Chapter 3 Chapter 3
Emily’s POV
My dorm room looked like a tornado made exclusively of pink and paper. Open suitcases sprawled across the floor, their mouths gaping like they’re judging me. Therapy bands draped over the edge of my desk chair. Foam rollers were stacked in one corner like polite, judgmental witnesses. My neatly labeled binders Clinical Notes, Athletic Injury Protocols, Psychological Conditioning are piled on my bed, threatening to collapse if I breathed too hard.
This room has held every version of me for the last three years. The anxious freshman who cried into her pillow at night. The overachiever who color-coded her calendar within an inch of its life. The girl who learned how to be admired without being taken seriously. And now I’m packing it up.
April sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through my open suitcase like she’s browsing a boutique. She held up a pastel blazer between two fingers.
“This is going to look illegal on a college campus.” She announced.
I snatched it back. “It’s professional.”
“It’s hot. Which is better.” She corrected.
“I’m not going there to be hot,” I said, folding it carefully anyway. “I’m going there to work.”
April grinned, entirely unconvinced. “You’re going to Westview University. Home of the elite athletes, ridiculous facilities, and one very scandalously attractive lacrosse captain.”
I groaned. “Please don’t say his name in my room.”
She gasped. “Oh my Gosh. Are you nervous?”
“No,” I said immediately. “I’m just irritated.”
“That’s nervous-adjacent.”
I shoved a pair of pink sneakers into the suitcase harder than necessary. “He’s exactly the type of man I avoid. He is loud, reckless and emotionally unavailable.”
April propped her chin on her hand. “So…a challenge.”
“He’s a cliché,” I snapped.
She laughed. “Says the girl with a pink Pilates ring and a rose-gold Theragun.”
I pointed at her. “Those are tools. Don’t disrespect them.”
She saluted. “My apologies.”
My phone buzzed on the desk. I glanced at it, then rolled my eyes.
“Speaking of clichés,” I muttered.
I unlocked the screen and turned it towards her.
Noah Harris. Again.
A photo of him stumbling out of a nightclub, his shirt wsa half-buttoned, his arm slung around a brunette in a dress so tight it looked painted on. Flashing lights. Smug grin. The comments are already flooding in.
King behavior.
I volunteer as tribute.
Emily Taylor liked this.
I froze.
“Oh my Gosh,” April said, laughing. “Did you accidentally like it?”
“I did not,” I hissed as I frantically tapped. “I would never.”
“Too late,” she said cheerfully. “The internet has receipts.”
I groaned and tossed my phone onto the bed. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. He’s hollow. All surface. No substance.”
April squinted at the photo. “I don’t know. He looks…sad.”
I stared at her. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugged. “Not everyone who parties is empty.”
“Yes, they are. And even if they’re not, I’m not here to psychoanalyze him. I’m here to rehabilitate a shoulder and secure a recommendation letter.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re not going to be living in the same orbit as him for months.”
“I will treat him like a case study, nothing more.”
April watched me for a moment, then smiled softly. “You’re scared.”
I paused, folding a set of resistance bands with surgical precision.
“I’m cautious,” I corrected.
“Emily,” she said gently, “This could change everything for you.”
“I know,” I whispered.
That’s the problem.
I turned back to my desk, opening my laptop. The familiar comfort of documents and data steadied me. I pulled up the file I’ve been obsessing over for days.
Psychological–Physiological Integrated Athlete Rehabilitation Plan
Prepared by: Emily Taylor
Twenty-seven pages. Charts. Recovery timelines. Mental resilience strategies. Injury-specific protocols tailored to shoulder instability in contact sports.
This is what I trust. Not smiles, charm and headlines.
“You named it like a thesis,” April said, peering over my shoulder.
“It’s comprehensive,” I replied. “Elite athletes don’t just heal physically. Their nervous systems adapt to injury. Fear of re-injury affects performance. If you don’t address the psychological load, the body compensates poorly.”
She blinked. “I love when you get like this.”
“Like what?”
“Brilliant,” she said with a smile.
Heat crept up my neck. “I just don’t want to fail.”
“You won’t.”
I scrolled through my notes, my eyes skimmed over words that felt like anchors.
Objective measures.
Compliance tracking.
Behavioral accountability.
Noah Harris will follow this plan whether he likes it or not.
My phone buzzed again. Another text from my mom.
Mom: Have you packed enough sweaters? Westview gets cold.
I smiled despite myself.
“I’m leaving,” I suddenly said, the weight of it pressing into my chest.
April nodded. “I know.”
“I hate change.”
“I know.”
“And I hate men who think consequences don’t apply to them.”
She smirked. “You’re really going to hate this one, then.”
I zipped up one suitcase and sat on it, forcing it closed. The sound was final and real.
“I’m not staying,” I said, more to myself than to her. “I’ll do the internship. I’ll get the letter. And then I’m gone.”
April studied me. “And if it’s not that simple?”
“It will be,” I insisted. “I won’t let him distract me.”
She doesn’t argue, she just reached out and squeezed my hand.
“Just promise me one thing,” she said.
“What?”
“Don’t shrink yourself to survive this.”
I swallowed hard. “I won’t,” I promised. I will never shrink myself for anything. Not even for Noah.
Later, after April left and the room was quiet, I sat on my bed surrounded by half-packed certainty and full-blown fear. I picked up my phone one last time, staring at Noah’s face on the screen.
He looked invincible. I scoffed softly.
“Not to me,” I murmured.
I closed the app, shut the suitcase, and turned off the light.
Westview University was waiting.
So was he. I intend to beat him at his own game without ever letting my heart step onto the field.