Episode 4

By Monday lunch, Vivian had looked at Ethan Lawrence's number so many times she could have recited it backward.

She had not texted it.

That felt important.

Or cowardly.

Possibly both.

"You offered to pay him for one evening," Katie Monroe said, staring at Vivian across the dining hall table like she had just confessed to grand theft. "Viv. Please tell me you did not use those words."

Vivian pushed a fry through ketchup. "I said compensate."

"That is worse."

"It was a professional context."

"Was his shirt buttoned?"

Vivian's face went hot.

Katie dropped her head into her hands. "Oh my God."

"It was a leather campaign. The shirt was a creative decision."

"A creative decision that made you try to buy a man?"

"I did not try to buy a man."

"You tried to rent one for practice."

Vivian kicked her under the table.

Katie laughed, then leaned closer. The dining hall around them buzzed with the first full week of classes: trays clattering, espresso machines whining, freshmen pretending they already knew where everything was. "Show me the number."

"No."

"Vivian."

"No. If I show you, it becomes real."

"It is ten digits in black marker. It is extremely real."

Vivian pulled the folded practice schedule halfway from her notebook, then shoved it back in. "He still said no. I reported that. Coach Wilson probably thinks I failed."

"You made contact with the most impossible player on campus, got insulted, insulted him back, accidentally propositioned him, and walked away with his private number." Katie picked up a fry. "That is not failure. That is an origin story."

"Please don't call it that."

"Fine. A disaster with potential."

Vivian was about to argue when the dining hall changed temperature.

It was not quiet, exactly. Blackridge dining hall did not do quiet. But the noise shifted toward the main doors, attention gathering like static.

Katie looked over Vivian's shoulder. Her brows went up.

"Speak of the beautifully expensive problem."

Vivian did not turn around fast.

She turned around like a person with dignity.

Mostly.

Ethan Lawrence walked in with three other Raptors players, and the room noticed. It was embarrassing how much it noticed. Girls at the smoothie counter stopped mid-conversation. Two guys near the pizza station straightened as if posture might save them. Ethan wore black sweats, a white T-shirt, and none of the studio lights, which should have made him less unfair.

It did not.

Beside him, Jasper Reed was saying something animated with both hands. Josh Reed carried two trays like food was a competitive event. Luke Barrett walked behind them, scrolling his phone.

Ethan looked bored.

Then his gaze cut across the room and found Vivian.

Her heart did one stupid, traitorous thing against her ribs.

He did not smile.

He did not wave.

He only looked at her, then glanced at the notebook where the folded schedule hid.

Vivian's fingers froze around her cup.

Katie, because she was awful, whispered, "Oh, that's not nothing."

"It's nothing."

"That man just looked at your notebook like it owed him money."

Before Vivian could answer, a girl in a Raptors crop top stepped into Ethan's path with her phone already in her hand.

"Ethan, hey." Her smile was glossy and brave. "Can I get your number? For a study group thing."

Jasper coughed into his drink.

Josh looked delighted. Luke did not look up from his phone, but his mouth twitched.

Ethan stared at the girl.

"No."

The girl blinked, smile faltering. "I mean, just if you want. I can send you the notes for sports media."

"I'm not in sports media."

"Oh." She recovered too quickly. "Then just your number?"

Vivian wanted, very badly, to disappear into her lemonade.

Ethan reached for an apple from the grab-and-go display, turned it once in his hand, and said, "I've given my number to one girl at Blackridge."

The room around them did what rooms did when famous athletes offered gossip for free.

It listened.

Vivian stopped breathing.

Katie's eyes went enormous.

The girl laughed awkwardly. "Your girlfriend?"

"No."

The answer should have relaxed Vivian.

It did not.

Ethan's gaze slid, briefly and deliberately, to Vivian's table.

Not long enough to expose her.

Long enough to ruin her.

"She earned it," he said.

Jasper's head snapped in Vivian's direction.

Ethan walked away before anyone could ask what that meant.

Katie grabbed Vivian's wrist under the table. "You are going to bruise me if you keep pretending that was nothing."

"He is messing with me."

"Yes. Personally."

"That doesn't make it good."

"It makes it interesting."

Vivian watched Ethan and the players claim a table near the windows. He dropped into a chair like he owned the angle of the sunlight. Jasper looked back at Vivian twice before finally pushing out of his seat and heading their way with a carton of chocolate milk in one hand.

"Incoming quarterback," Katie murmured.

Jasper stopped at their table with a smile that probably worked on ninety percent of campus. "Vivian, right?"

"Yes."

"Jasper Reed." He nodded toward Katie. "Katie."

Katie gave him a cool little wave. "Reed."

He looked pleased she knew his name. Then he turned back to Vivian. "So you're the one Wilson sent after Lawrence."

Vivian sat straighter. "I delivered the schedule."

"Bold. Most people just value their peace."

"I value employment."

Jasper grinned. "Respect. Listen, if you're trying again, don't lead with practice. He hates being managed."

"That is inconvenient, considering he plays a team sport."

"Extremely. But if you want him to cooperate, maybe soften the approach."

Katie's expression sharpened. "Soften?"

Jasper, sensing danger too late, lifted both hands. "I mean strategic. Less clipboard. More..." He looked at Vivian's cardigan and pink hair clip, then panicked. "You know. Friendly."

Vivian's face warmed.

Katie said, "Do you offer all women workplace advice with a side of styling notes?"

"No," Jasper said quickly. "Only the ones trying to move Ethan Lawrence."

"Lucky us."

Vivian should have been offended.

She was, a little.

But Jasper's nervous glance back at Ethan told her something useful: they all treated Ethan like weather. Dangerous, inconvenient, impossible to command directly.

Maybe Coach Wilson had not expected her to win on the first try.

Maybe tomorrow was not failure.

Maybe tomorrow was the last chance to become memorable for something besides the worst sentence she had ever said under studio lights.

Vivian pulled the folded schedule from her notebook and slipped it into her bag.

Katie watched her. "You're going to text him?"

"No."

"Vivian."

"Not yet." Vivian looked across the dining hall.

Ethan was not looking at her anymore.

But his phone sat faceup beside his tray, as if waiting.

She gripped the strap of her bag.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Tomorrow is my last chance."

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