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“Jesus. You should be the one to work for my dad.”
Her face softens. “If I could afford it, I’d do it for free.”
I honestly believe she would.
CHAPTERELEVEN
AMANDA
I pushthrough the glass doors of the campus bookstore as the last wave of air conditioning chases me into the late afternoon warmth. My shoulders sag under the weight of another long shift; the textbooks and lab manuals might as well be bricks in my backpack. The sun dips low, casting elongated shadows across the quad. I pull out my phone with a sigh, scrolling through notifications until I find Maddy’s text.
“Captain’s Cup in 10?” her message reads, punctuated by the coffee emoji we use as our secret code.
I shoot off a quick “See you there” reply as a couple draped in Wildcats jerseys jogs past, hands clasped, their shared smiles as bright as their flushed cheeks. Around them, the world moves with an energy that seems foreign to my tired bones. Friends exchange fist bumps, study groups huddle around laptops, and a sense of belonging pulses through the air.
“Carefree” should be stamped on their foreheads, a label I can’t claim as my own. My gaze shifts to the concrete, counting cracks, steps, anything to anchor me to the here and now, away from the ever-growing to-do list in my head.
But I can’t stop thinking about the most glaring thing of all—act like Blake Morton’s girlfriend.
What was I thinking when I agreed to his asinine request yesterday? Selling myself out for financial security was one thing, but entering a relationship with someone I barely knew? It was a foolish move, driven by economic desperation. Yet, I glimpsed the King in his most vulnerable time, so I know him better than most. Either way, this relationship is supposed to be fake. It’s nothing more than a mutually beneficial arrangement—helping him win the skills tournament while lessening my burden. Nothing more than a simple act of helping a friend.
But if that’s true, then why does it seem like I sold my soul to the devil?
The way Blake looked at me yesterday, pleading and sincere, felt too real. But there’s a nagging voice in my head questioning the true intentions behind our deal. Did I truly sell my soul for a momentary fix? Or is there something more between us I’m too scared to admit? Whether I like it or not, there’s an attraction between us. It can’t be my imagination.
I slam my eyes shut momentarily and take a deep breath, trying desperately to block out the scariest question—is this how my mother got sucked in?
The walk to Captain’s Cup is short, and I shove aside the worries as the café comes into view. I don’t want Maddy to pick up on my turmoil. I know her. She’d poke and prod, and I’m not ready to talk about it yet. It’s only been one day, and I’m still trying to absorb it.
The money landed in my account this morning. I figured Blake would send half up front and pay the remainder after the Gala. But he surprised me and deposited all of it. I’ve never seen my balance have so many digits.
It’s surreal but also intimidating. On the one hand, I feel I can breathe for the first time. But my realistic side keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because it will infallibly drop.
I push open the door, the scent of roasted coffee beans wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Indie music hums softly from overhead speakers, blending with the low murmur of conversations and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of laptop keyboards. Laughter bubbles from a corner table where a group of art majors hunch over a shared sketchbook, their charcoal-smudged fingers flying.
The café bears a nautical theme with its antiqued shiplap lining and retro turquoise couches. It’s a hot spot for students, but their coffee tastes better than most chain stores.
I slide into our usual section, a small table nestled near the back with a view of the entire coffee shop. It’s our preferred haunt—close enough to eavesdrop on interesting debates, far enough to avoid being overheard when our conversation turns personal or, more likely, ridiculous.
Maddy’s already there, her coppery hair a vivid contrast against the dark upholstery. She flashes me that grin that says she has gossip, plans, or both.
“Long day?” she asks, no need for pleasantries between us.
“Longer than the last chapter of ‘War and Peace,’” I say, plopping my backpack on the floor between me and the wall. My chuckle is half-hearted, but the attempt at humor feels necessary, like a shield against the grind of reality.
“God, I hated that book. Still can’t believe it was a mandatory read. Here, I got your favorite,” she says, sliding a cup across to me. “Extra shot, no room for cream.”
“Saint Maddy,” I tease, curling my hands around the ceramic. Its heat seeps into my skin. I take a sip, the bitter richness of espresso grounding me back to the moment, away from looming deadlines and the specter of student loans.
“Why haven’t you told me your new boyfriend is the captain of the hockey team?” Her accusatory tone rings loudly through the room.
“Shh, keep it down.” I glance around to see if anyone has overheard, but no one notices. Though, I don’t know why I care. News of us being together must have broken. “How’d you hear about it?”
“The how isn’t important.” Maddy leans in conspiratorially. “It was the black dress, wasn’t it? I told you he’d be begging for more.”
“Something like that.” I laugh, unsure if I should tell her it’s fake. She knew about the date being a ruse but not the payment. She would think I’d lost my mind if she knew the entire truth. I fear that telling her would lead to more questions about his reasoning, and those answers aren’t mine to share. I get the feeling Blake doesn’t want anyone to know about his father’s plan. Can’t say as I blame him. What team would want to sign him if they knew he wasn’t one hundred percent invested?
