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MADISON

I fucking hate surprises.

Waking up after I apparently snoozed my alarm one too many times?

Hate it.

Having no pods left for the coffee maker?

Hate it.

I'm a whirlwind of motion in my shared apartment—papers and textbooks scattered like the remnants of a storm, my clothes haphazardly piled in every corner of my bedroom. I fumble for my keys and bag as I hurry toward the door, only to pause when I step outside and see my car slumped in the driveway, a tire deflated and useless. Of course, I don’t have a spare.

My heart sinks further. Today of all days. With no option to drive, I grab my phone and call Lyla—my best friend, my roommate, and my saving grace on mornings like this. Everything I lack, Lyla has. She’s stunning, with flowing red curls and emerald-green eyes. She’s one of the smartest people I know, and, truly, everyone loves her. Her bubbly personality was something I despised at first, but now, I can’t picture my life without her.

We met three years ago during our first year at community college, when she dropped into the seat next to me in my Intro to Psych class and immediately decided we were going to be best friends. I gave her short answers, tried to keep things distant, but Lyla? She didn’t believe in personal space—physically or emotionally.

By the second week, she was dragging me to study groups and forcing me to grab coffee before class. By the third, she was sprawled across my couch, flipping through my TV channels like she lived there.

And somehow, without even trying, she did, which is how we became roommates.

She never asked me to be someone I wasn’t, never pried into things I wasn’t ready to share. She just stayed . And before I even realized it, I had something I hadn’t let myself have in years.

A best friend.

Within minutes, Lyla pulls up in her blue sedan, the early light catching her concerned smile. “You’re cutting it close again, Maddy,” she teases, swinging the door open for me. As we race through the early morning traffic, I turn up the music, and we have a little rock out session to hopefully ease some of the first day nerves.

Every block brings me closer to campus—to that dreaded math class I failed last term. I can’t explain how many hours I spent last spring studying in the library, trying like hell to wrap my head around the concepts. If I still had Mr. Math Whizz in my life…

Blinking, I give my head a tiny shake. Nope. Don’t even go there, Mads. He’s better off in Michigan, far away from your mess.

Switching my major with only one year to go wasn’t the best idea, honestly. I originally chose marketing as my major for two reasons.

A- I didn’t have to take any math classes above what I learned in high school.

B- chasing the dream my mom and I shared was just too painful.

The hallway is empty as I rush towards my first class of the day. Being late just adds to my mortification of being forced to retake Math 111.

What can I say? Math and I do not see eye to eye at all. Let’s be honest: there’s literally no way I will ever use the quadratic equation or exponential functions at any point in my day to day life.

I fling open the door, my bag nearly falling off my shoulder. Professor Jacobsen looks over her dark-rimmed glasses as I step into the room, my reason for being late on the tip of my tongue.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I blurt. “I slept through my alarm, and-”

She tsks. “You and I both know I do not enjoy tardiness, Ms. Blake. You’d think you would remember that from our time spent together last semester, no?”

Faint snickers echo around the room, and my cheeks heat. “It won’t happen again.”

“Mhmm. See that it doesn’t. As much as I enjoy your company, I’d hate to spend another semester boring you with the same lectures.” She motions towards the desks, which are almost completely full. “There seems to be one desk left open for you near the back.”

As I turn my head to spot the desk, all the blood drains from my face. My eyes latch onto a very familiar pair of dark brown eyes.

Jaxon Montgomery.

My former best friend. The one boy who has seen me at my lowest and stayed by my side. The only guy I have ever had feelings for, the one I can’t quite fuck out of my system, no matter how hard I try.

He’s here when he should be 2,400 miles away in Michigan for his senior year playing football.

What. The. Fuck?

Professor Jacobsen begins the lecture as I slowly climb the stairs, my legs feeling like lead with each step. Jaxon's eyes stay glued to me as I make my way toward the empty desk beside him.

I slide into the seat, greeted by masculine heat radiating off his body.

My stomach clenches as the familiar scent of his cologne invades my senses, bringing back a flood of memories I've tried so hard to forget.

