OFF-CAMPUS DEAL

Three.

Lyla Voss's POV:

The U-Haul felt too small for everything I was hauling into my new life. Boxes of clothes (mostly sage-green hoodies, leggings, and the occasional blazer for professionalism), my ring light and camera tripod, anatomy textbooks, resistance bands, and enough string lights to make any dorm room jealous. I gripped the steering wheel tighter as the Thornvale University exit sign came into view, my stomach twisting into knots that no breathing exercise could fix.

Two weeks had flown by in a blur of frantic packing, final exams, and Talia’s endless group chat pep talks. Mom had cried when I left this morning. Dad had hugged me too tight and slipped an envelope of cash into my bag “just in case.” I’d smiled the whole way down the highway, blasting my favorite playlist, but now that I was actually here? The reality felt heavier than all my boxes combined.

I followed the GPS to the off-campus housing complex the athletic department had arranged. It was nicer than I expected—modern townhouse-style units tucked near the edge of campus, close enough to the lacrosse fields to walk but far enough from the main dorm chaos. The email had said “shared housing,” but I’d hoped that meant with another intern or grad student. Deep down, I already knew better.

A woman in a Thornvale Athletics polo shirt waited by the curb, clipboard in hand. She waved as I parked.

“Lyla Voss? I’m Karen from the athletic department. Welcome to Thornvale. Let’s get you settled.”

She helped me carry the lighter boxes inside, chatting about the team’s schedule and how excited they were to have “fresh expertise” on board. The townhouse was clean and surprisingly spacious—open living room and kitchen, two bedrooms upstairs. My pulse spiked when I saw the second bedroom door already had a lacrosse stick leaning against it.

Declan was already here.

Karen handed me a set of keys and a thick folder. “The full agreement is inside, along with your scholarship details and the recommendation letter timeline. Dr. Whitaker speaks very highly of you. Declan should be back from practice soon. The two of you will have a meeting with Coach Blackwell tomorrow morning to go over... expectations.”

She gave me a sympathetic smile, like she knew exactly how awkward this was about to get, then left me standing in the unfamiliar hallway.

I spent the next hour claiming the bedroom on the left—the one with better natural light for filming content. I hung my string lights, made the bed with my favorite lavender comforter, and arranged my rehab tools on the desk like armor. Every few minutes I’d glance at the door, half expecting the infamous bad boy to burst in with a smirk and a trail of chaos.

By the time I’d unpacked most of my clothes, the front door slammed downstairs.

Heavy footsteps. A duffel bag hitting the floor. Then a low, irritated voice muttering something I couldn’t quite make out.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I smoothed down my sage-green cropped hoodie, checked my reflection in the mirror (professional but approachable, hair in a loose wave), and forced myself downstairs.

Declan Rook stood in the kitchen, back to me, pulling a water bottle from the fridge. Even from behind he looked every bit the athlete—broad shoulders, messy dark hair still damp from practice, Thornvale Lacrosse shirt clinging to his frame. The sight of the shoulder brace peeking out from under his sleeve reminded me why I was here.

He turned around and froze when he saw me.

For a second, neither of us spoke. His eyes—sharp, stormy gray—swept over me, taking in the sage-green hoodie, the leggings, the way I was standing like I owned the place even though my knees felt weak. His expression hardened into something between annoyance and disbelief.

“You’re her,” he said flatly. No hello. No nice to meet you. Just that.

I lifted my chin, refusing to shrink. “Lyla Voss. And you’re Declan Rook. The guy whose shoulder I’m supposed to fix.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. The movement made him wince slightly—his injury was clearly still bothering him, even if he’d never admit it.

“Fix my shoulder. Right. And play happy couple for the cameras so I don’t lose my scholarship. This whole thing is bullshit.”

“Trust me,” I shot back, fire rising in my chest, “I’m not thrilled either. I worked my ass off for this internship because of Northwestern, not because I wanted to babysit a walking PR disaster.”

His eyebrows shot up, and something almost like amusement flickered across his face before the scowl returned. “Babysit? Bold words for someone who’s about to move her sage-green everything into my space.”

“It’s 'our' space for the next few months,” I corrected, stepping closer despite every instinct screaming to keep distance. “We have a contract. We both need this. So maybe we can act like adults and make it work instead of you throwing a tantrum in the kitchen.”

Declan stared at me for a long beat, jaw tight. Up close, he was annoyingly attractive—sharp jawline, those intense eyes, the kind of presence that probably made half the campus weak. But the cynicism rolling off him in waves was exactly what I’d expected. Exactly what I didn’t need.

He pushed off the counter, grabbing his duffel. “Whatever. Stay out of my way, Lavender. I’ll stay out of yours. We’ll smile for the pictures when we have to. That’s it.”

He headed for the stairs without another word, leaving me standing there with my fists clenched and my heart racing.

This was going to be so much worse than I’d imagined.

I exhaled shakily, already reaching for my phone to text Talia: He’s even more impossible in person than I'd thought. I hit send.