Fake Girlfriend, Real Feelings

Maeve's POV

"Hit the showers or grab some water, we take the floor again in thirty!"

Lucas's deep, steady voice rang through the open glass doors of the gymnasium below, slicing cleanly through the rhythmic squeaks of rubber soles on hardwood and the heavy thud of bouncing basketballs. Down on the court, the college players dispersed in an instant, reaching for clean towels and sports drinks while their tired chatter drifted up into the afternoon air.

Lucas did not move from the center circle. He unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out the stainless-steel bottle I had tucked into the side pouch before we left the apartment this morning. He tipped his head back, his throat working in long, steady gulps as he drained the water.

I leaned my chin on my palm, perched high on a wooden stool beside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the campus library. An open biology textbook sat neglected across my lap, its pages serving only as a resting place for my fingers. From this third-floor vantage point, I had an unobstructed view of the outdoor practice court, and try as I might, I could never stop my gaze from locking directly onto him.

Lucas ran those drills with absolute authority. Pinecrest Hills College had hired him as an assistant coach for the offseason, a position he accepted without hesitation despite his grueling schedule. At first, I had not understood why he wanted the extra workload, but watching him now, the reason was obvious. He loved building something raw into something formidable. He wanted these kids to earn their shot at the big leagues, just like he was fighting for his own.

His time here was nearly up. In just a few short weeks, Lucas would pack his bags, leave Florida behind, and catch a one-way flight to Los Angeles to join the roster of a major professional franchise. It was the dream he had chased since we were kids scraping our knees on cracked asphalt. And despite the tangled, exhausting mess that existed between us, nobody in the world was rooting for him harder than I was. I knew I would spend my nights glued to the screen, watching him play under the bright arena lights from thousands of miles away.

Anyone looking at my life from the outside would have called me a fool. A sane girl would have walked away years ago. Lucas had spent our childhood chipping away at my defenses, teasing me until my cheeks burned, treating my patience like his personal playground. Yet, here I sat, still tethered to him by a stubborn heart that refused to listen to logic. Maybe I had lost a piece of my common sense the day my mother passed away, leaving me with this relentless need to hold onto the few familiar anchors left in my world. Loving Lucas was an exercise in quiet ruin, but it was the only reality I knew.

"How does it feel to share an apartment with him?"

The sudden voice cut through the quiet corner like a gunshot.

I gasped, my elbow slipping off the narrow wooden ledge. The sudden movement sent my stool rocking violently beneath me, and my forehead struck the thick plate glass with a dull, hollow thud. Desperate to keep from sprawling across the carpet, I grabbed at the heavy velvet curtains, but the fabric gave way, leaving me stumbling before I finally caught my footing against the edge of the study desk.

"Oh gosh! I am so sorry, I really didn't mean to make you jump like that!"

I pressed a hand to the dull throb blooming above my eyebrow and turned around. Standing two feet away was Phoebe.

She was hard to miss on campus: painfully tall, with long, awkward limbs that never seemed to know where to settle, frizzy dirty-blonde hair escaping a loose hair tie, and thick glasses that magnified her wide eyes behind the lenses. She shifted her weight from one sneaker to the other, her fingers twisting into the hem of an oversized graphic tee.

I let out a slow breath, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "It's fine. Don't worry about it, Phoebe."

A nervous smile crossed her face, her shoulders dropping an inch as if relieved that I had not snapped at her. "You know my name?"

"Of course I do. We share that introductory literature lecture on Tuesdays." I picked up my textbook from the floor and placed it carefully on the desk. "What did you ask me just now?"

Phoebe chewed on her bottom lip, her cheeks flushing pink. "I was just wondering about Lucas. You two live in that complex near the north gate, right? It isn't really a secret around campus."

"Yeah, we rent a place together," I replied evenly, keeping my guard up.

Phoebe leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to an eager whisper. "So... is there something going on between you two? Like, are you guys actually together, or is it strictly roommates?"

A tight prickle of annoyance flared in my chest. "Don't you think that's a pretty strange question to ask someone you barely talk to?"

Phoebe flinched, pulling her hands up to her chest. "I'm sorry! Truly, I didn't mean to pry or make things weird. People just talk, you know?"