"Hey, Mads," he whispers, his voice low and husky .

I don't look at him.

I can't. Heart pounding in my chest, I focus on pulling out my notebook and pen, my hands shaking slightly. I don’t know how I keep myself from going apeshit on him, but I don’t want any more attention than necessary on either of us.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss, keeping my eyes trained on the professor.

"I transferred," he says simply, as if it's the most normal thing in the world—as if he didn't just upend my entire existence with those two words.

Gripping my pen tighter, I will myself not to react. I refuse to show the effect he has on me, even after all these years.

" Why? " I ask through gritted teeth.

“I’ve got my reasons.” His tone is light, but I know him well enough to tell there’s more to the story.

"You shouldn't have come," I mutter, finally chancing a glance in his direction.

His jaw is clenched, his brown eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "I had to. You've avoided me like the plague for the last three years. We need to talk about what happened."

"There's nothing to talk about," I snap, louder than I intended. A few heads turn in our direction, and I slouch lower in my seat.

"Bullshit," Jaxon whispers fiercely. "You can hide all you want, Mads, but just remember: I know you better than anyone else.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, but deep down, I know he's right. Jaxon does know me better than anyone else, and that's exactly why I can't let him get close again.

I force myself to focus on the lecture, scribbling down notes I'll probably never understand. Still, it's better than acknowledging the way Jaxon's presence makes my skin tingle, or how I can feel his eyes on me throughout the entire class.

When the class finally ends, I shove my things into my bag and bolt for the door, but Jaxon is faster, his hand catching my elbow just as I reach the hallway .

"Mads, wait," he says, his touch sending sparks up my arm.

My emotional walls slam back up, and I yank out of his grip.

As I rush out the door, through the hall, and into the quad, my chest tightens like a vice, every breath coming too sharp, too shallow. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the noise around me. My vision blurs at the edges, the world tilting beneath my feet as I struggle to process what just happened.

I stumble to a stop near a bench, gripping the back of it for stability, the cool metal grounding me for half a second before the spinning starts again. My heart slams against my ribs, trying to claw its way out.

Panic attacks are nothing new for me, but I sure wasn’t expecting to have one in my first class of the fall semester, and especially not from that.

Like I said, I fucking hate surprises.

Two hours later, after my music theory lecture, I slam the door to my apartment, tossing my bag on the floor with more force than necessary. I can't believe he's here.

"Whoa there, Hulk. What did that bag ever do to you?"

I look up to see Lyla perched on our kitchen counter. She’s in her work uniform, leggings and a collared polo, PCU athletics embroidered on the right side. Her curls are piled on top of her head, and she’s spoon-deep in a pint of her favorite cookie dough ice cream.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she says around a mouthful of ice cream. Her green eyes dance with amusement as she takes in what must be my shell-shocked expression, and then her forehead crinkles with concern. "Or failed a test. Please tell me you didn't fail another test. It’s only the first day!"

I shake my head, my throat tight. "Worse."

Lyla's eyebrows shoot up as she holds out her ice cream pint. "This calls for emergency provisions. Spill. "

I grab the container and sink onto the barstool next to her, digging in with her spoon. She watches me, waiting patiently for me to open up. It takes a moment before I can finally force out the words.

"Jaxon's here."

"Jaxon..." She furrows her brow for a second before her eyes widen. "Wait, the Jaxon? Michigan State football star Jaxon Montgomery? That's your Jax?"

"He’s not my anything," I grumble. "And he's not at Michigan State anymore. He's here. At PCU. In my fucking Algebra class."

Lyla's mouth drops open. "Holy shit."

"Yeah." I stab at the ice cream. "Holy shit."

"But that's.

.. I mean, Michigan State is a top-tier program.

Why would he transfer here?

” As Coach Harding's daughter, Lyla knows the sport inside and out. She's grown up on sidelines and in locker rooms, hearing game strategies and player stats next to her ABCs.

Shrugging, I pretend to be fascinated by the spoon in my hand.

"I don't know why he's here," I say.

