled down the blue wool, lingered on the line of my bare legs, and climbed back up to my face. A full five seconds ticked past before his jaw reset.

"Jesus, babe." He stepped forward, catching me around the waist and hauling me hard against his chest. "Where have you been hiding this version of you?"

A bitter taste coated my tongue. I rested my palms flat on his chest, smiling up at him.

"Right here," I answered. "You just stopped looking."

"Never." Chase bent down, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. His hands gripped my hips firmly. "Trust me, Carter. I never stopped looking."

Liar.

"What time is your position meeting tonight?" I asked, winding a hand around his neck.

"Six sharp. Quarterbacks and receivers."

"Can I come sit in the back? I haven't watched you run through plays since camp."

The easy heat in his expression vanished. His fingers twitched against my waist. "To film? Coach would throw a fit. You know how strict he is with scheme secrecy this week."

"Right. Schemes." I kept my voice light, innocent. "What about the alumni mixer on Saturday? You're bringing me, right?"

Chase’s eyes darted past my shoulder toward the quad. "The alumni thing? Sloane, it's just a bunch of fifty-year-old boosters talking about tax write-offs. You'd be miserable for three hours."

"I don't mind. I like watching you work a room." I ran a nail along his collarbone. "Unless you don't want me there?"

"No! That's not it." His shoulders tightened under his leather jacket. "Just didn't want you stuck standing by the punch bowl while I kiss donor ass."

"Then I'll just wait by the lockers after practice," I said sweetly. "We can walk over together."

A muscle jumped near his temple. He was trapped, and we both knew it.

"Actually," I added, stepping back slightly, "my parents called this morning."

That caught him. "What did they want?"

"Dad's firm had a great quarter. They're thinking about helping me put twenty percent down on a starter condo after graduation. Somewhere near wherever I take an internship." I tilted my head, studying his face. "If we end up getting married after your rookie deal, what kind of place do you want? Downtown high-rise or something with a yard?"

The shift was instantaneous. The evasive boy disappeared, replaced by the calculating team captain who loved guarantees.

His eyes locked onto mine with total intensity. "A yard, definitely. We need space for a golden retriever. And three bedrooms minimum so my brother can crash when he visits." He pulled me back into him, entirely focused now. "Forget what I said about Saturday. You're coming to the mixer. Wear that exact dress. I want everyone in the athletic department to see who's on my arm."

My smile remained flawless.

He wanted Brielle in secret behind the sheds. But he wanted me—and my family's money, and my six years of loyalty—for his future.

***

The alumni ballroom at the campus hotel was suffocatingly warm. Brass chandeliers cast a golden haze over linen-draped cocktail tables, heavy floral centerpieces, and two hundred boosters, players, and athletic staff.

The moment the double doors swung open, half the room glanced our way.

"Yo, Bennett!" Marcus, our starting tight end, shouted over the jazz trio playing near the bar. "Look at you! Chase's girl is finally out of the library!"

Chase hooked his arm around my waist, his chest swelling as he pulled me into his side. "Shut up, Marcus. You know my girlfriend, Sloane."

Ten feet away, by the row of silver beverage urns, Brielle Hayes stopped talking mid-sentence.

She wore a tight white bandage dress, her blonde hair gleaming under the chandelier lights. The glass in her hand wobbled slightly before she recovered, the wide smile on her face stiffening for a fraction of a second.

Chase felt me step forward. His grip on my hip tightened to a clamp. "Where are you going?"

"To get a drink," I said, sliding out of his hold before he could protest.

I walked straight across the parquet floor toward the drink station. Brielle watched me approach, her hazel eyes flicking from my hair down to the blue dress, evaluating every inch.

"Hey," I said, offering a warm, effortless smile. "Brielle, right?"

She blinked, startled. "Yeah. Hi!"

"I saw the highlights from last weekend's routine," I said, picking up two flutes of sparkling cider from the tray. "The toss extension on the sideline was flawless. Must take insane core strength."

I handed her one of the flutes.

Brielle took it, looking completely disarmed. A pink flush crept up her neck. "Oh... thank you! That's so sweet of you to say. You're Sloane, right? Chase's..."

"Girlfriend," I supplied with a smooth nod. "Six years. You're on the cheer squad, so I'm sure you see him around the facility all the time."

"All the time," she echoed, her voice turning high and syrupy. "He's... great. A real leader."

