THE SETUP

If one more person tells me to take a deep breath today, I might actually lose my mind.

“Josie, breathe,” Liam squeaks, clutching sideline passes to his chest. “Gate four scanners are down, and the booster bus is stuck behind a tractor on Route Nine.”

Breathing doesn’t fix ticket scanners.

“Tell gate four to switch to the backup tablets,” I say, clicking my pen. “I set that cache up on Tuesday. Next, call Deputy Miller for the booster bus. He’s waiting at the county line to escort them in. And if you drop those passes on this wet floor, Liam, you’re reprinting them.”

Liam blinks fast. “Right. Tablets. Police escort. Don’t drop passes.”

“Go.”

He bolts down the hall, sneakers squeaking on damp concrete.

I let out a slow breath. Four seconds in, four seconds out.

See? Totally under control.

I am not stressed. I’m just fixing the plan. Stress means letting chaos win, and chaos has never once paid my rent.

Outside the fieldhouse, sixty thousand fans are already shaking the concrete. You feel Ravens football right in your ribs...the brass band blasting, the student section bass rattling the lockers, the smell of roasted nuts and hot fries drifting down from the concourse.

Down here in North Carolina, college football is religion. And as the head student coordinator for gameday events, I’m the one making sure this circus doesn’t burn down before kickoff.

My headset buzzes with static.

“Josie, where are those timing sheets?” Adam Smith sounds like he’s swallowing nails. “Kickoff is in eighty minutes, and the TV director is breathing down my neck.”

“Walking into your office right now, Mr Smith,” I say, hitting the collar button.

I push open the glass door to athletic ops. Adam Smith, our Associate Athletic Director, is pacing behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up, looking two seconds from a stroke.

I drop the red folder on his desk.

“Broadcast window is 3:34 PM,” I tell him. “Halftime is locked at twelve minutes. The alumni are lined up, and their golf carts have fresh batteries so nobody gets stranded on the field like last year.”

Smith lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his bald head. “You’re a lifesaver, Kessler. What are we going to do when you graduate?”

“Hire two adults and pay them real salaries,” I say with a grin.

He chuckles, but the smile drops fast. “I talked to Craig Bennett this morning.”

My stomach does a flip. Craig Bennett. Senior partner at Apex Sports Management in New York. Landing an entry job there is my dream.

“And?” I ask, trying to sound chill.

“He’s in the athletic suite today,” Smith says.

“Watching how we run things. I told him you’re the sharpest student operator I’ve had in ten years. But Craig is picky, Josie. He doesn’t just want an event planner. He wants someone who understands crisis control and keeps players out of the headlines.”

“I can do that,” I say.

“I know you can. That’s why today has to be flawless. We’re ranked fourth in the country, scouts are in the stands, and the game is on national TV. If we pull this off without drama, my recommendation letter goes to Bennett tonight.”

“Not a single thing is going wrong today,” I promise.

Five minutes later, I’m heading down the tunnel toward the locker room, double-checking my clipboard.

“Hey, Boss Lady.”

That smooth voice stops me in my tracks.

Deacon Pryce is leaning against the wall outside the locker room, looking completely relaxed. He’s already in game pants, his silver jersey stretched over wide shoulders, helmet dangling from one hand.

His dark curls are damp from warmups, and he’s wearing that lazy grin that has made my brain short-circuit since sophomore year.

“Pryce,” I say, holding up my clipboard. “Shouldn’t you be in the film room?”

“Coach is screaming at the offensive line,” Deacon says, stepping closer. He smells like spearmint gum, soap, and expensive cologne. “I catch footballs, Josie. I don’t get flattened by three-hundred-pound tackles for fun.”

“It’s called blocking, Deacon. It’s in your playbook.”

“Details.” He chuckles, tilting his head with dark eyes locked on mine. “You making sure my touchdown fireworks don’t singe my eyebrows?”

