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Chapter One
Isaiah
Isaiah Nettles’s fingers glided across the smooth keys, and his foot worked the pedal. Compared to the little banger he had back home, playing the grand pianos at Harrison felt like performing on Broadway. “Thunder Road” might be rock music, but hey, Springsteen on Broadway was a thing.
He pounded out the middle of the song.
Usually it took on a sad overtone. Reminded him of his father, beaming from his recliner, asking him to play another of his favorites. And another.
Today, the piece mirrored his anxiety.
He could still hear the condescending way President Jenkins’s assistant asked him, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Yes.
No.
Yes, but not like this.
He’d never expected his complaint to be chosen from the sea of grievances filed against the school.
Had they told him sooner, he’d have spent the summer preparing. Given the circumstances, that was precisely why they didn’t tell him. The week before classes started, and he still didn’t have all the details.
He quickened the tempo, frustration flooding the music.
If only this wasn’t the last egg in his basket. If only he hadn’t focused—for two years—on this one opportunity to the exclusion of others. None were as good as the Gage Scholarship, but he should have left himself options.
Notes clashed around the atrium as the song built to a crescendo. A sax blaring would’ve made it perfect. His playing was on point, even if it didn’t alleviate his pent-up energy.
He ended the song abruptly and his gaze caught on a familiar figure lounging against the doorframe. Jackson Murphy clapped into the silence. “You sound great. Greatly annoyed, but great.”
“A bit.” He smiled at his friend. Jack had been his first private yoga client. And his steadiest.
“What prompted channeling angry Springsteen?”
He laughed darkly. “The devil always shits on the biggest pile.”
Jack’s brows shot up, waiting for him to explain.
Jack was a good guy. Decent, hardworking, and enviously in love with his boyfriend, Ed—but he was also a trust-fund kid, and Isaiah didn’t know he’d get it.
He slid off his stool and grabbed the bag stuffed with his yoga gear. Maybe after an intensive session he’d feel better.
He swallowed a sigh and led the way across the stately campus. A few million beautiful bricks, and archways big enough to swallow even the biggest ego. And at Harrison? That was saying something.
They bypassed all that and headed to the Frankenstein limb of campus—a sorrowful bunch of concrete buildings. But tucked in the farthest corner was his favorite house. An old Victorian purposed into a student cafe, club space, and—his home away from home—the third floor and the attic where he ran yoga sessions.
Isaiah turned the key and shouldered open the stiff door to one of the private practice rooms. It led to a clean space with wooden floors, two slanted ceilings, and pokey windows. He cracked one open, and rich notes of coffee wafted in on a breeze. “Ready for the pain?”
“Which one?” Jack snickered. “The pain you’ll inflict on me, or the one you’re nursing under that frown?”
Isaiah shot out a laugh. “Touché. You have thirty seconds to change, grab a mat, and assume the lotus.”
Jack kicked off his shoes and rounded one of the partitions, snorting. “Who’da thought the cute yoga guy would turn into a marine drill sergeant before every workout.”
“You want easy, watch Netflix.”
“Isaiah always comes with a side serving of snide.”
“The fuck I do, assmunch.”
Jack raised a pointed brow, and Isaiah grumbled under his breath.
It was true.
He’d end up a bitchy old bachelor for sure.
Jack stretched and groaned. “Still sore from last time. Never thought yoga would be so hard. I swear I sweat more here than on the field.”
Isaiah set out his mat, turned on some (hopefully) soothing music, and changed into sweats. Twenty minutes into the session, and still thrumming with frustration, he pushed them into more advanced positions. Jack was strong and coordinated; he handled it well. Mostly.
“Why do I let you torture me like this?” he groaned.
“Because I’m the cute yoga guy.”
“Don’t even suggest that around Ed, or I won’t be allowed within a hundred yards of you.”
“Let me mark that down. No suggesting Jackson Murphy thinks I’m hot.”
“You can say I think you’re hot—you are—you just can’t say it’s the reason I hired you to be my trainer.” Jack winced as he took in the position Isaiah was flexing into. “He thinks you’re cute, too.”
