My Stepbrother Sent the Quarterback to Break Me

"You got a pen?"

He was already sitting down. His knee bumped mine under the table.

"You're in a library," I said. "With no pen."

"I forgot it." He held up both empty hands. "Tragic, right? Star athlete, zero school supplies."

I pushed my spare pen across the table. He didn't take it from the table. He took it from my fingers, slowly, and his thumb dragged across my knuckles.

Then he leaned in to read my notes.

He smelled like cedar. Cedar and the blue sport body wash every guy in the locker room seemed to use, except on him it didn't smell cheap.

"French Revolution," he said. "Brutal."

"It's a history test. Not a crime scene."

"Same thing, if you think about it."

I went back to my notes. The paragraph on the Estates-General swam in front of me. I read the first line. Then I read it again.

Why was the star here? Why me?

His elbow settled next to mine. Heat came through his hoodie sleeve.

I underlined a sentence I hadn't read.

"Hey." He tapped the paperback sitting by my bag. "*The Glass Orchard*. You finished it?"

"Last night, but I haven't finished it."

"Who do you think to be the murderer?"

I studied him. Football. Banner. Number seven. He didn't read novels. Guys like him read playbooks and their own press.

"Kind of obvious," I said. "Her sister."

He laughed. That made the freshman two tables over lift his head off his textbook.

"The sister? No way. The sister was the red herring the whole time." He flipped the book over and pointed at the back cover like the answer was printed there. "It was the groundskeeper. He poisoned the pears in chapter three. Remember the gloves? He's wearing gloves in *August*."

I stared at him.

"You actually read it."

"Twice." He grinned. "You lied to me."

"I tested you."

"Did I pass?"

I didn't answer. My face was doing it for me.

---

We should have stopped there. We didn't.

The book turned into the movie, which he said ruined the ending. Which turned into the worst movies ever made, which turned into an argument about whether sequels should be illegal.

"Not all sequels," I said.

"Name one good one."

"*The Empire Strikes Back*."

"Okay, fine. Name two."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"See?" He pointed my own pen at me. "Illegal."

Somehow we ended up on the coffee cart outside the gym.

"It tastes like a penny," I said.

"A wet penny." He shook his head gravely. "Someone dropped a penny in a puddle and served it to me for four dollars."

I snorted. Loud. I slapped a hand over my mouth.

He looked pleased with himself. Way too pleased.

That was the thing. He kept watching my mouth when I laughed. He kept finding reasons to lean closer. Twice he touched the edge of my notebook like he wanted to touch my hand instead.

And I kept letting him.

I liked how he talked. Fast, then slow. I liked the little scar through his left eyebrow. I liked that he'd read a book twice.

*Stop it,* I told myself. *You know who he might be.*

I didn't stop.

---

I glanced at the clock. Greer's exam would be done in ten minutes.

I held out my hand. "Pen."

"Oh, this?" He spun it once between his fingers. Then he clipped it to the collar of his hoodie, right at his throat. "I'll give it back next time."

"There's a next time?"

"There is now." He stood, pushed in the chair, and smiled down at me. "See you, Calla."

He walked out like he owned the building.

I sat there with my notes open and my face hot.

He'd stolen my pen on purpose. He'd built himself a reason to find me again.

The worst part was how badly I wanted him to.

---

That night, the hallway was dark except for the light under Camden's door.

His door was open three inches. Of course it was.

"So?" Camden said. "Did you see her?"

I froze with my hand on the stair rail.

He had his phone on speaker. A voice came through it, crackly and relaxed.

"Yeah. I saw her." My stomach turned over.

"And?" Camden sounded hungry.

"Honestly?" Weston laughed. "Smoother than I expected. She talked to me for almost an hour. She laughed at my coffee joke."

"Your coffee joke is terrible."

"She laughed anyway."

Camden's chair creaked. I could picture him leaning back, feet on the desk, smiling at the ceiling.

"Told you," he said. "She acts so smart. Like she sees through everybody. But put a guy like you in front of her and she's just like every other girl. Give it two weeks. She won't know which way is up."

"Two weeks is generous."

They both laughed.

I stood very still. My nails bit into my palm, deeper than they had in Graham's study. Deep enough to sting.

*Smoother than expected.*

The joke. The pen at his throat. The way he'd watched my mouth.

All of it, homework.

I walked to my room without making a sound. I didn't cry. I sat on my bed and stared at the dark window until my reflection stared back.

Then I smiled.

---

The dining hall was loud the next day. Greer was stabbing at a salad and telling me about her chem exam when her fork stopped mid-air.

"Cal," she whispered. "Number seven, twelve o'clock."

He slid onto the bench across from me like he'd been invited.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

He unclipped the pen from his collar. Then he reached across the table, took my hand, turned it palm up, and set the pen in it. His fingers closed mine around it.

He held on a second too long.

Greer made a tiny strangled noise.

"Told you I'd give it back," he said.

"You did."

"So." He rubbed the back of his neck. Shy. It was a good act. It was a really good act. "You doing anything Friday night?"

Under the table, Greer kicked me. Hard.

I looked straight into his eyes. Brown, warm, a little gold near the center. The kind of eyes you'd trust.

I smiled at him. Slow. Sweet.

"I've been waiting for you to ask me."

His grin spread wide and easy.

He thought he'd won.

He had no idea I'd heard every word.