Page 6

PIPER

M onday morning dawns crisp and bright, the quad outside my apartment window ablaze with autumn colors.

I'm still reeling from Saturday's podcast disaster-turned-viral-sensation, uncertain what my next move should be.

Part of me wants to pretend it never happened, while another part can't stop replaying Liam's arguments in my head, searching for the perfect counterpoints I should have made.

Right now, the path forward is pretty simple…

Figure out if this podcast debacle is salvageable or if I need to start from scratch with a new concept.

I grab my coffee and head to Professor Bennett's 8 AM Media Ethics class, arriving fifteen minutes early as usual.

The lecture hall is empty except for a couple of overachievers in the front row—my people.

I'm reviewing my notes when the door opens and Professor Bennett himself walks in, his signature tweed jacket and perpetually disheveled salt-and-pepper hair even more disheveled than usual.

"Ms. Thompson," he calls, spotting me. "Just the student I wanted to see."

My stomach tightens. "Professor Bennett. Is everything alright?"

He smiles, pulling up a chair beside me. "More than alright. I heard your podcast debut this weekend."

"You... did?"

"The entire journalism department did." His blue eyes shine with an undercurrent of amusement. "It's not often we get to hear one of our most methodical students spontaneously debating relationship philosophy with a campus athlete.”

"That wasn't exactly planned," I admit. "My co-host quit last minute and?—"

"It worked. That tension, that clash of perspectives—it was compelling radio."

I blink, ”It was?"

"Absolutely. Your research-driven approach challenged by his intuitive perspective created exactly the kind of dynamic discourse we value in journalism." He taps my notebook. "In fact, I think this partnership could significantly strengthen your fellowship application."

My heart skips. "The Williamson Fellowship?"

"Indeed." He nods. "The committee looks for innovative approaches to journalism, not just technical skill. This podcast demonstrates your ability to engage with opposing viewpoints and create content that resonates with a diverse audience."

"Really?" I can't keep the excitement from my voice.

"The episode already has more downloads than any student production in UB history," he confirms. "The station manager called me this morning."

Students begin to filter into the classroom, and Professor Bennett stands.

"Keep it up," he says with an encouraging nod. "This is exactly the kind of initiative the Williamson looks for."

He walks to the front of the room, leaving me staring after him, my mind racing with possibilities.

The Williamson Fellowship—my ticket to New York, the only thing I can ever remember seriously wanting—suddenly seems within reach.

This is exactly why I transferred to UB. Why it was important for me to make a splash.

And it seems I’ve done it. Or at least, I’ve made a tiny wave.

Now, all I need is to convince Liam Sullivan to ride this blip of a wave with me.

A man I’ve insulted more than once. A man I surprise-roped into a relationship podcast.

A man who has every reason to dislike me after what I did.

Shit.

"He actually said the fellowship committee would notice?" Abigail asks later that afternoon as we sit in our favorite campus café, the smell of espresso and pumpkin spice heavy in the air.

"His exact words were 'significantly strengthen your application,” I sip my latte slowly. "And the station manager wants to give us a regular weekly slot, maybe even sponsorship."

"This is huge!" She leans forward, green eyes widening. "So, what's the problem?"

"The problem is convincing Liam to continue. He seemed... less than thrilled about being tricked into co-hosting."

"Are we talking about the same Liam Sullivan who spent an hour verbally sparring with you like it was an Olympic sport?" Abigail raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I was standing, he was having the time of his life."

"That was before he realized I'm Derek's sister," I point out. "Ryan texted me yesterday. Apparently, the entire team has some ridiculous 'sister rule’. As if the world of jocks couldn’t get more freaking dumb and cliche.”

"But you're not dating, remember? You're co-hosting a podcast."

"Try explaining that to my overprotective brother."

"Piper? Derek's sister?"

I look up to find a petite blonde with kind eyes standing by our table, a textbook tucked under one arm.

“Um, yes?” I glance up.

"I'm Wren." She smiles. "Kellan's girlfriend? I think we met briefly at Derek's birthday dinner last month."

"Right!" I nod, remembering the quiet art major who tamed Kellan's notorious playboy reputation. "You moved in with Kellan after your apartment flooded."

"That's me." She laughs. "I just wanted to say I loved your podcast. The whole art department is talking about it."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. We've started a Team Piper support group." She winks. “I probably should warn you. The athletics department is firmly Team Liam."

“Shit, there are actual teams now?"

"Complete with unofficial t-shirts in the works. The debate is everywhere.” She pauses. “You two plan on keeping this up, or…”

"That's the million-dollar question," I say with a sigh.

Wren glances at her watch. "I should run to class, but hey—keep up the great work. This podcast is too good to be a one-off."

As she hurries away, Abigail gives me a pointed look. "See? Even Kellan's girlfriend thinks you should continue."

My phone buzzes with a text from Julian, the station manager.

JULIAN

Meeting with sponsors tomorrow. Need to know if you and Mr. Hockey Hulk are in for a weekly show.

JULIAN

They LOVED your dynamic.

JULIAN

Like, throwing money at us loved.

I show the messages to Abigail, who squeals loud enough to turn heads.

"Piper! This is it! Your big break!"

"If I can convince ‘Hockey Hulk.’ Seriously…he’s jacked, but not that jacked.”

