Offside: Rules of the Game Book 1
Offside: Chapter 8

I didn’t dare tell Jillian and Amelia where I spent Saturday night. When I got home Sunday morning, they assumed I had been at Zara and Noelle’s, and I didn’t correct them. Zara and Noelle had agreed to cover for me too, angels that they were.

Plus, nothing even happened with Chase. So why open that can of worms?

Even without telling Jillian and Amelia about Chase, things were strained at our place. Like neither of them knew how to act around me now that I wasn’t Luke’s girlfriend. I hadn’t realized that as far as most of my “friends” were concerned, that was my identity.

Now it was like I was a stranger instead of their roommate and friend. Or like I had a communicable disease and they were scared of catching breakup-itis.

Maybe I could move into the Callingwood Daily office and live there.

I successfully avoided Luke for the first part of the week, which required considerable effort given the overlap of our lives. On my way to English Lit on Tuesday, I nearly ran smack into him on the quad. Fortunately, I had reflexes like a ninja, and I ducked behind a tree so he didn’t see me. At least he was alone.

You could say I was taking the whole post-breakup no-contact strategy to the extreme. If I wasn’t in class, I was holed up in the Callingwood Daily office. I didn’t even settle in to study on campus for fear of Luke strolling by. But now it was Wednesday, and contact with him was inevitable, because taking a class with my boyfriend had seemed like a great idea until he was suddenly no longer my boyfriend.

Heart racing and hands clammy, I pulled open the lecture hall door for ASTR201 – Introductory Astronomy: Stars and Galaxies. Luke and I had registered for it together last spring because we both needed to fulfill an intro-level science requirement. Astronomy seemed better than biology with its gross dissections or chemistry with all its math. Foolishly, I’d even thought it might be romantic to go stargazing for an assignment.

Now I was sorely regretting that decision. I would rather have cut up a thousand frogs (sorry, frogs) or done a million equations than be shut in a room with Luke for an eighty-minute lecture.

If only he’d get sucked into a black hole.

Heart thundering in my ears, I paused in the doorway, scanning the tiers of laminate countertops and attached seats for his familiar blond hair and his standard gray and navy Bulldogs zip-up. When I didn’t see him, I released a sigh of relief. He wasn’t here yet. Maybe he wouldn’t come. I grabbed a seat off to the side in the back for an optimal sight line while maintaining minimal visibility myself. Then I waited, like a tightly coiled spring, but the lecture began, and he never showed. Thank god. He’d probably withdrawn and taken a W. I was considering it if he didn’t. But I couldn’t afford to eat the tuition like he could.

While I was packing up my stuff after the lecture wrapped up, my phone buzzed with a half-hearted sorry about the breakup text from my brother. It was approximately five days too late and lacked the comfort—and sincerity—one would expect from a sibling in this scenario. But maybe he felt conflicted, given that Luke was not only his teammate but one of his close friends. That was, after all, how we’d met.

Following astronomy, I headed back to the Callingwood Daily office, my makeshift home these days, to complete some work on the newspaper and catch up on homework.

Zara, Noelle, and I sat at the round table, revising articles for tomorrow’s issue while snacking and drinking coffee. A few other students who also worked on the paper milled about the office, copying documents and doing various administrative tasks.

Zara glanced up from her silver MacBook. “By the way, can you cover the Hawks game on Friday? Liam called in sick.”

“It’s Wednesday,” I said, biting into my chocolate chip granola bar. “He already knows he’s going to be sick this Friday? How convenient.”

“I know, right?” Noelle took a sip of her iced french vanilla coffee, rolling her eyes.

“I wish he understood that having the sports beat means he has to cover all the sports,” I said. “Not just the ones he likes.”

I sank my teeth into the chewy oat bar in my hand, taking out my irritation on the snack. For some reason—probably misogyny—Liam had a grudge against women’s sports. He also disliked volleyball. When the two collided, as was the case with the Callingwood women’s volleyball game this Friday, he was often unable to perform his duties for a variety of reasons. Stomach bug, sinus infection, sprained and/or broken limb, stuck in traffic, too hungover, mental health day, dental emergency, flat tire, family commitment, family funeral, and a suspicious number of sick and/or dead pets.

Funny how that worked.

Needless to say, Liam didn’t pull his weight at the paper. He should have been pulled off the sports section long ago. But our faculty advisor, Professor Johnson, was fairly hands-off—which in most cases was a good thing—and tended to avoid intervening. As a student-run group, unless we really wanted to raise hell with administration, there wasn’t a whole lot we could do other than tolerate him and count down until he left.

