1
CORY WALKER
The first thing my dad says to me when I walk into the garage is that I look like shit.
“Morning to you, too.”
He doesn’t look up from the paperwork spread across the counter. “You sleep at all last night?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not a number, Cory.”
I drop my keys beside the register and reach for the coffee he has sitting there. It’s still warm, which means he’s either recently made it or he’s been waiting for me.
Knowing my father, it’s probably both.
“Six hours,” I tell him.
He finally looks up. “And how many of those were spent staring at football film on your laptop?”
I take a drink of coffee.
“Cory.”
“Maybe two.”
He shakes his head, although there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re twenty-two years old. You shouldn’t be walking around looking like you’ve got three mortgages and a bad back.”
“Pretty sure the bad back is your department.”
“Keep talking. I’ve got a transmission out back with your name on it.”
I grin and head toward the service bays.
Walker Auto Repair has smelled the same for as long as I can remember. Motor oil, rubber, coffee, and whatever cleaning product my dad insists works better than anything else on the market. The concrete floors are stained in places no amount of scrubbing will ever fix, and the old radio above the workbench has been playing the same classic rock station since I was about twelve.
It’s not much to look at from the road. Just a brick building with three service bays, a small waiting area, and a faded blue sign my dad keeps promising to replace.
But I love this place.
I grew up here.
Spent summers handing my dad tools before I knew what half of them were called. Learned to change oil before I could legally drive. Got my first paycheck at fourteen for sweeping floors, washing windows, and organizing the parts room.
And even now, with football taking up most of my life, I still come in whenever I can.
Dad says I don’t have to.
I tell him I know.
Then I show up anyway.
“What’s on the schedule?” I ask, pulling my sweatshirt over my head.
“Oil change at nine. Brake pads on the Civic in bay two. Mrs. Peterson’s bringing her Buick in around eleven because apparently the air conditioner has decided October is the perfect time to stop working.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And I’ve got a pickup out back that’s making a noise I don’t like.”
“That narrows it down.”
He tosses me a shop towel.
I catch it against my chest.
“Smartass.”
“Learned from the best.”
Dad gives me a look, but he’s smiling when he turns back toward the counter.
I pull on an old gray T-shirt from my locker and head toward bay two.
The Civic is already up on the lift.
I grab my tools, turn the radio up a little, and get to work.
For the next hour, I don’t think about football.
Not the upcoming game. Not the scouts who might be watching. Not the interception I threw during yesterday’s scrimmage that I’ve replayed in my head approximately a hundred times.
Just the car in front of me.
The familiar weight of a wrench in my hand.
The music playing overhead.
It’s nice.
Really fucking nice.
My phone starts vibrating on the workbench just as I’m tightening the last bolt.
I glance at the screen.
Jace Mitchell.
Of course.
I answer on speaker.
“What?”
“That’s a shitty way to greet your best friend.”
“Sorry. Hello, sweetheart. How’s your morning?”
“Better.”
I roll my eyes.
Jace laughs. “You coming tonight?”
“Coming where?”
“Don’t start.”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
“The house. Eight o’clock. Everyone’s coming.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone who matters.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Cory.”
“I’m working.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Yeah. Funny how the calendar works.”
“Your dad still has you fixing cars?”
“Believe it or not, some of us have useful skills outside of catching footballs.”
“First of all, I catch footballs professionally.”
“Collegiately.”
“Semantics.”
“Pretty important semantics, actually.”
He ignores me.
“Second, you need to get out of that garage. You’ve been acting like Coach personally murdered your dog since yesterday.”
I tighten my jaw.
“One bad throw, man,” Jace says, his voice losing some of its teasing edge. “You’re allowed to make one bad throw.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“Okay. Three.”
“Four.”
“Jesus Christ. You counted?”
“Obviously.”
There’s a pause.
Then Jace sighs.
“You’re exhausting.”
“Love you, too.”
“Eight o’clock. Don’t make me come get you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I hang up before he can keep talking.
For a moment, I stare at my phone.
Then I shove it into my pocket and get back to work.
Because Jace is right about one thing.
