Page 2 of Faking the Rules

I watch him walk away, all loose-limbed athletic grace, drawing glances from every girl he passes. Only when he's disappeared down the stairwell do I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

This project is going to be the death of me.

The weekend passes in a blur of research and rewrites for a paper due in my Feminist Literary Theory seminar. By Sunday evening, I'm bleary-eyed and caffeine-jittery, hunched over my laptop at the 24-hour campus coffee shop when a shadow falls across my table.

"Thought I might find you here."

I glance up to find Declan Wolfe standing there, looking freshly showered and irritatingly alert despite the late hour. He's dressed in navy blue Westford sweats, a backpack slung over one broad shoulder, holding two coffee cups.

"Are you stalking me now?" I ask, saving my document with perhaps more force than the keyboard deserves.

"Reconnaissance," he corrects, placing one of the cups in front of me. "Black with two sugars, right?"

The fact that he's noticed how I take my coffee is both unsettling and—if I'm being honest with myself—slightly gratifying. No one pays that kind of attention to me anymore. Not since James.

"Thanks," I mutter, wrapping my hands around the cup. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here."

He slides into the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation, dropping his backpack to the floor. "Team meeting ended early. Figured I'd get some work done." He pulls my folder from his bag, placing it carefully on the table between us. "And return these."

I flip through the pages, surprised to find them not only unmarked, but accompanied by Declan's own notes—surprisingly comprehensive ones, typed neatly and annotatedwith questions that demonstrate actual engagement with the material.

"You... read everything?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

"Don't sound so shocked, Gardner. I do occasionally crack a book." There's an edge to his voice that suggests I've hit a nerve.

"I just meant—"

"I know what you meant." He leans back, stretching his long legs out under the table, his knee brushing mine before I can pull away. "You've decided I'm a dumb jock who gets by on charm and athletic privilege."

Put so bluntly, my assumptions sound petty, unfair. But I've seen how the world works for guys like Declan Wolfe—doors opening automatically, expectations lowered, accomplishments amplified.

"Am I wrong?" I challenge.

Our conversation is interrupted by a group of giggling girls who slow as they pass our table, eyes fixed on Declan with unabashed admiration.

"Declan!" One of them, a petite blonde in a crop top despite the February cold, stops beside our table. "You're coming to Sigma Phi's party Friday, right? Everyone's saying you'll be there."

The transformation is immediate. Declan's serious expression melts into easy charm, his smile wide and practiced as he turns to the girls. "Hey, Chloe. Wouldn't miss it."

"Great!" She beams, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I saved you a dance. Maybe several." Her eyes flick to me dismissively before returning to him. "Definitely bring the rest of the team."

The clear implication that I'm not worth acknowledging sets my teeth on edge.

"Thanks," Declan says, his tone perfectly calibrated between friendly and flirtatious. "See you then."

The girls move on, still giggling, casting glances back at our table. One of them mimes something that makes the others dissolve into laughter again.

"Friends of yours?" I ask dryly when they're out of earshot.

Declan's mask of charm slides away, replaced by something more genuine—wry amusement mixed with what might be embarrassment. "Not exactly."

"Let me guess. Admirers? Groupies? Members of the Declan Wolfe Fan Club?"

He winces. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it? From where I'm sitting, it looks like you have half the female population at your beck and call."

His eyes—blue as deep water, framed by ridiculously thick lashes—narrow slightly. "I'm here on an athletic scholarship," he says, ignoring my comment about his admirers. "But I maintain a 3.8 GPA. I've never missed a paper deadline. And contrary to popular belief, I can read something more complex than a playbook."

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