Page 11

Lyla

I don’t expect much when I hear Drake Blythe’s voice echoing down the hallway.

He was supposed to meet with LJ last week, but something “came up.” The Dolphins’ PR rep swore it was a valid reason—team obligations, press commitments, something important. But it doesn’t really matter, because I know exactly how this is going to go.

LJ’s been here before. Promises made, promises broken.

I talked to him after his first session with Drake, to see if he was too mad to continue working with him. But the response I got was more resigned than disappointed—like this is what he expected from a pro football player. Which broke my heart all the more.

I told him to give Drake a chance—but I don’t even know if Drake is worth that chance. I suppose time will tell.

Today, I’ve got an armful of school supplies to replenish our stash but I linger just outside the propped open door to the mentorship lounge. I’m unashamedly listening, fully prepared to step in when things go south between LJ and Drake.

Inside, Drake tries for casual. “LJ, my man. Missed you last time, but I got something that I think will make it up to you.”

I peek in. LJ doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

Drake pulls something out of his bag: a jersey, bright and crisp, with a thick black signature scrawled across the front.

He holds it out like a peace offering. “Signed Panthers jersey. Got it straight from one of your guys.”

LJ’s fingers tighten around his phone, but his face stays neutral. “Which guy?”

“Uh . . . ” Drake squints at the jersey. “That Barkov dude?”

LJ’s brows shoot up.

Aleksander Barkov. The Florida Panthers team captain. One of the best players in the NHL. Probably LJ’s hero.

And yet, LJ doesn’t even reach for it.

My insides are swirling in a very confused blend of feelings—for LJ’s sake, I want him to take the jersey and enjoy it. But there’s a part of me—a large part, if I’m being honest—that is relishing the discipline that LJ is handing out to Drake.

LJ just shrugs at Drake like it’s no big deal that he got this jersey for him. “Cool,” he says, as if Drake were handing him a flyer for a lame kiddie parade this weekend.

Drake waits for more, but LJ just keeps scrolling on his phone like Drake’s been dismissed—he hasn’t even taken the jersey from Drake.

My arms are getting tired of holding all the school supplies, but I really don’t want to interrupt this stand-off.

I shift, adjusting the colored pencils that are pointing into my inner arm, holding my breath when they rattle a bit too loudly.

But neither Drake nor LJ seem to notice.

Drake lets out a breath, clearly fighting frustration. “That’s all you’ve got? Cool?”

LJ finally looks up, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I’ll sell it with the other one you got me.”

“Seriously?”

LJ leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Should get at least a few hundred for it. Maybe I’ll put it toward a real mentor. You know, one who actually shows up.”

I should step in. Diffuse the situation. But I don’t.

Because LJ isn’t wrong. And, just maybe, Drake deserves this.

Drake drags a hand through his hair. “Look, last week wasn’t—”

LJ cuts him off. “I don’t care.”

“It wasn’t personal, alright? It was a mandatory team thing. I wanted to come. I didn’t just blow you off, alright?”

“Crazy how that happens to me. All. The. Time.”

Drake is gripping the back of a chair like he’s holding himself in place. “I’m here now.” There’s desperation in his voice—and I can’t tell if he’s desperate because he needs to be here, or because he’s genuinely trying to win over LJ. I really have no idea.

LJ shrugs. “For how long, man? Till your PR campaign works?”

Silence stretches between them.

Finally, LJ pushes back from the table and stands up. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says, grabbing his backpack. “The whole ‘let me fix it with money’ thing. It’s what they all do.”

Drake stiffens. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

LJ slings his bag over his shoulder. “If you say so.”

And then he’s pushing past me, down the hall, until he’s gone, leaving Drake standing in the middle of the room, still holding the jersey.

I exhale and step fully inside.

Gone is the cocky charm. When his gray eyes meet mine, they’re so wrecked it tugs something loose in my chest—something I’m trying hard to ignore. Drake got himself into this mess, I don’t need to feel compelled to get him out of it.

“Before you say anything,” he starts, “I—”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I tell him as I work on putting away the pencils, pens, and erasers in their various containers on the far shelf. Behind me, Drake breathes a sigh of relief—he thinks I’m not going to condemn him. But I already have.

“You’re doing what every celebrity with a problem does,” I tell him as I stab pencils into their container. “Throwing money at the situation and hoping it goes away.”

Drake’s jaw tightens. “That’s not what I was doing. I thought LJ would really like that jersey—and it wasn’t easy to get.”

“That’s the thing though, LJ doesn’t need a jersey.

Or signed memorabilia. He doesn’t even need you to be perfect.

He needs someone who’s actually going to put the work in and show up,” I toss the pencil and pen boxes into the trash, straightening to meet Drake’s eyes. “Even when it’s inconvenient.”

Drake doesn’t say anything. Just looks at the jersey like it’s taunting him.

For a second, I almost feel bad for him. Almost .

But then I remind myself—this is exactly why I didn’t want him here in the first place. He didn’t call me when he said he would and he’s not going to show up for LJ either.

I shake my head and head for the door. “Figure out what you want, Blythe. Because LJ already knows what he needs. And right now? You’re not it.”

And just like that, I leave him standing there.

Still holding a jersey that I’m sure feels a lot less valuable now.