The training facility was closed off to those of us who weren't student athletes, barricaded behind a row of turnstiles you had to swipe an ID card to get through. Commoners were expected to use the main gym, where the combination of crowds and poorly maintained equipment meant half-hour lines just to use a squeaky elliptical.

The gatekeeper of this elite portion of the fifty-million-dollar shrine to athletic achievement was a polo shirt clad freshman with chlorine-bleached hair and an enormous pimple on his chin.

He glanced up from his phone as I stormed up to the front desk.

"I'm with the Daily," I snapped.

"Do you have—"

I tore my student ID out of my wallet and held it aloft.

"Laurel Cates," I announced.

The freshman was familiar with my work. His eyes bugged wide and he fumbled behind the desk, smacking his keyboard frantically.

The nearest turnstile swung open.

"Thank you," I growled as I blundered forward into the unknown.

The architect who'd designed Garland's training facility had to be big on space movies, because the whole complex looked straight out of Star Wars. The walls were smooth, dark concrete. The floors were a black marble so polished they reflected everything clear as mirrors.

It felt like a fun house. A really, really overpriced fun house.

I passed an open archway through which I could see athletes sitting at round tables and lounging in far plusher beanbag chairs than the ones we had at the media center. One of the volleyball players who'd complimented my Garland University Daddy hat was filling up a cone from the soft-serve machine.

The deeper I wandered into the labyrinth of hallways and work out rooms, the more idiotic I felt.

Eventually I found myself in a hallway lined on one side with floor-to-ceiling windows. They overlooked a full-sized indoor football field nestled one story below. The turf glowed neon green under the rafter lights.

There were two assistant coaches and a handful of players out on the field running drills.

Bodie wasn't among them.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Andre had texted me a string of question marks.

I hiked the straps of my backpack up on my shoulders, wishing I'd come in with a better game plan than wandering around. I shouldn't have left class. I should've waited for Bodie to reach out to me, instead of chasing him down like a complete stalker.

I turned to head back the way I'd come.

And I made it all of five steps before Chester Gordon, the interim coach, came around the corner, whistling to himself and frowning down at a binder propped open in his arms. He was badly sunburnt on the bridge of his freckled nose. Wisps of his copper hair had gone nearly white from all the afternoon practices.

He glanced up, looked back down at his binder, and did a double take.

His whistle trailed off like a falling piano in a cartoon.

"Laurel Cates," he said, coming to a stop five feet from me. It wasn't a question, but I felt the need to nod in confirmation regardless. "Jeez. Okay, uh—" Gordon sighed and scratched at the nape of his neck. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be here."

"I needed to pick up a field pass," I said, feigning ignorance.

Gordon's eyebrows pinched and he looked up and down the hall, like he was worried someone would see him talking to me.

"That'll be in the communications office," he told me. "You're gonna go back out through the turnstiles, take a left—"

I wish I'd turned on my heels and followed his directions.

Because the next person to come around the corner towards us was Truman Vaughn.

He wasn't tall, but what he lacked in height he made up for in sharp features and an unflinching stare. I'd forgotten how intense the weight of his full attention was. I felt like a gazelle staring eye-to-eye with a panther.

I felt like prey.

"Am I interrupting?" Vaughn asked Gordon and me as he approached.

His voice was smooth and slow, and punctuated with a smile I didn't buy for a second.

Gordon rolled back his shoulders like he was standing at attention.

"Just pointing her towards the communications office," he said.

"Actually," I piped up, leveling Vaughn with an unflinching glare, "I'm looking for St. James."

"Ah, Jeez," Gordon said under his breath.

Vaughn didn't seem impressed by my display of bravery.

"And for what purpose do you need my quarterback?" he asked.

Everything he said managed to sound slightly condescending—not enough that you were sure he was being a dick on purpose, but enough that it was impossible to ignore.

"We have class together," I asserted. "It's about our group project."

Vaughn looked me up and down once, very slowly. And then he tipped his head towards Gordon and said, "Call security."

And just like that, my heart-rate was off to the fucking races.

"I'm not lying," I said. "We have a project—seriously, you can ask him."

Vaughn sighed, like my existence was the worst kind of inconvenience for him. I was sure he was about to tell me I had sixty seconds to get my ass out of his facilities when, somewhere down the hall behind me, a door swung open.

"What's going on?"

I'd never been so relieved to hear someone's voice.

I turned. Bodie strode towards us, plucking out his headphones one after the other. He wore a sleeveless black Under Armor shirt and a pair of grey mesh shorts. His arms were beaded with sweat, his hair slicked back with it and cheeks so flushed they were nearly purple.

When his eyes landed on me, I felt the knot in my chest dissolve.

