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T here are moments that split your life into before and after—mine happened at eleven minutes past midnight on New Year's Eve, when I found my fiancé in bed with my cousin.

It wasn't just the betrayal that shattered me. It was the realization that the three years I'd spent with James had been built on quicksand. The future I'd meticulously planned—marriage after graduation, teaching positions at neighboring schools, the renovated Victorian in my hometown—disintegrated in an instant.

"It doesn't have to change anything, Ellie," he'd pleaded, drunk and desperate, clutching a sheet around his waist while my cousin slipped out the back door. My cousin’s name is Alexa and we weren’t even that close – but still. He couldn’t have picked someone I didn’t know? "It was just sex. A mistake."

Maybe for normal people, finding your fiancé balls-deep in your cousin could be filed under "mistakes to overcome," somewhere between forgetting an anniversary and leaving the cap off the toothpaste. But I've never been good at forgiveness. My father used to say I got that from my mother—the woman who walked out when I was seven and never looked back.

So instead of forgiveness, I chose escape. Transferred universities mid-junior year, leaving behind the ruins of my carefully constructed life for Westford University—a school known for three things: its elite literature program, its frigid winters, and its championship hockey team.

And that's how I ended up here, hiding in the corner of the university library's third floor on a Friday afternoon in February, silently cursing Professor Harmon and his sadistic group assignment system.

"Did you hear me, Gardner? I said I need your notes from Tuesday."

I look up from my laptop to find Declan Wolfe looming over my study carrel, one hand braced against the wall beside my head, the other extended palm-up in expectation. He's close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woodsy—and the faint scent of mint on his breath.

Declan Wolfe. Westford hockey god. Campus celebrity. The walking embodiment of every privilege I despise.

"And I need a winning lottery ticket and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, but we don't always get what we want, do we?" I snap, turning back to my screen.

He doesn't move. If anything, he leans closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the fluorescent lights overhead, casting me in his shadow. That's what Declan Wolfe does—he takes up space. Commands attention. Drowns out everything around him until he's all you can see.

"I missed class," he says, voice low but firm. "Coach called an emergency practice. I need to catch up."

"Sounds like a you problem."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath tanned skin. "Look, I get that you don't like me—"

"Don't flatter yourself, Wolfe." I close my laptop, fixing him with a level stare. "I don't think about you enough to form an opinion."

It's a lie. I've spent far too much of the past six weeks cataloging all the reasons Declan Wolfe represents everything wrong with higher education: the way professors fawn over him despite his sporadic attendance, the ease with which he navigates social spaces I find paralyzing, how he moves through the world with the entitled confidence of someone who's never had to fight for anything in his life.

And yes, the physical perfection that makes ignoring him an Olympic-level sport—all six-foot-three of hard muscle, dark hair that perpetually looks like someone's been running their fingers through it, and blue eyes so intense they should come with a warning label.

"Bullshit." He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulls his henley tight across shoulders built from years of competitive sports. "You've had me in your crosshairs since the first day of class."

That first day of our shared literature class. When Professor Harmon introduced me as a transfer student, and Declan had looked me over with an assessing gaze that made me feel simultaneously invisible and exposed, before turning to his friend and whispering something that made them both laugh.

I stand, gathering my things with deliberate slowness. At five-foot-nine, I'm tall for a woman, but Declan still towers over me, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Contrary to what you might believe, Wolfe, not everything revolves around you. I'm here to graduate with honors and move on with my life, not waste energy on some hockey jock's ego."

He steps back, allowing me space to move—a courtesy that feels somehow more condescending than if he'd stood his ground. "You know, I've met a lot of uptight people in my time, but you..." His eyes track over me, a slow assessment that makes my skin heat despite myself. "You take it to a whole new level."

"And I've met a lot of entitled athletes, but you..." I sling my bag over my shoulder, mimicking his tone, "you're exactly what I expected."

His smirk is slow, calculated to infuriate. "And what's that, Gardner?"

"Someone who's never had to work for anything a day in his life."

The smirk vanishes, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. For a moment, I glimpse something behind the golden-boy facade—a flicker of genuine anger, maybe even hurt—before the mask slides back into place.

"You don't know the first thing about me or what I've worked for," he says, voice dropped to a low rumble that vibrates in my chest. "But since we're stuck together on this project for the next month, maybe you should stop making assumptions."

I hate that he's right. Professor Harmon's major assignment—a presentation on gender dynamics in post-war literature worth 40% of our final grade—has paired us together despite my very vocal protests.

"Fine," I say tightly. "You want my notes? Here." I pull a folder from my bag and thrust it at his chest. "I expect them back on Monday, unmarked and unspilled on. In other words, don’t get them near the keg. Or any other kind of fluids."

"Yes, ma'am." He gives me a mock salute. "See you Monday, Gardner."

