OFF-CAMPUS DEAL

One.

Lyla Voss's POV:

I flopped back against my mountain of lavender pillows, scrolling through my i********: feed with one hand while balancing my phone on my knee for the video call. The soft glow of my string lights cast everything in a dreamy haze, exactly how I liked my little sanctuary.

My latest post a mirror selfie in my favorite oversized sage-green hoodie, captioned with a quick tip on shoulder mobility for desk warriors was still pulling in likes and comments.

"Love this vibe, Lyla!" one follower wrote.

"Girl, you make rehab look cute." Another one said.

“Lyla, are you even listening?” my best friend Talia’s voice crackled through the speaker, her face filling the top corner of my screen. She was in her dorm at our local college, hair in a messy bun, waving a takeout container like a conductor’s baton. “I said, you need to post more of those before-and-after transformation reels. Your followers eat that up.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” I said, smiling. Talia had been my ride-or-die since freshman year, the one person who got why I poured so much into my sports rehab major and my little lifestyle corner of the internet. “I’m just... distracted. Finals are kicking my butt, and I still need to film that posture correction video.”

Before she could launch into her usual pep talk, my actual phone buzzed on the nightstand. Unknown number. I frowned and muted Talia for a second. “Hang on, it’s probably spam.”

But it wasn’t. The voice on the other end was crisp, professional, and belonged to Dr. Whitaker, head of the Sports Rehabilitation Department.

“Lyla Voss? I have excellent news. You’ve been selected for a prestigious off-campus clinical internship at Thornvale University.”

My stomach did a little flip. Thornvale? The Thornvale? The sports powerhouse that basically printed future pros? “That’s... wow. Thank you, Dr. Whitaker. What’s the placement?”

There was a brief pause, like she was bracing me. “You’ll be providing targeted rehabilitation support for the men’s lacrosse team—specifically, working one-on-one with their star captain and offensive leader, Declan Rook. He’s recovering from a shoulder injury that’s been lingering. This is a high-visibility role, Lyla. Your performance here will directly influence your application for the Northwestern Master-PhD recommendation letter. There’s only one spot.”

The room suddenly felt too warm. Declan Rook. Of course it was Declan Rook.

I’d seen the headlines. The fights outside bars. The endless party photos. The girls. The scandals that had his team’s PR team working overtime. He was the kind of guy who made my skin crawl—talented, sure, but reckless in a way that screamed “disaster waiting to happen.” I’d sworn off athletes like him after my last disastrous situationship with a soccer player who thought charm and a six-pack excused everything.

“I... I appreciate the opportunity,” I managed, my voice tighter than I wanted. On the video call, Talia was making frantic 'what’s happening?' faces. “But Thornvale is hours away. I’d have to leave home, my blog, everything. And Declan Rook? With his reputation—”

“Lyla.” Dr. Whitaker’s tone sharpened. “This isn’t optional if you want that letter. The program at Northwestern is extremely competitive. Thornvale’s athletic department specifically requested someone with your profile—strong academics, social media presence for positive visibility, and clinical skills. You’ll live off-campus in provided housing. The internship includes a special scholarship stipend. Think about your future. Your family’s support for your education... this could change everything.”

The guilt hit like a slap. Mom and Dad had sacrificed so much already. Late shifts, skipped vacations, believing in my dream of becoming a sports medicine specialist. Turning this down would feel like spitting on all of that.

I swallowed hard. “When do I leave?”

“Two weeks. I’ll email the details and contract tonight. Congratulations, Lyla. This is a big step.”

The call ended. I unmuted Talia, who immediately exploded. “Thornvale?! Declan Rook?! Lyla, that guy is trouble. Like, tabloid-level trouble.”

“I know,” I groaned, pulling a pillow over my face for a second before peeking out. My reflection in the phone screen showed wide eyes and flushed cheeks. “But it’s Northwestern on the line. One recommendation letter and I’m basically set for the program of my dreams. I can handle Declan Rook. I’ll be professional, keep my distance, do my job, and get out. Fake it till I make it, right?”

Talia didn’t look convinced. Neither was I, honestly. But as I ended the call and stared at the string lights twinkling above my bed, I already felt the shift. My cozy little world was about to get uprooted, and I was walking straight into the lion’s den wearing lavender armor and a forced smile.

I hugged the pillow tighter, heart hammering with a mix of dread and determination. Two weeks. That’s all I had left before everything changed.