Because he looked happy to see me.

"Hey," he said, a slow smile tugging up the corners of his mouth before his eyebrows suddenly pulled together. "What are you doing here?"

Vaughn cleared his throat.

"You can get back to your work out," he told Bodie, nodding in the direction he'd come from. "We're just calling security. The Daily is sending their spies in here, now."

"I'm not a spy," I said, more exasperated than panicked.

I looked to Bodie, pleading silently for some backup.

"You don't have to call security," he told Vaughn, snorting at the absurdity of his head coach suggesting such extreme measures to combat someone who posed as little a physical threat as I did. "I have a bio project with her. I asked her to meet me here. Right?"

"Right," I said, all to happy to hop on the lie.

I had the most childish urge to stick my tongue out and blow a raspberry at his coaches. Suck it, I thought. He's mine now.

"Bio," Vaughn echoed, one heavy eyebrow arching. "As in bio, the class you're failing, bio?"

Bodie took the subtle blow with the stoicism of a cement wall, though I saw Gordon's mouth twist with a frown.

"My grade's my own fault," Bodie said. "Not hers."

Vaughn turned his attention to me.

"There's no good reason for you to be bothering my quarterback right now," he said, completely ignoring everything Bodie'd just said. "He's training. You can arrange to meet with him when he's not."

"We'll be quick," Bodie insisted.

Vaughn ran his tongue over his front teeth. I took it that his players didn't often stand their ground with him.

When he spoke again, his voice was different. Gentler.

"Five minutes," he conceded. "Then back to the weights. I need you trimmed down. Focus on polishing what shines, alright? Team's counting on you not to have a repeat of last weekend."

"Yes, sir."

Bodie steered me a little ways down the hall with one slightly sweaty hand on my elbow.

Trimmed down. I thought of the pictures of Bodie from high school, when he'd been heavier.

Polishing what shines. He meant prioritizing football over school—prioritizing Bodie's strengths over his shortcomings. Vaughn had convinced a young man that his only worth came from his strength, speed, and stamina. That he was stupid.

But Vaughn was wrong.

Bodie and I stopped at the end of the hall. It didn't feel far enough. Vaughn was still hovering fifty feet away, watching us with the sharp eyes of an animal guarding its kill from a scavenger. I wove my arms tight over my chest and shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to turn my full attention to Bodie.

"You're not in class," I said.

"Neither are you," Bodie countered.

I tipped my head to the side, as if to say fair enough.

"You could've told me you were gonna skip," I said, looking down at a nonexistent scuff on the perfectly reflective floor under our feet instead of his face.

Bodie's hand came up to my elbow again. I dropped my arms.

He caught my hand in his.

I wasn't brave enough to look over and see how Vaughn was taking this whole hand-holding development.

"I'm sorry," Bodie said. "I should've told Shepherd to tell you. I didn't realize I didn't have your actual number until yesterday. And then Vaughn got back, and he eviscerated me over how shitty I played last weekend, and I just figured I should spend some time refocusing."

"What about school?" I asked. "Skipping class isn't going to make anything easier. And you're still a student, you know. The athlete part comes second. Literally. Student athlete."

Bodie cracked a smile.

"Football's more important right now," he said. "I've got a whole team behind me, and I've been playing like shit. I'm letting them all down."

Frustratingly enough, I understood where he was coming from. Despite my extensive athletic failures, I was part of a team—the Daily. I'd prioritized the school paper over my own mental and physical health more than a few times.

I'd skipped class to write articles.

How was Bodie skipping class to work out that different?

"Do you need a copy of the notes?" I offered, rather than insisting on dragging him to Human Sexuality by his headphone cord. "Because I can probably get them from Andre—"

Bodie shook his head.

"I'll ask him myself. How are you holding up?"

So we were ready to talk about President Sterling's statement, then. Oh boy. I took a deep, bolstering breath and tried to plaster on a smile.

"I've been better," I admitted.

"I know Monday was really tough for you," Bodie said with a gentle squeeze of my fingers. "You know I'm not mad at you, right? I don't think you made all that stuff up. I know you wouldn't lie."

The relief I felt was the hug of a best friend, the smell of fresh tortillas, the sunshine on your face after you walked out of your last final.

I know you wouldn't lie.

It was the best thing he could've said.

"And, seriously," Bodie pressed on, "you're still the best journalist I know. It's not your fault the tips ended up being fake. You couldn't have known—"

"I'm sorry," I croaked, shaking my head. "What?"

Relief turned to ice in my veins.

Please don't do this, I thought. Please.

"It's not your fault somebody sent in fake tips," Bodie repeated.

"There's nothing wrong with the tips," I said.

