Page 5 of Broken Hearts

Ethan studies me for a moment, his resolve folding. “Fine, text that number and tell him that Ethan Hawthorne gave you the number. He’ll call you.”

My phone buzzes—a text from Ethan. “Done,” it reads. Without hesitation, my fingers fly over the screen, texting the number he provided.

“You owe me one.”

I nodded. “I do—you’ll get a yes from Arsenal when the time comes,” I speak with far more confidence than I actually feel, but truth be told, Ethan’s training program is absolutely amazing, and I know it will not take too much work for him, but I’m not about to admit that.

Ethan’s gaze follows as I rise, stretching out the tension residing in my muscles. A rush of adrenaline surges through me, fueled by the anticipation of what’s next.

Just as I’m about to assure him there’s no need for stress, my phone vibrates again. A private number flashes on the screen, and a sly grin curves my lips. This is it, the moment of truth—the point where the game truly begins. My thumb hovers over the answer button, each second stretching out like a taunt.

Time to step more into my Angel’s reality, I think to myself, a silent acknowledgment of the path I’m about to tread. I take the stairs up to my room two at a time as I press the button, bringing the phone to my ear. The line crackles and a voice on the other end awaits. The game is on, and this move is mine.

Chapter 3

Eva

As Professor Marlowe speaks, I lean forward, my eyes sparkling with recognition at each familiar line of Beowulf. Under my breath, I whisper my favorite phrases, feeling a personal connection with each ancient word. I am here, present and captivated, in the medieval poetry class that I adore, where the words of the old become a lifeline to my fervent love for literature.

His voice rises and falls with the rhythm of the alliterative verse, making me feel the pulse of the old English poets beating in time with my own heart. “Notice how the poet uses the tale of heroism to reflect on the inevitability of decay,” he intones, and I’m lost in the echo of his words, seeing not just a classroom but the mead halls of yore.

Without hesitation, my hand lifts into the air, a signal flare of my eagerness. “Isn’t this also a reflection of the time? The struggle to hold on to traditions in the face of a new world encroaching?” I ask, my voice carrying my curiosity and confidence.

“Excellent point, Miss Sinclair,” Professor Marlowe replies, his approving gaze adding a flush of pride to my cheeks. There’s a moment where I feel like I’m part of something larger than myself, a lineage of scholars and thinkers who’ve pondered these very texts.

I try to concentrate on the lecture, but a sudden chill runs down my spine, a sense of being watched. I grip my pen tighter, my focus faltering for a moment as I scan the room, seeking but not finding the source of this unsettling feeling. Since I found Cole parked in front of my building, I can feel his intense gaze boring into me wherever I go. Even though I know he’s not here—a quick glance over my shoulder reveals nothing but the normalcy of focused students—the sensation lingers. An unseen shadow tracing my every move.

Shaking my head, I despise how he invades my thoughts even in his absence. I force myself to focus as Professor Marlowe delves into Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, the richness of the discussion anchoring me back to reality. My pen dances across the page, eager to capture every insight. Here, in this world of text and thought, I am powerful, untethered from my fears, from my past.

Class ends all too soon, and the students scatter. “Miss Sinclair, a moment, please,” Professor Marlowe calls out. “You possess a passion for this subject that’s quite rare,” he says with a kind earnestness as I reach his desk. “Would you be interested in assisting with my research on the transition from oral to written traditions?”

“Assist with your research?” I pause, a surge of excitement making my heart race. “Yes, absolutely! I’d be honored.” My voice barely contains my eagerness. Violin may not be part of my future anymore, but poetry still is.

Stepping out of the classroom, I carry with me a sense of purpose and achievement. Cole’s shadow may loom at the edges of my life, but in the realm of medieval poetry, I am the one who commands the narrative. Here, I am the master of my story, and no one, not even Cole Westbrook, can take that away from me.

Still buzzing from the professor’s proposal, I feel my phone vibrate. Dad’s name lights up the screen, kindling a warmth in my chest that only his name can spark.

“Hey, Dad,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light, filled with the same ease that our conversations usually hold.

“My plum fairy! How’s my brightest light?” His voice, a tender mix of affection and perpetual worry, envelops me.

Making my way toward the library, I thread through the current of students. “I’m great. Just heading to the library to work on one of my projects. Poppy is coming to help me,” I add, wanting him to know I have friends, a support system here. I really don’t need him to worry more than he ought to.

“Always studying, eh?” He chuckles, and I can almost see the crinkles around his eyes, the sign of his genuine smile. “Are you eating well? And how about sleep? Are you sleeping well?”

My heart squeezes a little. I know what he is asking. How are the nightmares? Something that we never really discuss. “Yes, Dad, I’m doing really well. And my nightmares… they’re few and far between now,” I say, omitting the fact that when they do come, they’re as vivid as ever.

“That’s my girl. I was thinking, maybe you’d like to come home this weekend? Your old man misses you. You can bring your friends with you. Have a girls’ weekend.”

A part of me yearns for the comfort of home, but then I remember the email I received a few days ago. “I can’t this weekend, Dad. Guess what? I won VIP tickets at the poetry mixer–Ronan in concert! I’m taking my roommates.” My voice rises in excitement. I’m really looking forward to it.

“Oh, right, right, Ronan, yeah, makes sense.” There’s a brief silence, and I know he’s scratching at his beard the way he does when he’s thinking hard. “Just be safe, okay? And have some fun for me too.”

I smile, even though a lump forms in my throat. “I will, Dad. Always safe, you know me.”

We both know he’s not just talking about the usual perils of college life.

“I love you, kiddo. You know that, right? You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

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