Chapter 10

ten

. . .

Sloane

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, jolting me from a light doze. I stretch out under the covers, the warmth of last night still lingering on my skin. The stars, the wine, the kiss—it all feels like a dream I don’t want to wake from. My lips curve into a smile, but the sharp beep of another notification pulls me back to reality.

I groan, rolling over to grab my phone. A text from Jacklyn lights up the screen.

Jacks: Where are you? Game’s starting soon. Meet us at the bar.

I sigh, reluctantly throwing the covers off. The thought of a bar packed with football fans is less than appealing, especially with the memory of last night swirling in my head. But I know Jacklyn—if I don’t show up, she’ll come banging on my door with no mercy.

By the time I get there, the bar is buzzing with life. The background noise of excited chatter and the clink of glasses make it feel like the entire campus has crammed into one room. I spot Jacklyn waving me over to a high-top table in the back. There’s already a drink waiting for me.

“Hey, superstar,” she teases, her eyes glinting with mischief as I slide onto the stool.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.

“Nothing,” she says, her smirk widening. “You just look…extra chipper today. So, spill.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re imagining things.”

Before she can press me, Brian appears with a couple of his friends in tow. His smile is tight, his eyes scanning me like he’s putting together a puzzle.

“Sloane,” he says, leaning casually against the table. “Late night?”

My stomach flips, but I keep my expression neutral. “Not really.”

“Funny,” one of his friends pipes up, a smug grin spreading across his face. “I could’ve sworn I saw you getting into Asher’s truck last night.”

The words land like a grenade, and suddenly, it feels like the entire bar has gone quiet. My face burns, the heat spreading all the way to the tips of my ears. I glance at Jacklyn, whose expression remains perfectly composed.

“No,” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow even to me. “That wasn’t me.”

Brian’s brows knit together, his eyes narrowing. “Really? Because it looked a lot like you.”

“It wasn’t,” I say quickly, gripping the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles turn white.

Jacklyn steps in, her voice light and playful. “Come on, guys. You’ve clearly had one too many beers if you’re seeing Sloane climbing into trucks. She was home all night.”

Brian doesn’t look convinced, but one of his friends laughs, diffusing the moment. “Guess I was seeing things, then.”

Jacklyn shoots me a subtle glance—a silent reassurance—but the unease in my chest doesn’t budge.

The game blares on the screens around us, the crowd erupting into cheers and groans, but it all feels distant. My thoughts whirl. Did Brian’s friend really see me? How many other people know? The night with Asher had felt perfect, like it existed in its own bubble, but now that bubble feels dangerously close to bursting.

“You okay?” Jacklyn leans over, her voice barely above the noise.

“I’m fine,” I whisper back, though my hands are trembling slightly.

The game ends, and the bar explodes in celebration, giving me the perfect chance to slip out unnoticed. Or at least, I hope so.

The night air is cool against my flushed cheeks, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat inside. I’m halfway to my car when Jacklyn catches up to me.

“Alright, what’s going on?” she demands, crossing her arms as she plants herself in my path.

“It’s nothing,” I say, fumbling with my keys. “I just don’t want people talking about me.”

“Because of Asher?” she asks, her voice softening.

I meet her gaze, my stomach twisting. “They’d make it a thing, Jacks. The quarterback and…me? It’s just?—”

“You like him,” she interrupts, her tone more statement than question. “And I’ve never seen you like this before. Don’t let Brian or anyone else ruin that for you.”

Her words hit something tender in me, and I swallow hard against the ache in my throat. “I just don’t want the drama,” I say, my voice cracking despite my best effort to sound steady.

Jacklyn steps closer, her expression fierce. “You deserve to be happy, Sloane. Don’t let fear make decisions for you.”

Her conviction stirs something in me—something I’ve been trying to bury since last night. I nod, giving her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” She nudges me lightly. “Now, go home and text your quarterback. He’s probably waiting to hear from you.”

I laugh despite myself, the sound shaky but real. As I slide into my car, Jacklyn’s words echo in my mind.

But as I drive away, the nagging thought resurfaces: If someone saw us last night, how long until everyone knows? And if they do, what will that mean for us?

I toss my phone onto the bed and flop back against the pillows, letting out a long sigh. Tonight at the bar had been…uncomfortable, to say the least. The thrill from last night with Asher has been replaced by a gnawing unease. If Brian’s friend saw me getting into Asher’s truck, how many others know—or are already talking?

The buzz of my phone snaps me out of my thoughts. I grab it, the glow of the screen illuminating one two words:

Asher: You home?

I stare at the message, my heart doing its annoying little flip. My thumbs hover over the keyboard before I finally type:

Me: Yeah. Just got back. Why?

The three little dots appear almost instantly, then his response pops up:

Asher: Come out with me. I’m back from the game. Let’s celebrate.

Celebrate? I groan, rubbing my temples. Of course he’s buzzing with energy—it was a big win for him. But me? I’m drained. The last thing I want to do is be out where people could be watching, speculating, whispering.

I start typing a reply, deleting it twice before settling on:

Me: Not really in the mood, but thanks.

His response comes fast, as if he was waiting for me to say no:

Asher: Mood? I’m about to fix that. Let’s go.

I sigh, typing back:

Me: I’m serious, Asher. Long day. I’m just gonna crash.

The dots appear again, and this time his message is longer.

Asher: Sloane, don’t do this. You can’t tell me you’re tired when you’ve been on my mind all day. Come on, I’ll pick you up. Twenty minutes tops.

I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips, but I force myself to stay firm. I can’t. Not tonight.

Me: It’s not about being tired.

I hit send, then add another message before he can respond:

Me: I don’t think we should push this into public territory yet. People are already talking.

The dots appear, then disappear. When his reply comes through, it’s shorter than I expect.

Asher: Who cares what people say?

I let out a frustrated breath. It’s not that simple. I know he means well, but Asher doesn’t understand what it’s like to be the focus of campus gossip, to have people dissect your life like it’s their business.

I take a deep breath and start typing again.

Me: It’s easy for you to say. You’re used to the spotlight. Me? Not so much.

The dots appear again, then stop, then start. I picture him holding his phone, probably pacing in his room, trying to come up with the right thing to say.

Asher: I get it. But you shouldn’t let them decide how you live your life. If you want this, if you want us, stop letting fear hold you back.

His words hit harder than I expect, and I blink at the screen, my chest tightening. He’s right, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

I don’t reply right away, and after a few minutes, another message comes through:

Asher: Okay, fine. You win this round. But don’t think I’m giving up. Next time, no excuses.

I can’t help but smile at his persistence, even as a part of me feels guilty for shutting him down.

Me: We’ll see.

His reply is instant.

Asher: That’s not a no. I’ll take it.

I laugh softly, setting the phone down and staring at the ceiling. Asher has a way of getting under my skin, of making me feel things I’ve spent so long trying to avoid.

But even as my heart flutters, the nagging fear remains. How long can we keep this quiet before it all blows up in our faces?