I’ve been in a shitty mood since yesterday.
And I hate that.
Not because I’m usually some perpetually happy idiot, despite what half the team seems to think.
But because I know better than to let one bad practice follow me around for twenty-four hours.
I’ve been playing football since I was seven.
I’ve had great games. Terrible games. Games where everything clicked and games where I couldn’t seem to complete a pass to save my life.
I know how this works.
Doesn’t mean I enjoy it.
“Cory!”
I look toward the office.
Dad’s standing in the doorway.
“Got a minute?”
“Yeah.”
I set down my wrench and wipe my hands on the towel.
He gestures toward the parking lot.
“Someone just pulled in. Mind taking a look? I’ve got a supplier on the phone.”
“Sure.”
I head toward the front of the garage.
And that’s when I see her.
A girl is standing beside a silver sedan with the hood popped, one hand planted on her hip and the other holding her phone.
Long blonde hair falls down her back in loose waves, catching the late-morning sunlight. She’s wearing faded jeans, white sneakers, and an oversized brown sweater that looks ridiculously comfortable.
She’s pretty.
No.
Pretty doesn’t really cover it.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
And judging by the expression on her face, she’s having a terrible morning.
I walk toward her.
“Hey. You having car trouble?”
She looks up.
Bright blue eyes meet mine.
And for one second, I forget what I was about to say.
Then she sighs.
“Unless cars are supposed to make a noise like someone’s shaking a coffee can full of screws, yeah. I’d say I’m having car trouble.”
I bite back a smile.
“That’s usually not a great sign.”
“Fantastic. I was hoping you’d tell me it was normal.”
“Depends. You driving a coffee can?”
She gives me a look.
I grin.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
“Clearly.”
I step closer to the car, glancing beneath the raised hood.
“I’m Cory.”
“Demi.”
“Demi,” I repeat.
She raises an eyebrow. “That’s generally how names work.”
I laugh.
Actually laugh.
Because apparently this girl has decided within thirty seconds that I’m annoying, and for some reason, I find that incredibly entertaining.
“All right, Demi. Tell me what’s going on.”
She gestures toward the engine.
“It started making this rattling sound yesterday. Mostly when I accelerate. Then this morning, the check-engine light came on.”
“Any trouble starting?”
“No.”
“Overheating?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“How long have you had the car?”
“Three years.”
“Been serviced recently?”
“Oil change about two months ago.”
I nod, leaning forward to inspect what I can see.
She’s quiet for a moment.
Then—
“Are you actually going to be able to tell what’s wrong just by staring at it?”
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s watching me with a perfectly serious expression.
“Probably not.”
“Great.”
“But I figured I’d introduce myself to the engine before we started making accusations.”
Her lips twitch.
It’s small.
Barely there.
But I catch it.
And suddenly, I find myself wanting to make her smile again.
“Look,” I say, straightening. “I’ll run a diagnostic and take a proper look. Shouldn’t take too long to figure out what’s going on.”
“How much is that going to cost me?”
“Diagnostic fee’s sixty-five. We’ll tell you what we find and get your approval before doing any repairs.”
She considers that.
Then nods.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, Cory. Okay.”
I smile.
“Just making sure.”
She closes her eyes for a second.
“Do you always talk this much?”
“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”
“Well, you’re doing fantastic.”
I laugh again.
And this time, she smiles.
A real smile.
Not a polite one.
Not the kind people give you because they’re supposed to.
It’s quick and a little reluctant, but it completely changes her face.
Jesus.
I’m in trouble.
Not actual trouble.
Obviously.
I don’t even know this girl.
But there’s something about her.
Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Come on,” I say, gesturing toward the waiting room. “We’ve got coffee inside. Water, too. And if you’re lucky, my dad hasn’t eaten all the muffins my mom dropped off this morning.”
She follows me toward the entrance.
“Your mom brings muffins to the garage?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s cute.”
“Don’t tell my dad that. He likes to pretend he’s running a serious business.”
She glances at the faded sign above the door.
“Walker Auto Repair?”
“That’s us.”
“Very intimidating.”
