I’ve never been one of those girls who just… fit. Back in high school, that was Mia’s territory—my older sister could walk into any room and collect people like loose change. Parties, group chats, weekend plans, the whole glittering social ecosystem. Me? I was the one with permanent library chair indentations on my thighs, chasing scholarships instead of social capital. I didn’t hate the popular girls; we simply existed in parallel universes. Hers had keg stands and cute boys. Mine had differential equations and quiet satisfaction.

It worked—mostly. The straight As and late nights landed me a full ride to Westfield University. But scholarships don’t pay for housing when your ancient high school takes forever to mail transcripts. I arrived a week late. Cheap dorms? Gone. All that was left were the luxury suites with price tags that made my stomach lurch. I needed a roof, fast. Sororities offered beds, meals, and a built-in social circle I didn’t want—but beggars can’t be choosers.

First rush: Delta Phi. I smiled, flipped my blonde hair, figured it would count for something. They asked for an interesting fact. I blanked, then blurted, “Oh, I know how to hot-wire a lawn mower.” Dead silence. Polite smiles. Next.

And every other girl was blonde too—and better at it, with yacht stories, ski-trip selfies, and summer-internships-at-Daddy’s-firm anecdotes. My scholarship glow-up felt suddenly very small.

Four days of frantic research followed—Instagram stalking, eavesdropping in the quad, piecing together the unspoken rules. Athletes were currency. Specifically, hockey players. And at the top of that food chain sat David Corenswet: team captain, six-foot-three of quiet menace, dark hair, sharper jaw, and a reputation for never, ever dating. The guy was a walking myth. Snagging him—even temporarily—would be an automatic golden ticket.

Third rush. Same room, same sisters, same question: “Something interesting about you?”

My mouth moved before my brain could veto. “Well, I'm seeing David Corenswet.”

A collective inhale. Eyes widened. Phones were already out. “Wait, Corenswet?” one asked, like I’d said I was secretly royalty.

I nodded, cheeks burning. “Yeah. We’re, uh, keeping it low-key.”

Low-key my ass. They practically carried me over the threshold. Bid in hand before I finished my water, so I figured I’d ride the wave, get initiated, then stage a quiet “breakup.” No harm, no foul.

I’d severely underestimated campus gossip velocity and Corenswett popularity.

Two days. Two. Days. That’s how long it took for the rumor mill to turn me into the girl who’d done the impossible. Texts from numbers I didn’t know. Whispers in lecture halls. And then the Kappa Sigma frat party hit like a freight train.

The house was a pulsing mess—bass rattling my ribcage, bodies packed wall-to-wall, red Solo cups sweating in every hand. I slipped inside hoping to disappear into the crowd. Instead, I got a thousand of handshakes, nods of knowledge and "Corenswett's girl, huh?"

My pulse was a jackhammer. This was so much worse than I’d imagined. And then I saw him.

Across the living room, leaning against the wall with a beer dangling from long fingers, David Corenswet stared straight at me. His mouth curved—half smirk, half murder. The look said, clear as day: You did this? Heat crawled up my neck. His gaze dragged down me once, slow, assessing, like he was deciding whether to laugh or drag me out by the scruff. My skin prickled despite the sticky heat.

I ducked. Hard. Spent the next two hours playing the world’s worst game of hide-and-seek: bathroom stall, upstairs balcony, even faking a dramatic stumble into a potted plant to lose a tail of curious freshmen. He kept appearing—at the edge of crowds, in doorways—like he was enjoying the hunt.

Eventually I washed up in the kitchen, lungs burning, clutching a bottle of water like it could save me, telling a guy about selling my soul for a bed when the door banged open, revealing David.

“Hey, Foster,” he drawled, smiling. "You met Gracie already?"