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.