“Right?”
She shakes her head, smiling again.
And I hold the door open for her.
For some reason, I have a feeling my Saturday just got a whole lot more interesting.
Absolutely! ❤️🏈 From now on, I’ll write complete chapters in one message, with immersive paragraphs, substantial dialogue, natural pacing, and consistent continuity. No more stopping halfway through a chapter.
Let’s finish Chapter One properly, picking up exactly where we left off.
FOURTH & FOREVERChapter OneCory Walker
The waiting room at Walker Auto Repair has seen better days.
Actually, that’s probably generous.
The walls are painted a shade of beige my mother calls warm oatmeal, which is a nice way of saying nobody has bothered repainting them since 2014. There’s a coffee machine in the corner, a television mounted above the reception desk, and a collection of magazines that I’m pretty sure are older than my sister.
Dad insists it’s comfortable.
Mom insists it needs updating.
I’ve learned not to get involved.
Demi steps inside ahead of me, glancing around as I hold the door open.
“Wow,” she says.
I look at her. “What?”
“Nothing. Just taking in the atmosphere.”
“Careful. We spent a lot of money on that atmosphere.”
“Really?”
“No.”
She laughs softly.
I point toward the coffee machine. “Help yourself. There’s water in the fridge underneath the counter, too.”
“Thanks.”
“And the muffins are over there.”
She follows my gesture toward the plastic container sitting beside the register.
“Your mom actually made those?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s sweet.”
“She’s got a thing about feeding people. Doesn’t matter whether you’re hungry.”
Demi smiles, but she doesn’t reach for one.
Instead, she slips her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and looks toward the service bays.
“So how long do you think it’ll take?”
“To figure out what’s wrong? Maybe twenty minutes. Could be less, depending on what the diagnostic tells me.”
“Okay.”
“You need to be somewhere?”
“Not until later.”
“Good. I’ll try not to ruin your entire Saturday.”
“That would be appreciated.”
I grin.
Dad appears through the office doorway before I can respond.
“Everything all right out here?”
“Yeah. Just getting ready to take a look at Demi’s car.”
His eyes move toward her.
“Demi, huh? I’m Daniel Walker.”
He extends his hand.
She takes it.
“Demi Monroe.”
“Nice to meet you, Demi. Sorry you’re having car trouble.”
“Me too.”
Dad chuckles. “Well, we’ll see what we can do.”
He glances at me.
“You taking it into bay three?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. I’ll finish with the supplier and come give you a hand if you need it.”
“Think I can handle a check-engine light, Dad.”
“I’d hope so. I’ve only spent the last fifteen years teaching you.”
Demi looks between us.
“You’re his dad?”
“Unfortunately,” Dad says.
I put a hand over my heart.
“That’s hurtful.”
“Been saying it for twenty-two years.”
Demi laughs.
And I don’t know why, but hearing her laugh in the middle of my dad’s garage makes something warm settle in my chest.
Dad gives me a knowing look.
I ignore it.
“All right,” I tell Demi. “I’m gonna pull your car around. You can hang out in here.”
She nods.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I take her keys and head outside before my father can embarrass me.
Which, knowing him, is probably already too late.
The diagnostic scanner gives me a misfire code.
Not exactly the end of the world.
But not something I’d recommend ignoring, either.
I pull the car into bay three, pop the hood, and start checking the obvious things first.
The engine’s running rougher than it should, and after a few minutes of inspection, I have a pretty good idea what’s causing it.
I shut it off and grab my phone to check the parts inventory.
We’ve got what I need.
Good.
I head back toward the waiting room.
Demi is sitting in one of the chairs near the window, scrolling through something on her phone.
She’s tucked one leg beneath her, the sleeves of her sweater pulled halfway over her hands.
When I walk in, she looks up.
“Well?”
“Good news.”
She sits straighter.
“Really?”
“Your engine isn’t about to explode.”
She stares at me.
“Was that a possibility?”
“No.”
“Cory.”
I laugh.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
She shakes her head.
“You’re actually the worst.”
“Been told that before.”