I watch him walk away, all loose-limbed athletic grace, drawing glances from every girl he passes. Only when he's disappeared down the stairwell do I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

This project is going to be the death of me.

The weekend passes in a blur of research and rewrites for a paper due in my Feminist Literary Theory seminar. By Sunday evening, I'm bleary-eyed and caffeine-jittery, hunched over my laptop at the 24-hour campus coffee shop when a shadow falls across my table.

"Thought I might find you here."

I glance up to find Declan Wolfe standing there, looking freshly showered and irritatingly alert despite the late hour. He's dressed in navy blue Westford sweats, a backpack slung over one broad shoulder, holding two coffee cups.

"Are you stalking me now?" I ask, saving my document with perhaps more force than the keyboard deserves.

"Reconnaissance," he corrects, placing one of the cups in front of me. "Black with two sugars, right?"

The fact that he's noticed how I take my coffee is both unsettling and—if I'm being honest with myself—slightly gratifying. No one pays that kind of attention to me anymore. Not since James.

"Thanks," I mutter, wrapping my hands around the cup. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here."

He slides into the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation, dropping his backpack to the floor. "Team meeting ended early. Figured I'd get some work done." He pulls my folder from his bag, placing it carefully on the table between us. "And return these."

I flip through the pages, surprised to find them not only unmarked, but accompanied by Declan's own notes—surprisingly comprehensive ones, typed neatly and annotated with questions that demonstrate actual engagement with the material.

"You... read everything?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

"Don't sound so shocked, Gardner. I do occasionally crack a book." There's an edge to his voice that suggests I've hit a nerve.

"I just meant—"

"I know what you meant." He leans back, stretching his long legs out under the table, his knee brushing mine before I can pull away. "You've decided I'm a dumb jock who gets by on charm and athletic privilege."

Put so bluntly, my assumptions sound petty, unfair. But I've seen how the world works for guys like Declan Wolfe—doors opening automatically, expectations lowered, accomplishments amplified.

"Am I wrong?" I challenge.

Our conversation is interrupted by a group of giggling girls who slow as they pass our table, eyes fixed on Declan with unabashed admiration.

"Declan!" One of them, a petite blonde in a crop top despite the February cold, stops beside our table. "You're coming to Sigma Phi's party Friday, right? Everyone's saying you'll be there."

The transformation is immediate. Declan's serious expression melts into easy charm, his smile wide and practiced as he turns to the girls. "Hey, Chloe. Wouldn't miss it."

"Great!" She beams, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I saved you a dance. Maybe several." Her eyes flick to me dismissively before returning to him. "Definitely bring the rest of the team."

The clear implication that I'm not worth acknowledging sets my teeth on edge.

"Thanks," Declan says, his tone perfectly calibrated between friendly and flirtatious. "See you then."

The girls move on, still giggling, casting glances back at our table. One of them mimes something that makes the others dissolve into laughter again.

"Friends of yours?" I ask dryly when they're out of earshot.

Declan's mask of charm slides away, replaced by something more genuine—wry amusement mixed with what might be embarrassment. "Not exactly."

"Let me guess. Admirers? Groupies? Members of the Declan Wolfe Fan Club?"

He winces. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it? From where I'm sitting, it looks like you have half the female population at your beck and call."

His eyes—blue as deep water, framed by ridiculously thick lashes—narrow slightly. "I'm here on an athletic scholarship," he says, ignoring my comment about his admirers. "But I maintain a 3.8 GPA. I've never missed a paper deadline. And contrary to popular belief, I can read something more complex than a playbook."

I want to disbelieve him, to cling to my carefully constructed narrative of Declan-the-privileged-asshole. But the evidence in front of me—the thoughtful notes, the serious expression, the fact that he's here working on a Sunday night—makes that difficult.

Our conversation is interrupted by heavy footsteps approaching our table. A man in his fifties—barrel-chested, with silver at his temples and an air of authority that commands attention—stops beside us, his eyes fixed on Declan.

"Wolfe," he says, his voice carrying that particular blend of disappointment and anger that only coaches seem to master. "Didn't expect to find you here."

Declan straightens immediately, tension radiating from his frame. "Coach Brennan. Just getting some work done."

Coach Brennan's eyes shift to me, dismissive at first, then sharpening with interest. "And this is...?"

"Ellie Gardner," Declan says before I can answer. "My girlfriend."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I choke on my coffee, sputtering inelegantly. Declan's hand reaches around the table and lands on my back, a steadying presence that only adds to my confusion.

"Girlfriend?" Coach's eyebrows rise toward his hairline. "Since when?"

Declan's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Been seeing each other a few weeks now. Keeping it quiet. You know how campus gossip spreads."

My mind reels, trying to process this bizarre turn of events. Girlfriend? What in the actual fuck?

