His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, but deep down, I know he's right. Jaxon does know me better than anyone else, and that's exactly why I can't let him get close again.
I force myself to focus on the lecture, scribbling down notes I'll probably never understand. Still, it's better than acknowledging the way Jaxon's presence makes my skin tingle, or how I can feel his eyes on me throughout the entire class.
When the class finally ends, I shove my things into my bag and bolt for the door, but Jaxon is faster, his hand catching my elbow just as I reach the hallway.
"Mads, wait," he says, his touch sending sparks up my arm.
My emotional walls slam back up, and I yank out of his grip.
As I rush out the door, through the hall, and into the quad, my chest tightens like a vice, every breath coming too sharp, too shallow. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the noise around me. My vision blurs at the edges, the world tilting beneath my feet as I struggle to process what just happened.
I stumble to a stop near a bench, gripping the back of it for stability, the cool metal grounding me for half a second before the spinning starts again. My heart slams against my ribs, trying to claw its way out.
Panic attacks are nothing new for me, but I sure wasn’t expecting to have one in my first class of the fall semester, and especially not fromthat.
Like I said, I fucking hate surprises.
Two hours later, after my music theory lecture, I slam the door to my apartment, tossing my bag on the floor with more force than necessary. I can't believe he's here.
"Whoa there, Hulk. What did that bag ever do to you?"
I look up to see Lyla perched on our kitchen counter. She’s in her work uniform, leggings and a collared polo,PCU athleticsembroidered on the right side. Her curls are piled on top of her head, and she’s spoon-deep in a pint of her favorite cookie dough ice cream.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she says around a mouthful of ice cream. Her green eyes dance with amusement as she takes in what must be my shell-shocked expression, and then her forehead crinkles with concern. "Or failed a test.Pleasetell me you didn't fail another test. It’s only the first day!"
I shake my head, my throat tight. "Worse."
Lyla's eyebrows shoot up as she holds out her ice cream pint. "This calls for emergency provisions. Spill."
I grab the container and sink onto the barstool next to her, digging in with her spoon. She watches me, waiting patiently for me to open up. It takes a moment before I can finally force out the words.
"Jaxon's here."
"Jaxon..." She furrows her brow for a second before her eyes widen. "Wait,theJaxon? Michigan State football star Jaxon Montgomery? That'syourJax?"
"He’s notmyanything," I grumble. "And he's not at Michigan State anymore. He's here. At PCU. In my fucking Algebra class."
Lyla's mouth drops open. "Holy shit."
"Yeah." I stab at the ice cream. "Holy shit."
"But that's... I mean, Michigan State is a top-tier program. Why would he transfer here?” As Coach Harding's daughter, Lyla knows the sport inside and out. She's grown up on sidelines and in locker rooms, hearing game strategies and player stats next to her ABCs.
Shrugging, I pretend to be fascinated by the spoon in my hand.
"I don't know why he's here," I say. "I didn't exactly stick around to chat."
Lyla snorts. "Let me guess: you ran out of there like your ass was on fire."
"I did notrun. I made a strategic exit."
"Mmhmm." She grabs a second spoon from the drawer and rejoins me at the island. "So he's just...here? No warning, no heads up, no 'Hey, Mads, prepare to have your world rocked because I'm about to show up in your math class'?"
"Nothing." I shake my head, trying to suppress the memory of his eyes finding mine, that spark of recognition, the way he said my name like he'd been waiting to say it for years. "I haven't talked to him in three years. I mean, I've seen him play on TV a few times, but we haven't actually spoken since..."
Since the night I overheard his mom telling him not to jeopardize his future for me. Since I decided to tell my best friend to goto Michigan State, letting him think I’d be following him there, even though I already knew I didn’t get in.
Love is watching my mother fade away, helpless to stop it. Love is my father promising to take care of me, only to leave bruises instead. Love is wreckage—of cars, of trust, of every fragile hope I dared to hold.
