She shrugs. “Bold of you to assume I did.”
I step closer, scanning the documents spread across the table. Sports management? Graduate program applications?
“Since when are you applying to grad school?”
Lyla finally pushes her glasses into her hair, rubbing her temples. “Since always?” Her voice is sharp, guarded. “You’ve missed a lot the last few months, Madison.”
It stings, but she isn’t wrong. I’ve been so caught up in my own life, in Jaxon, in my own damn fears, I haven’t stopped to see what’s going on with my best friend.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, sinking into the chair across from her. “I’ve been a shit friend.”
Lyla softens. “Not a shit friend, just…preoccupied.” She smirks. “Which, considering how long it took you to get your head out of your ass about Jaxon, is semi forgivable.”
I snort, relieved by her teasing. “Tell me about the school.”
“They have one of the top sports management programs, plus partnerships with three pro teams for internships.” She hesitates. “And it’s close enough that I could live at home if I needed to save money but far enough that I don’t have to.”
Her voice dips on the last part, and I know exactly what she means.
“Does your dad know?”
Lyla’s jaw tightens. “He knows. He’s…having feelings about it.”
“Good feelings or bad feelings?”
She lets out a dry laugh. “Controlling feelings. He wants me at his alma mater or taking the cushy internship he set up with his old teammate.”
I frown. “And that’s not what you want.”
“No.” Lyla’s voice is firm. “I want to do this on my own. No favors, no special treatment, just me proving I’m good enough.”
A knock at the door cuts off my response. When I pull it open, my stomach drops.
Coach Harding, Lyla’s dad. He’s just as intimidating in jeans and a polo as he is on the sidelines.
“Madison.” He nods my way.
“Uh—Coach,” I manage, suddenly hyper aware I’m still in my pajamas—specifically, one of Jaxon’s old PCU shirts that barely hits mid-thigh.
I step aside, letting him in, and he hands Lyla a folder and a paper bag. “Letter of recommendation. And breakfast. Maple donuts.”
Lyla straightens, stiff but polite. “Dad, I told you I’d pick it up later.”
“I was in the area.” He nods toward the folder. “Read your personal statement. It’s good.”
“But?” Lyla challenges.
Coach sighs. “But I still think you should consider UTA. Their alumni network?—”
“I don’t want an alumni network,” Lyla snaps. “I want to do this my way.”
Coach’s voice softens, a rare thing for him. “Lyla, this industry is about who you know.”
“Maybe for some people, but I’ve been busting my ass in the athletic department for three years, maintaining a 3.9 GPA. I deserve this.”
A flicker of pride crosses his face before he schools his expression. “Just keep your options open.” Lyla huffs but doesn’t argue, so Coach turns to me, his expression shifting. “Montgomery’s doing well at Pro Day. Scouts are impressed.”
My heart stumbles. “That’s…good.”