"People talk about everything," I said, keeping my tone civil as I scooped my backpack off the adjacent chair. "I have to get going anyway. Have a good afternoon, Phoebe."

"You too. Sorry again!" she called softly after me.

I did not look back. Even though my response had been sharp and defensive, an ugly, traitorous part of my chest burned with the secret wish that her assumptions were real. I hated that rumors could speak a fantasy into existence that Lucas would never offer me of his own free will.

I pushed open the heavy library doors and stepped out into the humid Florida breeze. Slipping my hands deep into my pockets, I reached up and hauled my oversized fleece hood over my head, tugging the fabric low until my eyes were shielded from the harsh afternoon sun. I kept my chin pressed to my chest, determined to hurry across the quad, lock myself in the bedroom, and bury my thoughts inside a novel until the sun went down.

I had barely cleared the corner of the science building when strong fingers locked around my forearm.

A short gasp escaped my throat as my momentum was violently redirected. The world spun in a blur of brick and green turf before I was hauled backward through a narrow doorway. The solid wood slammed shut behind us with a loud, final click, plunging the tiny space into shadow.

My back met the cool, flat surface of the wall with a firm jolt that drove the air straight out of my lungs.

Panic surged through my veins, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My eyes squeezed shut on instinct, my hands coming up to push against whatever had grabbed me. But the moment my palms made contact, they did not meet rough cloth or a hostile threat. They met warm, damp skin stretched tight over solid muscle, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of clean laundry detergent, cedarwood, and the raw musk of recent exertion.

I opened my eyes. Lucas stood planted directly in front of me, crowding every inch of the cramped janitor's closet.

One of his thick arms was braced flat against the wall right beside my ear, trapping me in the narrow gap between his chest and the drywall. The dim amber light filtering through the small vent above cast sharp shadows across his jawline and the hollow of his throat. His honey-brown eyes bore straight into mine, fierce and unreadable, while the heat coming off his broad frame practically baked through my clothes.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Lucas?" I whispered, my voice wavering despite my best efforts to sound furious. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

He did not apologize. He simply lowered his head an inch closer, his warm breath fanning across my forehead. His gaze dipped down to my mouth for a fraction of a second before rising back to lock with my eyes, slow and deliberate.

In that split second, the air left the room. My fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeveless athletic shirt. My mind spun into dangerous, forbidden territory, wondering if the endless push-and-pull between us was finally about to snap. I thought about the thousands of nights I had spent staring at the ceiling of our shared apartment, wondering what it would feel like if he finally kissed me.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, shattering the illusion into a million sharp pieces.

"How was your exam?" he asked, his tone casual and teasing. "You spent half the week acting like your life depended on those flashcards."

A cold splash of disappointment doused the fire in my chest. I swallowed down the bitter taste of my own foolishness, forcing a flat, unimpressed glare onto my face as I lifted my chin.

"You dragged me into a broom closet to ask about my biology test?" I crossed my arms over my chest, glaring up at him. "You really are an idiot. If anyone saw you yank me in here, they would assume something completely inappropriate. The star coach cornering the quiet girl in a closet? That would spread through campus by nightfall."

Lucas let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through the small space, sending a betraying flutter straight to the pit of my stomach.

"Stop acting like that would bother you, Mae," he said, stepping in closer until his thighs brushed against mine. "You would love every single second of that gossip. Hell, you probably pray every night that people think I'm taking you home."

The arrogance in his voice made my temper flare, mostly because it cut far too close to the bone. My face burned, and I forced myself to meet his smug gaze without blinking.

"Don't flatter yourself," I said, putting as much ice into the words as I could muster. "You're not that special, Lucas."

He leaned his face down until his lips were inches from the shell of my ear, his deep voice dropping to a low, mocking murmur. "Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart. You're the only one buying it."

A cold wave of dread washed over me. Did he know? Had I let something slip over the years, some pathetic glance or lingering touch that gave away the secret I guarded with my life? The thought that he might know how deeply I loved him—and that he used that knowledge simply to toy with me like a bored predator—made my chest ache with humiliation.

I planted both hands firmly against his chest and shoved him backward with all the strength I had.

