OFF-CAMPUS DEAL

Two

Declan Rook's POV:

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the sticky floor of The Hollow, the off-campus bar that smelled like cheap beer, victory, and bad decisions. I leaned back against the worn leather booth, nursing a whiskey that I’d barely touched. Around me, the team was loud as hell laughing, shoving, replaying every highlight from tonight’s shutout win like we’d just won the damn championship instead of a regular season game.

That was fine by me. Let them celebrate. I’d scored four goals, assisted three more, and absolutely dominated on the field despite the shoulder that still burned like fire every time I c****d my stick back too hard. Adrenaline had carried me through the game. Now the ache was creeping back in, reminding me I wasn’t invincible.

A warm body slid closer on my left. Long blonde hair, tight top, and a smile that screamed seduction. She’d been orbiting me since we walked in.

“You were insane out there tonight, Declan,” she purred, tracing a finger down my arm. Her touch lingered a little too long near my bad shoulder. “I’ve never seen anyone move like that. You should let me help you... celebrate properly.”

Her friends giggled from across the table, eyes wide with excitement. Another girl—brunette this time—pressed in on my right, offering me a shot. I took it, knocked it back, and flashed the cocky grin they all expected. The one that said I’m Declan Rook, lacrosse god, campus legend. The one that kept people at a safe distance.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said, voice low and rough from shouting on the field. I didn’t ask her name. I never did. Names made things personal, and personal led to complications I didn’t need. My rule was simple: no overnight stays, no names, no promises. One night of fun, then gone. Clean. Easy.

The blonde leaned in closer, lips brushing my ear. “My place is just around the corner. We could slip out. I’ll be gentle with that shoulder of yours.”

For a second, I considered it. The win had me buzzing, and it would be easy—too easy—to lose myself in someone who didn’t expect anything more than a good time. But the second her hand drifted toward my thigh, something twisted in my gut. The same old emptiness. The same reminder that nothing ever stuck. Not since Dad walked out and Mom fell apart. Relationships were traps. People left. Better to keep it surface level.

I caught her wrist lightly, offering a half-smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Appreciate the offer. But I’m good right here.”

Her pout was immediate, but I was already scanning the bar, signaling the bartender for another round for the team. Distraction was my best friend tonight.

My phone buzzed violently in my pocket, cutting through the noise. I pulled it out, frowning at the screen. Coach Blackwell. At one in the morning? That couldn’t be good.

I slid out of the booth, ignoring the disappointed looks from the girls. “Gotta take this,” I muttered to my teammate Jax, who was already three shots deep and trying to convince two sophomores to dance.

The night air hit me like a slap as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the door swinging shut behind me and muffling the chaos inside. I answered on the third ring.

“Rook.”

“Declan.” Coach’s voice was tight, the way it got when he was pissed but trying to play politics. “Hell of a game tonight. You carried the offense like usual. But we need to talk. Now.”

I leaned against the brick wall, shoulder throbbing in protest. “If this is about the penalty in the third quarter, it was clean. Ref was blind—”

“It’s not about the game.” A long pause. I could hear him shifting papers in the background. “It’s about your future. The athletic director, the compliance office, and I have been dealing with the fallout from your latest... extracurricular activities. The bar fight last weekend? The photos from the Sigma party? It’s piling up. One more incident and the suspension is real this time. Scholarship gone. Eligibility gone.”

My jaw clenched. “I handled it. No charges.”

“You’re on thin ice, son. The team can’t afford to lose you, but the university won’t risk its reputation on a loose cannon. That’s why we’ve come up with a solution.”

I laughed, short and bitter. “A solution? What, you’re benching me until I turn into a monk?”

“No. You’re getting help with that shoulder—real, targeted rehab. And you’re getting an image overhaul. Starting immediately.”

I pushed off the wall, pacing under the flickering streetlight. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’ve been assigned a sports rehabilitation intern from an elite program. Lyla Voss. She’s good—top of her class, professional, and has a clean, positive social media presence. You two will be working closely together. Very closely.”

I stopped pacing. “Closely how?”

Coach exhaled heavily. “You’re going to pretend to date her, Rook. Publicly. Dates, social media posts, team events, the works. She helps fix your shoulder and your reputation. You keep your spot on the team and your scholarship. Win-win. The athletic department has already drawn up the agreement. Housing is arranged—off-campus, shared. This isn’t optional.”

For a second, the world went quiet except for the distant thump of music from the bar. Fake date some random rehab girl? Live with her? Smile for the cameras like I gave a damn about stability?

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not. This comes from higher up. Your talent is undeniable, Declan, but talent isn’t enough anymore. Not with your track record. Lyla arrives in two weeks. Clean up your act before then. No more bars. No more girls. Understood?”

I stared out at the empty street, the shoulder injury pulsing like a warning. Two weeks. Then some straight-laced intern would be invading my space, my life, all because I couldn’t keep my s**t together off the field.

“Yeah,” I muttered finally. “Understood.”

Coach hung up. I shoved the phone back in my pocket, the whiskey suddenly sour in my stomach.

Lyla Voss. I didn’t know her, but I already hated the idea of her. Some polished do-gooder thinking she could fix me with exercises and fake smiles.

This was going to be a nightmare.

I headed back inside, the celebration suddenly feeling hollow. Whatever this girl was bringing with her, I’d make damn sure she knew I wasn’t interested in playing house. Contract or no contract.