Bodie's eyebrows pinched. His smile looked a little uneasy now.

"Somebody hacked the university's admin system," he told me, repeating what'd been in Sterling's statement. "They generated a couple fake Garland email address and—"

I ripped my hand out of his like he'd electrocuted me.

"And you think the school's telling the truth?" I demanded. "Garland makes millions off Vaughn. They'd want him back as soon as they can, don't you think?"

"Sterling wouldn't lie, though," Bodie insisted. "The school could get in huge trouble for that kind of thing. He wouldn't risk jail time."

"Unless he knows he can get away with it."

Bodie scoffed in disbelief.

It stung. It really stung, like lime juice on a paper cut.

"Vaughn's a dick to you, you know," I added bitterly.

Bodie flinched.

"He's my coach," he said. "Not my dad. He's supposed to be tough on his players. It's an entirely different relationship."

"That doesn't excuse the way he treats you."

"You don't know how he treats me," Bodie shot back in a tone that was snappy, for him. "How many times have you actually spoken to the guy? You see the absolute worst in him. You didn't see him drive me to the airport at two in the morning so I could meet my niece in the hospital. You don't see him scheduling my classes and finding me tutors so I can pull out a GPA high enough to—"

"Of course he's going to help you with your grades," I cried. "That's not for you! That's for him. He needs a quarterback."

"He's important to me, and I'm important to him."

"You're an investment for him," I said.

"And what am I to you?" he demanded. "You realize that the Daily is getting a ton of clout for this, right? Every single person involved gets to put I helped with the Vaughn article on their resume. You're all going to get jobs wherever the fuck you want them. How many times have you quoted me now? How am I not an investment to you, too?"

It was a blow I hadn't anticipated.

I'd never once considered Bodie St. James might think that I was using him, but, in an instant, I could see it the way he did. Because he didn't know that I cared about him. That I really, really cared him—the kind of care that made a nest in my brain and haunted my thoughts while I was in lecture, or driving to the grocery store with Hanna, or caddying for retired couples, or shampooing my hair.

And he thought the worst of me.

"You caught me," I deadpanned. "It was all about my resume. Definitely not about those girls, and what they went through. Who gives a shit, right? I just really wanted people to throw coffee on me and—"

Key my car.

I almost said it. But the humiliation was so fresh it made my eyes wet. I tried to blink them back, because I refused to let Bodie think I was playing the tears card, but it was too late.

Bodie's face went slack.

"Laurel—"

"Don't you dare," I interrupted with a jab of my finger in the center of his sweat-soaked chest, "try to make me feel guilty. Your coach is a horrible human being. That's not my fault. It's his. And yours, for not picking up on all the signs. People who think horrible things and say those horrible things also do horrible things. It's not fucking rocket science."

Bodie scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

"How would you feel if—if Hanna was accused of doing something awful?" he asked, searching for more level ground to have this conversation on. "Wouldn't you defend her?"

"Well, first off, that would never even happen," I said, sniffling despite myself. "Because Hanna treats everyone on the planet the same way she treats her friends. But if somebody accused her of something this awful, I definitely wouldn't jump on TV two days later to tell the world the people who exposed her were full of shit."

Bodie's jaw ticked as he ground his teeth.

Finally he let out a long breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. That wasn't fair."

He sounded as tired as I felt.

I heard footsteps. Vaughn was coming towards us. I'd taken too much of his quarterback's time—or maybe he saw the shift in Bodie's expression. The flicker of empathy.

"St. James," Vaughn barked. "Back to the track."

Bodie didn't budge. He looked back and forth between my eyes, searching.

Finally he whispered, "I should go."

I didn't trust myself to speak, so I just nodded tightly before I turned on my heel and stalked back down the hallway.

I wished I hadn't left class.

I wished I'd known, on Thursday night, that this was all going to happen—that the university would claim there was no proof a man who was situated to bring in millions of dollars of revenue for the athletics program had done anything to warrant his removal.

If I'd known on Thursday, I would've done things differently.

I would've kissed Bodie a little bit longer.

I shouldn't have kissed him at all.

_________________

It's been a really rough week (for Laurel and also for me). I didn't get to respond to comments as much as I wanted to (especially on Monday, although you guys made that such a fun day to check notifications) so I'm going to do that this weekend!

On a lighter note: I don't read much on Wattpad anymore, and I want to change that. So if you know of a WELL-WRITTEN AND COMPLETE ROMANCE BOOK with , let me know (any recommendation that doesn't fit these criteria will be blocked) (I'm rewriting this request since nobody was following my guidelines). Again, UNDER 1 million. Let's all support the authors who haven't hit it big yet!

Your friendly author,

Kate