FALLING FOR THE QUARTERBACK

The autumn wind carried the scent of fallen leaves and impending doom across Westbrook University's campus. Ruby Sinclair pulled her oversized denim jacket tighter around her shoulders, her fingers still stained with charcoal from her morning figure drawing class. She'd been working on a piece for her portfolio, a twisted, abstract representation of what family meant to her, and the deadline was looming like a thundercloud on the horizon. She was already running late for her Art History lecture, her messenger bag heavy with sketchbooks and supplies, when she rounded the corner of the Fine Arts building and collided with what felt like a brick wall. "Watch where you're going!" The voice was sharp, annoyed, and unmistakably male. Ruby stumbled backward, her bag slipping from her shoulder and spilling its contents across the concrete pathway. Charcoal sticks rolled in every direction, and her precious sketchbook, the one with three months of work, landed in a puddle. "You've got to be kidding me," she breathed, dropping to her knees to rescue her ruined work. "Maybe if you weren't walking with your head in the clouds.." Ruby's head snapped up, her amber eyes blazing. The owner of the voice was tall, impossibly tall, with broad shoulders that strained against his athletic department-issued jacket. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and his dark hair was slightly tousled in that effortless way that probably took him twenty minutes to achieve. He was looking down at her with an expression that bordered on disdain. "You ran into me," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You were the one not looking where you were going." "I was.." He stopped, his brown eyes flickering to the ruined sketchbook in her hands. Something that might have been guilt crossed his features before it was quickly replaced by irritation. "Look, I'm sorry about your book, but I've got practice in ten minutes and.." "Then go." Ruby stood, clutching the damaged sketchbook to her chest like a wounded child. "I don't need your apology or your help." Tyler Bennett, because of course she knew who he was, everyone knew who he was, studied her for a moment with an unreadable expression. Then he shook his head and jogged off without another word, leaving her to gather the rest of her scattered supplies alone. "Asshole," she muttered under her breath, watching his retreating figure disappear around the corner. It wasn't until she was sitting in her Art History lecture, still seething, that she realized he'd left without even offering to help her pick up her things. Typical entitled jock. Typical Tyler Bennett. She'd heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. The star quarterback of Westbrook's football team, the golden boy who could do no wrong. He was the type of guy who walked through life with the world at his feet, expecting everyone to bow as he passed. The type of guy who'd never had to work for anything, who'd never had to watch his parents' marriage crumble before his eyes, who'd never learned that love was just a word people used before they hurt you. Ruby had learned that lesson at eight years old, sitting at the top of the stairs while her mother sobbed and her father threw dishes against the kitchen wall. She'd learned it again at twelve, when she found the receipt for a hotel room in her father's coat pocket. And she'd learned it for the final time at seventeen, when her mother called her in tears to say that after twenty-three years of marriage, her father had finally decided that a divorce would be "for the best." She still remembered the bitter taste of those words on her tongue, the way they'd settled in her chest like a stone. For the best. As if the years of fighting, of watching her mother's light dim a little more each day, of hoping against hope that things would get better, as if all of that had been worth something. As if it had meant something. Ruby had learned young that love was a trap. It was a cage dressed up in pretty words, and she had no intention of ever stepping inside one. Not that Tyler Bennett would know anything about that. He probably had a perfect family, perfect life, perfect everything. He was the type of guy who didn't know what it meant to struggle, to want something so badly it hurt, to watch everything you'd ever believed in fall apart. She focused on the lecture, forcing herself to stop thinking about the arrogant quarterback and his stupid perfect face. She had more important things to worry about. Like salvaging her portfolio piece. Like passing her classes. Like saving enough money from her part-time job at the campus coffee shop to pay her half of the rent next month, since her mother couldn't afford to help anymore. Like surviving another day in a world that had taught her never to depend on anyone but herself. Tyler Bennett pushed through the doors of the athletic center, his mind still tangled up in the memory of the girl he'd just collided with. She'd had fire in her eyes, that one. Fire and something else, something that looked almost like pain. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He didn't have time to think about random girls and their problems. He had a game to prepare for, a team to lead, a father to prove himself to. "Nothing you ever do is enough." The words echoed in his mind, a familiar refrain. He'd heard them in his father's silence, in the way his eyes would flick past Tyler to whatever was on the television, in the way his shoulders would stiffen whenever Tyler mentioned football practice or a recent win. It hadn't always been this way. There had been a time, a lifetime ago, it felt like, when his father had been his hero. When Tyler had sat on the couch beside him, watching game after game, dreaming of the day he'd be out there on the field. When his father would ruffle his hair and tell him he was proud of him, that he was going to be something special. Then everything had changed. Tyler still remembered the night it happened, the way his mother's voice had cracked through the walls of their house. He'd been fourteen, old enough to understand what was happening, but too young to do anything about it. He'd heard the accusations, the tears, the shattering of glass. And he'd watched the next morning as his father packed his bags and left, a ghost of the man Tyler had once idolized. He'd thought that was the end of it. That his parents would divorce, that his father would become a weekend visitor at best, and that they could all start to heal. But his mother had forgiven him. She'd taken him back after six months, saying that she loved him, that everyone made mistakes, that they could work through this together. And Tyler had watched, powerless, as she'd welcomed the man who'd betrayed her back into their home with open arms. He would never understand it. He would never understand how she could look past what his father had done, how she could pretend that everything was fine when Tyler knew, he knew, that it wasn't. How she could forgive someone who'd broken her heart into a thousand pieces. He'd vowed, that day, that he would never be anything like his father. He would never lie, never cheat, never hurt someone who loved him. He would be better. He would be enough. But no matter how hard he tried, it never seemed to be enough for the man who'd walked out on them and expected to be forgiven. He pushed the thoughts aside as he entered the locker room, the familiar smell of sweat and equipment a welcome distraction. His teammates were already there, some warming up, others just sitting around and joking. They looked up when he entered, their expressions shifting to something like respect. "Hey, Cap," Marcus called from across the room. "Ready for Saturday?" Tyler forced a smile. "Born ready." It was what they expected to hear. What they needed to hear. Tyler was the captain, the leader, the one who was supposed to have it all together. He couldn't afford to let them see the cracks, couldn't afford to show them that beneath the surface, he was barely holding it together. So he shoved his problems down deep, locked them away with all the other things he didn't have time to deal with, and focused on what he could control: football. His arm. His team. The one thing in his life that made sense. The one thing that proved he wasn't his father's son.