I spun toward the door handle, desperate to get out into the open air, but Lucas moved faster. His fingers clamped around my wrist, hauling me backward before I could touch the latch. With a single fluid pull, he spun me around and dragged me flush against his hard chest, his other arm wrapping tightly around my waist like a steel band.

The breath rushed out of me as my front met his solid frame. The walls of the utility closet seemed to shrink around us, the faint smell of bleach and damp mop strings fading beneath the overwhelming warmth of his body. His heart thumped a heavy, steady rhythm beneath my palm, while mine sprinted wildly out of control.

"Let go of me," I muttered, refusing to look up.

"You skipped practice today," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, demanding register that made my defenses crumble. "You always sit on the bleachers or wait by the court. Why weren't you there?"

I kept my gaze fixed on the hollow of his throat, watching the steady pulse beating beneath his tan skin. "I was busy. I had research to finish on the third floor of the library."

Lucas shifted, his free hand rising from his side. My lips parted slightly on a sharp breath, my body bracing for him to close the tiny space between our faces. But his hand bypassed my cheek entirely. Instead, his fingers caught the edge of my hood and pushed it backward in a smooth, effortless motion.

My long hair spilled free, tumbling over my shoulders and down my back.

"I've told you a hundred times to stop hiding under that stupid thing," he murmured, his fingers trailing lightly along the crown of my head before dropping back to his side. "Why do you have to be so stubborn about it?"

The casual intimacy of the gesture made my throat tighten, and I shoved against his shoulders again, this time putting enough force into it to make him step back and drop his arm from my waist.

"Because it is my choice, Lucas!" I smoothed my hair back with trembling fingers, putting two full steps of distance between us. "You don't get to tell me what to wear, how to do my hair, or where to spend my afternoon. You are not my boyfriend."

Lucas crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his back against the shelves of cleaning supplies. That infuriating, crooked smirk spread across his lips, full of wicked amusement.

"Is that right?" he drawled, arching a dark brow. "Funny, I could have sworn I asked you to take on that exact job just a few nights ago."

I rolled my eyes so hard it gave me a headache. "That was for a fake arrangement, you complete lunatic. And for the record, your little proposal was absolute garbage. No flowers, zero charm, and not an ounce of effort. It was an insult to women everywhere."

Lucas threw his head back and laughed, the sound bright and unrestricted in the small room. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, his amber eyes sparkling with genuine mischief.

"Flowers?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Mae, it's a business deal to keep my family off my back for one weekend. What did you want, a string quartet in the kitchen?"

Before I could fire back another insult, the muffled sound of loud laughter and shifting backpacks drifted from the hallway just outside the closet door. The sudden reminder of the real world popped the heavy, charged bubble hanging between us like a pin through a balloon.

I turned around and unlocked the door, keeping my voice down to a hurried whisper. "I'm going home. See you later, Lucas."

"Hey," he called out, his tone shifting back to business as the door cracked open.

I paused, glancing back over my shoulder. Lucas had already reached down, grabbing the hem of his sweaty practice jersey and peeling it smoothly up over his head. The sight of his broad, muscled back rippling under the dim light made my tongue feel like sandpaper.

"I'm staying over at Tyler's place tonight to review game tape," he said, tossing the damp jersey into his duffel bag on the floor. "Don't bother cooking dinner for two. And check the kitchen island when you get back. I left my credit card by the microwave."

I blinked at him. "Your card? What for?"

"Go to the mall and buy whatever dresses you want for the weekend trip," he answered, not looking up as he pulled a fresh black t-shirt over his shoulders. "I don't want you complaining that you have nothing to wear in front of my family."

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't need his money, but the sheer exhaustion of trying to match his pace stopped me. I turned on my heel and stepped out into the bright, crowded corridor, letting the closet door shut quietly behind me.

I pulled my backpack straps tight and pushed through the stream of passing students, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum tiles. My pulse hammered violently in my temples, each step echoing the frantic rhythm in my chest, and I pressed a hand to my ribs, desperately trying to steady my breathing. Living with him was a daily war of attrition, and as I walked toward the campus exit, I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever be able to draw a normal breath around him again.