"Huh." Coach looks unconvinced, or at least very surprised. "Well, Miss Gardner, perhaps you'll be a good influence. Our star player here needs to focus—less partying, more practice." He turns back to Declan, voice hardening. "Tomorrow. Six A.M. My office. We need to discuss your commitment to this team."

"Yes, sir," Declan replies, his casual demeanor replaced by something more rigid, almost military in its deference.

Coach nods once, then continues toward the counter, leaving us in stunned silence.

The moment he's out of earshot, I lean across the table, hissing, "What the hell was that?"

Declan runs a hand through his hair, mussing it in a way that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Sorry. Panic response."

"Panic response? You told your coach I'm your girlfriend!"

"Keep your voice down," he mutters, glancing toward the counter where Coach Brennan is ordering. "Look, I'm in a tight spot, okay? Coach has been on my ass about my 'extracurricular activities' affecting my game. He thinks I'm partying too much, sleeping around."

"So your solution is to invent a fake relationship?" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice.

"It was impulsive," he admits. "But not entirely stupid. Coach is old-school—thinks settled players are focused players. A serious girlfriend would go a long way toward getting him off my back."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. "Well, that's not my problem. Just tell him we broke up."

"I can't." Declan leans forward, lowering his voice. "The championship game is in three weeks. NHL scouts will be there. If I'm benched because Coach thinks I'm not taking this seriously, everything I've worked for goes up in smoke."

"Again, not my problem."

His expression shifts, vulnerability breaking through the confident facade for just a moment. "I need this, Ellie. The NHL is everything I've worked for since I was seven years old."

It's the use of my first name—so rare from him—that catches me off guard. That, and the raw honesty in his voice.

"What exactly are you asking me?"

"Pretend to be my girlfriend. Just for a few weeks, until after the championship." His eyes hold mine, intense and pleading. "All you'd have to do is show up to a few games, maybe be seen with me around campus occasionally. Nothing major."

I laugh, the sound sharp and disbelieving. "You're out of your mind. Why would I do that?"

"Because I can help you too." His expression turns shrewd. "The Whitmore Prize. I know how badly you want it."

My breath catches. How does he know about that? I've barely mentioned it to anyone except my dad and my friend Mia. The Whitmore Prize is a highly competitive academic honor given to the top undergraduate literary analysis work. Winning provides both a substantial cash prize and, more importantly, recognition that opens doors to elite graduate programs. It's particularly valued by Columbia University, which is my dream school. This year, they’ve added a special category for collaborative works, which means the project Declan and I are working on could be considered.

"What about it?"

"Professor Harmon's on the selection committee," Declan says. "He also happens to be good friends with Coach Brennan. They play golf every Sunday."

"So?"

"So Harmon values Brennan's opinion. And Brennan likes me—when I'm not disappointing him. If Coach puts in a good word about our project, about your work specifically..." He lets the implication hang in the air between us.

"That's... that's practically academic blackmail," I splutter.

"It's networking," he corrects. "Something you'd have to learn eventually if you want that PhD at Columbia."

I narrow my eyes, suspicious of how much he knows about my plans. "You're suggesting I prostitute my academic integrity for a recommendation."

"I'm suggesting a mutually beneficial arrangement." He sits back, watching me process. "You pretend to be my girlfriend, I make sure our project blows the competition out of the water, and we both get what we want. Simple."

Nothing about this is simple. I should say no immediately. Walk away. Report him to Professor Harmon for even suggesting such an unethical arrangement.

But the Whitmore Prize beckons, a golden ticket to the future I've worked so hard for. And something else tugs at me—the desperation behind Declan's carefully controlled expression, the hint that there's more riding on this than just hockey.

"Three weeks," I hear myself say, immediately wondering if I've lost my mind. "No physical stuff. No posting about it on social media. And our 'breakup' happens the day after the championship, no drama."

Relief washes over his face. "Deal."

"And you have to really work on our project," I add. "I’m not going to be the only one contributing.”

"Fine," he agrees readily. "But you have to make this convincing. The hockey team, my coach—they need to believe we're actually together."

"I think I can manage to pretend I like you for a few weeks," I say dryly.

His smile is slow, almost predatory. "Oh, Gardner. You'll have to do a lot better than 'like.'" He stands, gathering his things. "We start tomorrow. Lunch. The central quad. Wear something nice."

"I'm not changing my wardrobe for this charade," I protest.

He's already walking away, but turns to walk backward for a few steps, that infuriating smirk firmly in place. "Wouldn't dream of asking you to. You look good in anything, Gardner. Especially when you're angry."

As he disappears through the coffee shop doors, a sinking feeling settles in my stomach. What have I just agreed to? Three weeks pretending to be Declan Wolfe's girlfriend. Three weeks of living a lie. Three weeks of fighting the unwelcome attraction that flares whenever he's near.

This was a terrible idea.