Page 48 of The Wrong Quarterback

So where was she?

My phone buzzed.

Cole: You’re a fucking wall, little brother.

Cole: Did I do that right…

Quarterbacks were definitely not supposed to be walls, so I waited for Walker to respond as I kept my eye on the door.

A few seconds later he did.

Walker: Just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it when it’s not Lincoln saying it Cole-Bear.

Cole: You’re way too obsessed with that guy.

I decided to jump in at that point because Lincoln Daniels was a god, and there was nothing you could say to convince me otherwise.

Me: Can you blame him?

Glancing up, I noticed that the students around me had started to thin out, and still, no Casey. I guess there was a chance that she’d gotten out thirty minutes early, but it wasn’t likely. My jaw clenched imagining some guy trying to talk to her inside. Pushing off the wall, I slid my phone into my pocket, and walked toward the doors.

I moved through the building, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the near-empty hallway. Every classroom I passed, I glanced in, trying not to seem too obvious, but scanning nonetheless. Where was she?

And then I heard it. The soft strains of piano music. Like there was a string leading me, I followed the music until I was outside one of the music practice rooms. I peered through the narrow window in the door, a sense of relief flooding my veins when I saw her.

Casey was sitting at a bench, her posture straight, fingers gliding over the keys as the music came alive around her.

It was the expression on her face that got me though, soft, distant, like she was in some kind of dream world entirely, a place where nothing else could touch her.

I wanted to be there with her too. I turned and leaned against the door and listened, letting Casey’s music fill the spaces I didn’t even know I needed filled.

The music stopped with a harsh clang that jarred the quiet hallway. I straightened and spun around, peering through the window to see what was happening.

Casey was slumped over the keys, her shoulders shaking, muffled sobs breaking the stillness. One hand clutched her other, fingers trembling and tight, like she was trying to stop some unseen pain.

What the fuck?

I didn’t bother knocking, I just pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide and red from crying, her hands trembling as she frantically wiped at her face. “Parker?”

I closed the door softly behind me, locking her into this space with me. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, baby,” I said, feeling like my heart was breaking because hers obviously was. “Tell me what hurts?”

She stared up at me, silent tears sliding down her face.

“I was passing by and saw you through the window,” I murmured. I nodded to the glass on the door, making it seem like pure coincidence. Her eyes flickered to it, still red, still raw.

“I’ve never heard anything like that. You’re beautiful,” I told her in a choked voice. “Everything about you.”

Casey swallowed hard, her lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke. “Please don’t say that,” she whispered.

I stepped forward, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the carpeted floor, not stopping until I was standing in front of her. “Why are you crying, baby?”

She hesitated, her eyes dropping to the keys, her fingers twitching slightly. And then she sighed, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

“I used to be a concert pianist.” Her voice was small, broken. “And then I was in an accident… and I hurt my hand.”

I didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a moment. I let the weight of her confession settle between us.

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