"I didn't exactly stick around to chat."

Lyla snorts. "Let me guess: you ran out of there like your ass was on fire."

"I did not run . I made a strategic exit."

"Mmhmm." She grabs a second spoon from the drawer and rejoins me at the island. "So he's just...here? No warning, no heads up, no 'Hey, Mads, prepare to have your world rocked because I'm about to show up in your math class'?"

"Nothing." I shake my head, trying to suppress the memory of his eyes finding mine, that spark of recognition, the way he said my name like he'd been waiting to say it for years. "I haven't talked to him in three years. I mean, I've seen him play on TV a few times, but we haven't actually spoken since..."

Since the night I overheard his mom telling him not to jeopardize his future for me. Since I decided to tell my best friend to go to Michigan State, letting him think I’d be following him there, even though I already knew I didn’t get in.

Love is watching my mother fade away, helpless to stop it. Love is my father promising to take care of me, only to leave bruises instead. Love is wreckage—of cars, of trust, of every fragile hope I dared to hold.

Love is my dad giving up his dreams to support my mom and me when I was a surprise to them both, only for him to resent me for it later. So, yeah, maybe I see myself as a burden, but that’s because every person I’ve ever loved has left me broken into a million tiny pieces.

So, I took matters into my own hands, leaving before I ever had the chance to find out.

"Since you ghosted his ass and stayed here instead," Lyla finishes for me, no judgment in her voice, only understanding. She's heard this story before—pieces of it, anyway, on nights we'd had too much wine and my walls had come down just enough to let some truth slip through. I never gave too many details, though, to make sure she wouldn’t know exactly which Jaxon, or “Jax”, I was referring to.

"Yeah." The word comes out smaller than I intend.

Lyla studies me for a moment, her usual playfulness fading into something more serious. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Good question. Avoid him? Transfer classes? Move to Canada?"

She rolls her eyes. "Or, you could, I don't know, talk to him? Find out why he's here? Maybe give the guy five minutes before you pull your usual disappearing act?"

I glare at her. "I don't have a 'usual disappearing act'."

"Please." She flicks her spoon at me. "You're the reigning champion of the Irish exit. The minute things get even semi-real, you're gone faster than free beer at a frat party."

"That's not—" I stop, because we both know it's true. "I just don't see the point in dragging things out. He's here, it's weird, we'll both pretend it's not happening, and once the draft comes, he’ll leave.”

Lyla's expression softens. "Not everyone leaves, Maddy."

"Name one person who's stayed," I challenge.

"Me, bitch." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "Three years and counting."

I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "Yeah, well, you're practically a stray cat I accidentally fed once. Now, I can't get rid of you."

"And you love it." She grins, pointing her spoon at me. "Look, all I'm saying is, maybe this is the universe giving you a second chance. How many people get that?"

I scoff. "The universe isn't giving me anything except an ulcer."

"Tell that to your lady parts when you see him in those football pants."

"Lyla!" I swat at her, but she just laughs, dancing away from my reach.

"What? You think I haven't seen Michigan State's games? That boy is fine as hell. And now he's here, which means fate is literally dropping a second chance in your lap. Or, you know, other places."

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." She hops off the stool, grabbing her bag from the counter. "But you will hate yourself if you don't at least talk to him, find out why he's here."

Leave it to my best friend to call me out in the most loving way possible.

"Where are you going?" I ask, watching her slip on her shoes.

"Duty calls. I've got a shift at the athletic office in twenty." She pauses at the door, her expression turning mischievous. "But don't worry. I'll keep an eye out for your boy, see what the word is around the football department."

"Don't you dare, Lyla. I mean it."

She just winks, the door already closing behind her. "Love you too, roomie!"

I stare at the closed door, my heart still racing. Of all the scenarios I'd pictured for this semester, seeing Jaxon again wasn't on the list. I'd managed to convince myself that chapter of my life was closed, that I'd never have to face him—or the feelings he stirred up—ever again.

Now, he's here, and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do.

Or that, for a split second when I saw him sitting there, all I wanted to do was run straight into his arms.