“I’m making sure you follow the rules,” I counter. Cool and professional, Josie. “If you celebrate in the end zone longer than four seconds, we get flagged, and Smith yells in my ear all afternoon.”

“Tell you what,” Deacon says, leaning down so close his warmth hits my shoulder. “I’ll keep my dances short if you promise to come to the party at Elm Row tonight. The whole team is celebrating, and I need someone to talk to who doesn’t just talk about cover-two defense.”

My heart jumps. A real invitation. From him.

“I have gear inventory until ten,” I say carefully.

“I’ll save you a cup,” he promises, flashing a smile that could melt butter. He taps the edge of my clipboard. “Don’t work too hard, Kessler.”

He jogs into the locker room, cleats clicking on concrete.

I stare at the swinging doors for a second, my pulse humming.

See? Totally normal. It’s finally happening. Deacon is sweet, safe, and fits into my neat five-year plan. Zero drama.

Then the hallway goes dead quiet.

The music inside cuts out. The chatter dies. Down the hall, two athletic trainers stare at a phone, completely pale.

“No way,” one whispers. “Is that real?”

“Look at the timestamp. Three in the morning.”

Before I can take a step, my headset blares.

“Josie!” Smith screams. “Get into the tunnel office right now!”

My stomach drops through the floor.

I run down the corridor and shove open the operations door.

Adam Smith is gripping an iPad with shaking hands. Up on the wall TV, the ESPN ticker is blinking bright red.

“Did a scanner break?” I ask, out of breath.

“I wish it was a scanner,” Smith croaks. “Look at this.”

He shoves the iPad across the desk.

It’s a Barstool Sports post with fifty thousand shares and climbing. A photo taken at 2:45 AM outside a dive bar off the highway.

Right in the center is Griffin Halloran.

Our starting quarterback. The face of the school. The golden boy whose face is plastered on the stadium entrance.

Only Griff isn’t smiling for a billboard. His shirt is torn, his right knuckles are bloody, and he looks furious as two campus cops shove him against a cruiser surrounded by smashed beer bottles.

The headline screams:

RAVENS STAR QB GRIFFIN HALLORAN IN 3 A.M. BAR BRAWL: SUSPENSION COMING BEFORE OPENER?

“Oh God,” I whisper.

“Bennett is upstairs,” Smith groans, head in his hands. “Russell Brown is in the lobby. The entire board of trustees is watching Twitter blow up an hour before kickoff!”

“Was Griff arrested?” I ask.

“No! He was breaking up a brawl, but look at the photo! He looks unhinged. NFL scouts are already texting about character issues. If this blows up, Bennett walks away from our sports marketing partnership!”

My entire future is unravelling. My recommendation letter. My job at Apex. Everything I’ve built, derailed by a quarterback who couldn’t stay home the night before kickoff.

The desk phone rings with a sharp, shrill buzz. A red light flashes on line one.

Smith freezes. “I can’t answer that. It’s his agent.”

“Answer it,” I say. “Put it on speaker.”

Smith hits the speaker button with a trembling hand.

“Adam?” The voice is smooth ice. Todd Sterling, Griffin Halloran’s high-powered agent.

“Todd,” Smith says, leaning over the desk. “We saw the photo. Coach Maddox wants to bench him...”

“Maddox isn’t benching anyone if he wants to win,” Sterling cuts in cleanly. “Griff plays today. But the press is a disaster. Scouts are spooked, and we have sixty minutes before warmups to flip the narrative.”

“How?” Smith asks. “A statement won’t fix this!”

“Nobody cares about statements,” Sterling says. “We need optics. We need people to see Griffin with someone responsible, steady, and clean. Someone from inside athletics who makes him look like a grounded adult instead of a bar-brawling liability.”

A brief pause hangs on the line. Then Sterling drops the hammer.

“Your student logistics coordinator. Josie Kessler.”

My jaw drops. My clipboard clatters against the desk.

“Griff’s camp needs a favour, Adam,” Sterling says casually. “Bring the girl to the players’ lounge right now.”