OFF-CAMPUS DEAL

Four.

Declan Rook's POV:

I slammed my bedroom door harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the house like a slap shot against the boards.

Dropping my duffel on the floor, I paced the small space, shoulder throbbing in time with my rising irritation. Lavender. Of course she was all sage-green and lavender and sunshine and attitude. Lyla Voss looked like she belonged on some influencer feed, not stuck playing fake girlfriend to a guy like me.

I peeled off my practice jersey, wincing as the fabric pulled across the brace. The injury had been nagging me for weeks nothing a few beers and denial couldn’t push through during games, but it was getting worse. Coach wasn’t bluffing about the suspension. One more screw-up and I’d be done. No more lacrosse. No scholarship. Back to the mess my parents left behind.

My phone buzzed. Coach Blackwell: Meeting tomorrow 9AM. Bring Lyla. Don’t be late.

I tossed the phone onto my bed and dropped into the desk chair, staring at the wall. This whole fake relationship thing was insane. Pretend to date some straight-laced rehab girl so the boosters and alumni would see me as “stable.” Share a house. Post cute couple pics. Smile like I gave a damn.

A soft knock sounded on my door.

I ignored it.

Another knock, firmer this time. “Declan? We should probably talk about tomorrow.”

Her voice was calm but edged with that same fire I’d seen downstairs. I yanked the door open. Lyla stood there in her sage-green hoodie, arms crossed, looking way too put-together for someone who’d just driven hours and unpacked. Her dark wavy hair fell over one shoulder, and those sharp eyes locked onto mine without flinching.

“What?” I said, leaning against the doorframe.

She held up the thick folder Karen had left. “The agreement. I skimmed it. We have to sign it before the meeting with Coach. Ground rules, social media schedule, public appearance requirements the whole thing. Might as well get it over with.”

I rubbed my bad shoulder, ignoring how her gaze flicked to the movement. “Fine. Kitchen. Five minutes.”

She nodded once and headed downstairs. I pulled on a clean black t-shirt and followed, each step feeling like walking into a trap.

Down in the kitchen, she’d already spread the papers across the island counter. Two copies. Professional, cold. Exactly what this was.

I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and leaned opposite her. “You read all this crap?”

“Enough to know it’s airtight,” she said, sliding one set toward me. “We live here together. We attend team events, at least two public dates per week, daily social media interaction stories, posts, whatever makes it look real. I handle your shoulder rehab daily. No bringing other people here. No public fighting. The contract lasts until the end of the season or until your eligibility is secured. Breach it and we both lose everything.”

I scanned the pages, jaw tight. There it was in black and white: The parties agree to portray a committed romantic relationship in public settings... My stomach turned. Committed. The one word I hated most.

“You’re really okay with this?” I asked, looking up. “Faking it with a guy you clearly think is a disaster?”

Lyla’s cheeks flushed slightly, but her chin stayed high. “No. But I need that Northwestern recommendation more than I need to like you. My family sacrificed a lot for this. What about you? You willing to lose your spot on the team over pride?”

Touché. I clicked the pen she offered and scrawled my name on the lines, the signature messier than usual. She did the same, her handwriting neat and confident. When our eyes met again, the air felt thicker.

“Congratulations,” I muttered sarcastically. “You just signed up to be my fake girlfriend.”

“Trust me, it’s not a title I’m adding to my bio.” She gathered the papers, then paused. “Look... your shoulder. We should start basic assessments tonight or tomorrow morning before the meeting. I brought equipment. If I’m going to actually help you, I need to know the extent of the damage.”

I rolled my shoulder experimentally and hid the wince. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” she said flatly. “I’ve seen the game footage. You’re compensating, and it’s making it worse. Sit down.”

For a second I wanted to argue, tell her to back off. But the ache was constant now, and if she really could fix it...

I sat on one of the stools. Lyla pulled another stool closer and gently guided my arm through some simple movements. Her hands were warm, professional, but the proximity made everything feel too intimate for two people who’d met an hour ago. She smelled faintly like vanilla and something sweet—probably that lavender girl aesthetic in scent form.

“Range of motion is limited,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Rotator cuff involvement, definitely. We’ll start with mobility work and strengthening. No more powering through pain.”

I watched her face as she worked. Focused. Competent. Nothing like the party girls who only wanted the thrill of being seen with me. It unsettled me how much I noticed.

She finally stepped back. “That’s enough for tonight. Ice it before bed.”

I stood, suddenly needing space. “Yeah. Whatever.”

As she turned to head back upstairs, I called after her. “One more thing, Lavender.”

She glanced back, eyebrow raised.

“Don’t expect me to be nice just because we signed that paper. This is business. Nothing more.”

A small, sharp smile crossed her lips. “Good. Same goes for you, Rook. Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours except when I’m fixing that shoulder or pretending to like you in public.”

She disappeared upstairs, leaving the kitchen quieter than it should’ve been.

I grabbed the ice pack from the freezer and pressed it to my shoulder, staring at the signed contract still on the counter.

Lyla Voss was going to be a problem. Not because she was weak or starry-eyed like the others. But because she wasn’t. She saw straight through the bullshit, and something told me living with her wouldn't end well.