“Frequently, I’m guessing.”
“Mostly by my sister.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yeah. Brenna. She’s seventeen.”
Demi smiles faintly.
“Is she as annoying as you?”
“Worse.”
“That poor family.”
I pull the chair across from her away from the wall and sit down.
“Okay. Actual good news. You’ve got a misfire. Looks like a bad ignition coil, and the spark plug in that cylinder isn’t in great shape either.”
She frowns.
“Is that expensive?”
“Not as bad as it could’ve been.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“Fair. Let me give you the numbers.”
I explain the parts and labor estimate, including the diagnostic fee and taxes, and show her the breakdown on the tablet.
She studies it carefully.
I don’t rush her.
Money’s money.
I know how frustrating it is to bring a car in expecting one thing and find out it’s going to cost more than you planned.
“Okay,” she says eventually. “And that’ll fix the noise?”
“It should take care of the misfire and rough running. Once the parts are in, I’ll test it again to make sure there’s nothing else going on.”
She nods.
“How long?”
“About an hour, maybe a little more.”
She glances at the time on her phone.
“All right.”
“Want us to go ahead?”
“Yeah. Please.”
I hand her the tablet to authorize the repair.
She signs.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Thank you.”
I stand.
“There’s a diner about two blocks down if you want to grab breakfast while you wait.”
She shakes her head.
“I’m fine here.”
“All right.”
I start toward the service bays.
“Cory?”
I turn.
“Yeah?”
She hesitates.
Then she gives me a small smile.
“Thanks for explaining everything.”
“Of course.”
“No, I mean…” She gestures vaguely toward the tablet. “Some places just tell you something’s broken and expect you to pay for it.”
“Well, that’d be a pretty shitty way to run a business.”
“Apparently not everyone agrees.”
I smile.
“My dad would kill me if I tried it.”
She laughs.
“Good to know.”
I head back into the garage.
And for the first time all morning, I’m not thinking about yesterday’s scrimmage.
By the time I finish replacing the ignition coil and spark plug, it’s nearly noon.
The car starts smoothly.
No rattling.
No rough idle.
I take it out for a short test drive, keeping an eye on the engine’s performance and checking for any returning codes.
Everything looks good.
When I pull back into the garage, Dad’s standing near the counter talking to one of our regular customers.
He catches my eye.
I give him a thumbs-up.
He nods.
I park Demi’s car outside and head into the waiting room.
She’s standing near the window now, phone pressed to her ear.
Her back is to me.
I don’t mean to listen.
But the room’s small, and her voice carries.
“I told you I’m getting it fixed.”
A pause.
Her shoulders stiffen.
“No. I didn’t know it was going to happen today.”
Another pause.
She rubs her forehead.
“I understand.”
Something about her tone catches my attention.
It’s different from the girl who was giving me shit about my personality less than an hour ago.
Quieter.
Careful.
“I’ll be home,” she says.
Then she hangs up.
For a second, she just stands there.
Her phone remains in her hand.
I consider backing out and giving her a minute.
But she turns before I can.
Her expression changes immediately.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say.
I keep my tone casual.
“Your car’s ready.”
Relief flashes across her face.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Oh, thank God.”
I smile.
“She’s running a lot better.”
“You’re my favorite person today.”
“That’s a pretty big promotion. I was the worst an hour ago.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I laugh.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She follows me toward the counter.
Dad has disappeared into the office again, so I pull up her invoice and walk her through the final charges.
Everything matches the estimate.
She pays with her card, and I print her receipt.
“You’re all set,” I tell her.
She takes the paper.
“Thank you. Really.”
“No problem.”
I hand her the keys.
“Just keep an eye on it over the next few days. If the light comes back on or anything feels off, bring it back.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t wait until it sounds like a coffee can full of screws again.”
She laughs.
“I’ll try.”
I lean against the counter.
“So, Demi Monroe.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“So, Cory Walker.”
“You go to Redwood?”
“Yeah.”
“What year?”
“Junior.”
“What’s your major?”
“Nursing.”
I nod.
“That’s cool.”
“It’s also exhausting.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You have no idea.”