My mind flashes back to Liam Sullivan’s broad shoulders, and I snap out of it as Abigail places her hand over mine.

"So, convince him," she says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "You've got approximately a million compelling arguments."

"Like what? ‘Let’s please continue to annoy the hell out of each other so I can get a fellowship for graduate school?’”

"How about ‘please continue making great episodes of this wildly popular show that's making you campus famous'?" She takes a sip of her coffee. "Or 'help me achieve my dreams while boosting your own public profile beyond hockey'?"

"Or I could just kidnap him again," I mutter.

"Not advisable, but I admire the commitment."

I pull out my notebook and start a new list…

Ways to Convince Liam.

"You're making a list," Abigail shakes her head. "Very on-brand."

"Shut up. I think better when I write things down."

"Maybe that's why you and Liam clash so beautifully. He seems like the type who never plans anything."

"Exactly!" I keep scrawling. "How am I supposed to work with someone so... so..."

"Different? Charming? Bulky in the biceps?”

"I was going to say 'spontaneous.'"

“Sure you were. You know, it’d just be easier if you admit…”

I swallow without looking up. “Admit what?

“That…a part of you enjoyed sparring with him. Come on. I know you…Nothing gets your blood pumping like an intellectual debate.”

“I—That's so not the point."

"It absolutely is the point." She leans forward. "The podcast works because you two have chemistry. Argumentative, combative chemistry, but still—it's there."

I close my notebook. “You know what? I’ve gotta go. Someone’s distracting me from my notes.” I lean down, pecking her cheek. “I’ll call you later.”

“I’m sure you will!” Abigail calls after me as I walk off. “Don’t forget to add that Mr. Hockey Hulk has an ass that won’t quit! And yes, I noticed.”

A vision of Liam Sullivan’s ass flashes through my mind. I push it out, along with the other thoughts that I have no business thinking about when it comes to the guy who may or may not break my future grad career.

It's nearly midnight when I finally stumble into my bedroom, exhausted from editing the podcast episode for the university's online archive.

The finished product is surprisingly good.

My banter with Sullivan is bitter, but sharp—the tension palpable even through the airwaves.

Like Julian said, the contrasting viewpoints create dynamic I can't deny is compelling.

But it was the subtle parts that made editing so freaking hard…

I caught myself rewinding certain sections more than I probably should—doubling back on the parts where his laugh rumbles through the headphones, where he sighed, and tsked, and groaned.

For research purposes only, I noted how his voice dropped slightly when he disagreed with me. How it got a little higher when he was being an ass-hat.

How it sounded breathier when he turned his attention to a caller.

That breathy voice is still in my head when I set my laptop aside and collapse onto my bed, not bothering to change out of my sweatpants and UB Journalism t-shirt.

My last conscious thought that I need to draft an email to Liam...

...and then suddenly I'm back in the radio studio, but it's dark outside the windows, snow falling heavily beyond the glass.

"Looks like we're stuck here," Liam's voice comes from behind me, low and amused. "The storm's shut down campus."

I turn to find him leaning against the sound board, his usual hockey sweatshirt replaced by a fitted henley that does nothing to hide his muscular build.

"We should work on the next episode," I hear myself say, but my voice sounds different—breathier.

"Or" he suggests, moving closer, "we could test your theory about chemistry and compatibility."

"That's not—I don't think—" I stammer as he steps into my space.

"Always thinking, Ms. Thompson.” One large hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "What does your research say about this?"

And then he's kissing me, his lips surprisingly soft against mine, and instead of pushing him away, I'm pulling him closer, my fingers threading through his dark curls.

"The data is inconclusive," I whisper against his mouth. "We should test again."

His laugh rumbles through his chest as he lifts me onto the sound desk, equipment forgotten as his hands slide under my shirt, warm against my skin. "Always the scientist."

"Liam," I breathe as his lips find my neck, his stubble creating a sensual friction that sends heat pooling low in my belly.

"Piper," he answers, voice rough with want. "For someone who plans everything, you're remarkably spontaneous right now."

His hands move higher, and I arch into his touch, knocking over a microphone that crashes to the floor with a startling bang?—

I jolt awake, heart racing, sheets tangled around my legs.

My laptop has fallen off the bed—the source of the crash.

"What the hell was that?" I whisper to my empty room, pressing my hands to my flushed cheeks.

I've never had a dream like that about anyone, let alone my brother's teammate.

Let alone a guy whose entire approach to life contradicts everything I believe in.

Let alone Liam Sullivan.

I gulp water from the glass on my nightstand, trying to calm my racing pulse.

This is beyond insane.

It was just a dream—a dumb combo of exhaustion and too much podcast editing and Abigail's annoying comments about chemistry.

I am not attracted to Liam Sullivan.

I am going to convince him to continue the podcast for purely professional reasons.

I am going to remain completely immune to his stupid tousled hair and ridiculous hazel eyes and annoying habit of being right just often enough to keep me on my toes.

Tomorrow, I'll approach him with logic and reason.

I'll appeal to his mountain-sized ego…

And just like the jock he is, I’m sure he’ll take the bait.

When it comes to a puck-head like Liam Sullivan, I already know what to do.

I’ll absolutely, positively keep my thoughts professional, my goals clear…and my embarrassing subconscious firmly in check.

But first, I need to change my sheets.