Chase appeared at my elbow, smelling of cologne and sharp sweat. His jaw was clenched so hard I could see the bone pressing against his skin. "Sloane, Coach wants to say hello."

"Go ahead," Brielle said, offering a tight, sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Don't let me keep you."

"Nice talking to you, Brielle," I said, sipping my cider.

For the next forty minutes, I played the dutiful partner. I smiled at wealthy alumni, thanked boosters for funding the athletic center, and laughed at bad football jokes.

But my eyes never stopped tracking Chase.

Even while he shook hands with athletic directors, his attention drifted. Every few minutes, his gaze darted over the crowd, cutting through the clusters of dark suits until it found Brielle standing by the patio doors.

He didn't just sleep with her.

He watched her the way he used to watch me across the high school bleachers—hungry, nervous, completely hooked.

The realization hit like a fist beneath the ribs. The physical cheating had made me angry. This—this raw, undeniable infatuation—made something inside my chest turn to ash.

I set my empty flute on a passing waiter's tray. "I need some air."

"Wait, Sloane—" Chase started, but an older booster grabbed his shoulder to talk about third-quarter field position.

I turned toward the glass exit doors, needing to clear the fog out of my head, when someone nearly bumped into me.

"Watch it—oh. Hey."

Noah Whitmore stepped back, catching my elbow to steady me. Instead of athletic gear, he wore a clean black button-down with the sleeves cuffed to his forearms.

"Noah?" I asked, blinking. "What are you doing here?"

"Roommate’s on the track squad," he said, offering a faint, self-deprecating grin. "He dragged me along for the free prime rib."

A genuine laugh broke out of me. "The prime rib is overcooked."

"Tragic. Guess I'm sticking to the dessert table." He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over the blue dress with quiet appreciation. "You look... different from Environmental Policy."

"Good different or bad different?"

"Definitely good."

A sharp chuckle left my lips. "Thanks. I needed that tonight."

Noah was about to say something else when the space beside me went cold.

Chase stood three feet away, his chest heaving as if he’d just sprinted a fifty-yard dash. His knuckles were white against his slacks.

"Sloane," Chase snapped, his tone dangerously rough. "We're leaving."

Noah looked between the two of us, his expression shutting down into that guarded neutrality he wore in class. "I'll let you guys go. See you in lecture, Sloane."

"See you, Noah."

Chase didn't wait. He seized my wrist and pulled me toward the coat check, dragging me out into the crisp autumn wind.

"Who the hell was that?" he demanded the second the double doors shut behind us.

I looked at him in the dim glow of the exterior streetlights. The absurdity of it made my lips twitch. "A classmate. Why? Are you jealous?"

"I don't get jealous," he shot back, his face stormy. "You don't need random guys hovering over you at an athletic event."

"He wasn't hovering, Chase. He was saying hello."

He didn't answer. Instead, he wrapped a possessive arm around my waist, holding me so tightly against his side that it bordered on painful all the way back to my dorm.

***

By midnight, the dorm was silent. Chloe’s rhythmic breathing filled the room.

I sat on my mattress with my laptop balanced on my knees. I refreshed the inbox of @WestbridgeConfessions.

A new submission was waiting.

*Some girls really don’t know when a relationship is already dead. Stop clinging to high school.*

The sender ID was Brielle Hayes’s burner account.

I looked at the words. A month ago, this would have destroyed me. Tonight, it barely stirred my pulse.

I didn't delete it.

I clicked *Approve*, hit *POST*, and watched the confession go live to twenty thousand students. Throw your bomb, Brielle. Let's see who burns first.

A ping vibrated against my knee.

A text from Noah: *Hey. When are we starting the field study data for the project? Let me know your schedule.*

Before I could type an answer, another message slid into the @WestbridgeConfessions inbox from Brielle:

*He promised he’ll dump his girlfriend after the season. I just have to wait.*

Right on top of it, a banner popped up on my phone's home screen.

Chase: *Love you. Sleep tight, babe. ❤️*

I sat in the glow of the screen. Two men. Two women. A tangled knot of lies, contracts, and promises.

My hands didn't shake. I took a clean screenshot of Brielle’s confession, dragged the image file into *GAME ON*, and locked the folder.

Then I opened Noah’s text thread.

*Coffee tomorrow?* I sent.