“Probably not.”
She smiles.
“What about you?”
“Senior.”
“And your major?”
“Business administration.”
She tilts her head.
“Let me guess. You want to take over the garage someday?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Depends on how a few things work out.”
She studies me for a moment.
Then her eyes narrow slightly.
“Wait.”
I smile.
“What?”
“You’re familiar.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.”
I wait.
She points at me.
“Oh my God.”
I laugh.
“What?”
“You’re the quarterback.”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Cory Walker.”
“That’s what my driver’s license says.”
She shakes her head.
“Redwood State.”
“That’s the one.”
She looks genuinely amused.
“I knew I’d seen you somewhere.”
“Was hoping it was my charming personality.”
“Definitely not.”
I grin.
“You follow football?”
“Not really.”
“Ouch.”
“My roommate watches sometimes.”
“Roommate?”
She pauses.
“Friend,” she corrects. “Olivia. She’s obsessed with sports.”
“Well, tell Olivia she’s got excellent taste.”
“I absolutely will not.”
I laugh.
And she smiles again.
That smile.
Jesus Christ.
It’s ridiculous how pretty she is.
But it’s not just that.
She’s funny.
And smart.
And apparently completely unimpressed by the fact that I throw a football around for a living.
Which is refreshing.
Most people on campus recognize me before I even open my mouth.
I’m not complaining.
I love football.
I love Redwood.
I love what I get to do.
But sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t immediately ask about the next game.
Demi glances toward the door.
“I should probably get going.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
She adjusts the strap of her bag.
“Thanks again.”
“Anytime.”
She starts toward the exit.
I follow, mostly because I’m heading outside anyway.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
When we reach her car, she turns to face me.
“Well, Cory Walker.”
“Well, Demi Monroe.”
She smiles.
“Hopefully I won’t see you again anytime soon.”
I put a hand over my chest.
“Wow.”
She laughs.
“Because of the car.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“That hurts, Demi.”
“Something tells me you’ll recover.”
“Eventually.”
She opens the driver’s door.
Then she pauses.
“Seriously, though. Thank you.”
Her voice is softer this time.
Less teasing.
And for some reason, that gets to me more than the smile.
“You’re welcome.”
She looks at me for another second.
Then she slides into the driver’s seat.
I step back and close the door for her.
She rolls down the window.
“Bye, Cory.”
“Drive safe.”
She smiles.
Then she pulls out of the lot.
I watch until her silver sedan disappears onto the main road.
And when I turn around, my dad is standing in the garage doorway.
Arms crossed.
Grinning.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Am I?”
“Dad.”
He shrugs.
“Pretty girl.”
I walk past him.
“She’s a customer.”
“Didn’t say she wasn’t.”
“Don’t start.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
I glance at him.
He’s still grinning.
“You’re impossible.”
“Your mother says the same thing.”
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
Dad follows me into the garage.
“So.”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Maybe I was going to ask whether you finished the Civic.”
“Finished it an hour ago.”
“Good.”
He pauses.
“She seemed nice.”
I groan.
“Dad.”
“What? She did.”
“She’s nice.”
“Pretty, too.”
“Jesus Christ.”
He laughs.
And I can’t help smiling.
Because yeah.
She’s nice.
And pretty.
And funny.
And stubborn.
And apparently studying nursing while driving around in a car that sounds like it’s about to fall apart.
I don’t know much about Demi Monroe.
Not yet.
But I know I’d like to.
By the time I leave the garage, it’s after four.
Dad tries to convince me to head home earlier, but we’ve got a couple of jobs to finish, and I’m not about to leave him with all of them.
Eventually, he practically kicks me out.
“Go home,” he says, tossing me my keys.
“I’m going.”
“You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes.”
“Because you keep finding things for me to do.”
“That’s called running a business.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is. Which is why I’m telling you to leave.”
I laugh and grab my sweatshirt.
“Tell Mom I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“She already knows.”
“How?”
“Because she asked me whether you’d be coming for dinner, and I told her yes.”
I shake my head.
“Good to know I have a say.”