“On the bright side,” she said, “he’ll be gone next year. Then all the sports coverage can be your baby.”

I sighed wistfully. “Can’t wait.”

Hockey had been a religion in our household when I was growing up. Derek and I learned to skate shortly after learning to walk. Dad poured a backyard rink every winter, and we spent every waking hour on it. We both played hockey when we got older. Unfortunately, hockey was an expensive activity, and our family could only afford for one of us to play. Since Derek was better, he won, and I had to stop in middle school.

But I still loved it, which meant I was a total hockey nerd to this day. Stats, awards, records, rookies, and scores. I followed all of it. Points, goals, assists, you name it. I was a sports nerd in general. I could, and often did, school Liam on stats any day of the week.

I thoroughly resented that Liam had the sports beat simply because he happened on the scene a year before me. If it had been merit-based, it would have been mine by now.

Zara stretched out, propping her feet up on a spare chair beside me. “Are you done with that scholarship application?”

“Not yet. They want my entire life story. I’m surprised they didn’t ask for a DNA sample too.”

“I’m rooting for you. I think you have a good shot.” She gathered up her long curtain of auburn hair, twisting it and securing it with two yellow pencils. On her, it was messy chic. When I attempted it, I looked like the nutty professor.

I gave her a half smile. “I hope so.”

It was hard to gauge what my chances were, really, when the entire process was so complicated. I met the minimum GPA requirement, but that was one of a zillion factors. The application package included a lengthy form, personal essay, academic and personal references, resume, biography, and full transcript submission.

And that was only the initial round, where they narrowed it down to five finalists. If I made it to the next round, I’d be interviewed by a panel of journalism faculty members, several of whom had received prestigious awards at various points in their careers.

Intimidating would be putting that mildly.

To be fair, the amount of work was warranted given the scholarship amount. It was hefty, the kind of scholarship that would keep me from having to worry about money next year at all—I might even have some breathing room financially, as hard as that was to imagine. And it would definitely help ease my student loan burden once I graduated.

I desperately wanted the scholarship. Desperately needed it. Hoped I would be the lucky one of countless applicants who landed it. But I knew it was a long shot, so I was trying to temper my expectations.

As it drew nearer to dinnertime, the other students began to file out of the office. Eventually, the three of us were the only ones left. Noelle was working on an English paper, Zara was doing research for a psychology project, and I was trying to focus on my Video and Audio Production textbook. But my mind kept circling back to the weekend—and not because of Luke.

“So?” Zara checked to make sure the coast was clear, then leaned over the table. She waggled her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “How was he?”

“Who?” I played dumb, fighting the telltale rush of warmth crawling up my neck.

“The super hot guy you went home with, silly. Chase?”

“I wouldn’t know. We didn’t sleep together,” I said. “Thank god.”

“Why not?” She gestured dramatically. “He was the perfect rebound. Tall, dark, and horny.”

“I was too drunk, for one. I threw up on the way home. Several times, according to him. I can’t say, as I don’t recall much from that window of time.” Specifically, I had no idea what I’d said, and I had a strong hunch I’d aired some dirty laundry. The only question was what.

Zara cringed and sucked in a breath. “Oh no.”

“Sorry, B.” Noelle winced.

“The last two drinks were my idea, so I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Do you think you’ll see him again?” Zara asked.

With my luck, I probably would. But I planned to avoid hockey games as much as possible going forward. I was already thinking up excuses to bail on Saturday’s rematch against the Falcons on home ice. I was debating between fabricating a twenty-four-hour stomach bug or group project emergency. Because the idea of seeing Luke and Chase in one place was, frankly, horrifying.

“No way.” I shook my head. “He’s an asshole.”

“Are you sure about that?” Zara asked, tipping her chin thoughtfully. “It sounds like he helped you get home and he didn’t take advantage of you.”

“Low bar there, don’t you think?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s still more than I could say for half the guys I know.”

“Fine,” I said. “So, he’s not a creep, but he’s still an asshole. And a player.”

Emphasis on that last part.

“That’s a shame,” Noelle mused, tapping her glossy lips with her purple pen. “He had total BDE.”

“BDE?” I repeated, confused.

“Big dick energy.”

“Ugh, gross.” I hid my face in my hands. “Sorry I asked.”

Zara poked me with her pencil. “You know you thought about it too.”

Snippets of our airport terminal conversation came flooding back to me. Specifically, the Airbus part. My face heated against my fingers.

“Definitely not.”