“You do. You can choose what time you show up.”
“Generous.”
He claps a hand against my shoulder.
“Get some rest, son.”
I look at him.
For a second, his expression is serious.
Not worried exactly.
Just attentive.
Dad’s always been like that.
He notices things.
Even when I wish he wouldn’t.
“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” he says. “Don’t forget you’re allowed to take a day off once in a while.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I sigh.
“Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
He studies me.
Then nods.
“All right.”
I pull him into a quick hug.
“Love you.”
“Love you, too. Drive safe.”
“Always.”
I head toward my truck.
It’s an old Ford pickup my dad and I restored together when I was sixteen.
Dark blue.
A little scratched up.
Nothing fancy.
But I’d choose it over just about anything else.
I climb inside, start the engine, and pull out of the lot.
The drive back toward campus takes about fifteen minutes.
Redwood State sits just outside the center of town, surrounded by tree-lined streets, coffee shops, apartment buildings, and enough bars to keep the student population entertained.
The campus itself is gorgeous this time of year.
Red and orange leaves cover the sidewalks. The stadium rises above the athletic complex, and banners advertising next weekend’s home game hang from the lampposts.
Football season.
My favorite time of year.
And probably the most stressful.
I pull into the parking lot outside the house I share with Jace and two other teammates.
It’s a decent-sized place about ten minutes from campus.
Four bedrooms.
A big living room.
A kitchen that somehow always looks like a tornado went through it.
And a backyard where somebody decided to install a firepit last spring.
Jace’s car is already in the driveway.
Of course it is.
I grab my bag and head inside.
The first thing I hear is yelling.
“That’s not even a fucking catch!”
I stop in the doorway.
Jace is standing in front of the television, controller in hand, arguing with our roommate, Mason.
Mason doesn’t even look up.
“Scoreboard, bitch.”
“You’re cheating.”
“At Madden?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I laugh.
Both of them turn.
Jace points at me.
“Finally.”
“Miss me?”
“Desperately.”
Mason grins.
“Your boyfriend’s been whining about you all afternoon.”
“Shut up,” Jace mutters.
I drop my bag beside the stairs.
“Nice to know I’m appreciated.”
Jace tosses his controller onto the couch.
“You coming tonight?”
“Apparently.”
“Good.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing.”
I stare at him.
“You’ve been harassing me all day about a party for no reason?”
“That’s generally how college works.”
Mason laughs.
I shake my head and head toward the kitchen.
“Who’s coming?”
“Team. Some people from campus. Whoever else shows up.”
“Sounds organized.”
“Thank you.”
I open the fridge.
There’s half a pizza, three energy drinks, and a container of something I don’t recognize.
I stare at it.
“What the hell is that?”
Mason calls from the living room.
“Don’t touch it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s science.”
I close the fridge.
“Great.”
Jace appears in the doorway.
“You look tired.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously. You good?”
I lean against the counter.
“Yeah.”
He studies me.
“Still thinking about yesterday?”
“A little.”
“Cory.”
“I know.”
He folds his arms.
“Coach already went through the film with you.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And I made some bad reads.”
“And you made about twenty good ones.”
I shrug.
Jace sighs.
“You’re the best quarterback this school’s had in years. You know that, right?”
I give him a look.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He leans against the opposite counter.
“Look, man. I get it. Scouts are coming around. Everyone’s talking about the draft. You feel like every throw has to be perfect.”
I don’t answer.
Because that’s exactly how it feels.
He continues.
“But if you spend the entire season worrying about one bad play, you’re gonna drive yourself insane.”
I rub a hand over my face.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I hear you.”
He nods.
“Good.”
For a moment, we’re quiet.
Then Jace grins.
“So. Your dad tell you any embarrassing childhood stories today?”
I laugh.
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
“He did, however, decide to interrogate me about a girl.”
Jace straightens.
“A girl?”
“Don’t.”
“What girl?”
“Nobody.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not a lie.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
I immediately stop smiling.
Jace bursts out laughing.
“Oh, this is good.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Who is she?”
“Customer.”
“At the garage?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
I hesitate.
Which is apparently all the confirmation he needs.
Jace points at me.
“You’re interested.”
“I met her for like two hours.”
“Didn’t ask how long you knew her.”
I shake my head.
“Demi.”
He blinks.
“Demi?”
“Yeah.”
“Last name?”
“Monroe.”
He thinks for a second.
Then shrugs.
“Don’t know her.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“What’s she like?”
I consider that.
Beautiful would be the obvious answer.
But it’s not the first thing that comes to mind.
“Funny,” I say.
Jace raises an eyebrow.
“Funny?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
“She’s studying nursing. Goes to Redwood. Drives a silver sedan that needed a new ignition coil.”
He stares at me.
Then slowly smiles.
“You know her major and her car problems?”
“She was literally at the garage.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jace.”
“You’re so fucked.”
I laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins.
“Can’t wait to meet her.”
“You’re not meeting anybody.”
“Sure, man.”
I shake my head and head upstairs.
But even as I walk away, I catch myself smiling again.
Demi Monroe.
I wonder if I’ll see her around campus.
Redwood’s big enough that we could go the entire semester without crossing paths.
Then again, maybe not.
Either way, I find myself hoping that silver sedan holds up.
And that if I see Demi again, it won’t be because something else has gone wrong.
I shower, change into jeans and a clean T-shirt, and spend the next hour stretched out on my bed with my laptop open.
Football film.
Because apparently I don’t know how to take my own father’s advice.
I watch a few plays from yesterday’s scrimmage, pause, rewind, and make notes.
There’s a particular defensive look that’s been giving me trouble.
I know what I should be seeing.
I just need to trust myself to make the read faster.
By seven-thirty, my phone has buzzed four times with messages from Jace.
Jace: You alive?
Jace: People are showing up.
Jace: If you’re watching film I’m unplugging the wifi.
Jace: Cory.
I laugh and close my laptop.
Me: Coming downstairs. Relax.
Jace: Finally.
I toss my phone onto the bed and stand.
My reflection catches in the mirror above my dresser.
Messy brown hair.
Tired eyes.
A small bruise near my collarbone from yesterday’s practice.
I run a hand through my hair, accomplishing absolutely nothing, and head downstairs.
Music is already playing.
The living room is filling up with people.
Some teammates.
A few girls I recognize from campus.
Mason is arguing with somebody about the playlist.
And Jace is standing near the kitchen island with a drink in his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
He spots me.
“There he is!”
I roll my eyes.
“Please don’t.”
He throws an arm around my shoulders.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our fearless leader.”
“You’re embarrassing.”
“That’s my job.”
I laugh and shove him away.
For the next couple of hours, I do what I always do.
Talk to friends.
Catch up with teammates.
Listen to Mason complain about a professor.
Argue with Jace about whether he actually caught that pass during practice on Thursday.
It’s good.
Normal.
Exactly what I needed.
At some point, my phone vibrates.
A text from Mom.
Mom: Your dad said you worked all day. Make sure you eat something tonight. Love you ❤️
I smile.
Me: I ate. Love you too.
A second later—
Mom: Actual food?
I laugh.
Me: Yes, Heidi.
Mom: Don’t Heidi me.
I shake my head, grinning.
Then another message comes through.
Brenna: Mom says you’re coming tomorrow.
Me: Apparently I don’t have a choice.
Brenna: Good. I need help with my car.
Me: You don’t have a car.
Brenna: Exactly. Convince Dad I need one.
I laugh.
Me: Absolutely not.
Brenna: Worst brother ever.
Me: Love you too, brat.
I slip my phone into my pocket.
Across the room, Jace is waving me over.
I head toward him.
And for the rest of the night, I let myself relax.
Mostly.
Because every now and then, for absolutely no reason, my mind drifts back to the garage.
To long blonde hair.
Bright blue eyes.
An oversized brown sweater.
And a girl who looked me straight in the face and told me I talked too much.
I smile into my drink.
Yeah.
I’d definitely like to see Demi Monroe again.
And maybe next time, I’ll ask for her number.
Hooked