I glance down at the time on my dash as I pull into my neighborhood.

It's five minutes past eleven, and I'm running late. Ryan didn't waste any time setting up a date for us to do the interview. After comparing our schedules, we decided to meet at my place since one of her roommates hosted a study group at her apartment this morning. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I spot my mom's red Honda Civic following behind me, and I can just barely make out her and Olivia's silhouettes.

I hadn't planned to go out to breakfast with them this morning, especially since I usually crash after my morning workout if I don't have class, but when I woke up to a FaceTime call from Liv, who was walking into Over Easy, my favorite diner just down the road, it didn't take much persuading to get me to join them. I would have made it back in time if it wasn't for my mom's uncanny ability to make friends with everyone she meets. After picking up the bill, I was seconds away from sliding out of the booth and heading back to the house to meet Abby before my mom delved into an entire conversation with the waitress about her daughter, who also attends USW.

Abby texted me while they were mid-conversation to tell me she was here for the interview, and I quickly apologized that I wasn't back yet and told her to feel free to wait inside for me.

That was ten minutes ago.

I tried to excuse myself politely, but my mom insisted that she needed to get her Tupperware back from when I took leftovers home on Thanksgiving. And after I'd forgotten to bring it home to her for the past two months, she figured she might as well get it now while she's near campus. As I pull into the driveway, I spot the black Jetta parked out front. Glancing around the driveway, all three of my roommates' cars are also here. Well, two cars and one motorcycle.

Mom and Olivia are out of the car and walking up the driveway by the time I lock my truck, and I remind them again that I have a school project to work on, so they can't stay too long. My mom waves me off, and Olivia ignores me as she blanches at the shiny black Audi R8 sitting in the driveway.

"Whose car is that?"

I had a similar reaction when McConnell pulled up on move-in day. It's probably worth more than my parent's house, but since his dad owns a multimillion-dollar finance company, he was gifted the sports car on his sixteenth birthday.

"McConnell's," I say, pushing open the front door and standing back so they can walk in before me. I glance absently at the couch where all three of my roommates are sitting, their eyes glued to the flat screen as the sound of an automatic gun firing in quick succession fills the room.

"Behind you." Micah's voice echoes through the room and a new round of gunshots fires. I glance into the kitchen but frown at the empty room.

Where would she be if she's not in here or in the living room? A flush sounds from the bathroom down the hall, and I relax a little. So they didn't scare her away then.

My mom and sister follow me into the kitchen, and I groan at the three boxes of beer sitting on the kitchen island and the handle of Captain Morgan propped on the empty pizza box next to the refrigerator.

I quickly search through the cabinets until I find the matching lid for the Tupperware and hand it to my mom, who sighs and smiles as she looks at the glass container.

"This is my favorite one," she muses, popping open the lid and examining the inside.

Olivia walks around the kitchen island, eyes darting around the room curiously. When she stops near the pantry, brows furrowing, I follow her gaze and try to silently signal for her not to touch it without drawing my mom's attention.

She doesn't see me. Not that she would have listened even if she had.

Bending down, she pulls the big ass beer bong funnel from the box at the bottom of the pantry.

Luckily, Mom is too distracted trying to inconspicuously clean up to see Olivia hold the funnel up to get a better look at it.

I grab a random napkin ball from the counter and lob it at her. It hits her square in the face.

"Put it away," I mouth.

She glares at me for entirely too long before relenting and dropping the funnel back where it belongs. She's bent over the box long enough for me to know she definitely found the actual bong and bag of weed hidden behind it.

I lob an empty beer can next.

She pops up, rubbing at the back of her head as she glares at me.

She's a few months away from graduating from high school. With a full-ride scholarship for volleyball secured, she's set to start at USW in the fall, but it still feels wrong seeing her in this setting. No matter how old she gets, all I can see when I look at her is the little girl with a backward cap and skateboard tucked under her arm, always asking to play with me on our hoop out front.

"She beat the level—she beat the fucking level!" James's laugh echoes through the house.

"She beat the level—she beat the fucking level." Micah's voice echoes loudly through the house, and when I walk out of the kitchen, I realize that Abby is one of the three bodies on the couch. She's sitting in between Micah and James, who are high-fiving over her head as she laughs, holding up the PlayStation controller like it's a trophy. It's almost comical to see her sandwiched between the two, who look like giants next to her petite frame.

Micah catches sight of me and grins.

"Ryan's got some serious COD skills." He nods toward her, and I grin at the girl who's now blowing on the controller like it's a smoking gun. Her eyes are crinkled in a laugh as she smiles at me over her shoulder, and when her eyes slide away from mine, they widen slightly as my mom and sister step up beside me.

James and Micah are on their feet instantly, rounding the couch to come to say hello. They haven't seen my mom since our last game before winter break, and since a lot of my teammates are from other states, my mom decided my freshman year to appoint herself the unofficial Team Mom. I think it was her way to make up for some of my teammates missing their own. She hosts team dinners a few times a month to ensure that the guys get a good home-cooked meal instead of eating takeout every night. Conveniently, Olivia is usually at volleyball practice while we're there, so I haven't had to worry about any of my teammates getting any ideas.

Abby walks over behind them, tucking her hair behind her ear as she smiles up at me.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, taking in her dark jeans and off-white knit sweater. Her hair falls to her chest, curling at the ends where the strands all soften into a lighter hue.

"It's okay." She shakes her head quickly, and her bright eyes flick to my mom and sister as a polite smile pulls at her lips.

"Oh, um—Abby, this is my mom, Dorothy, and my sister, Olivia," I say, motioning toward each of them.

My mom's eyes light up at the introduction, and instead of taking Abby's outstretched hand, she pulls her into a hug. Abby's shoulders tense for a moment, but she relaxes quickly and squeezes my mom back. When she finally pulls away from my mom's embrace, she looks over her shoulder at me, and her toothy smile makes me grin.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Beck," she says, tucking the hair that escaped back behind her ear.

"Oh, honey, you can call me Dorothy," she corrects with a wave of her hand. My mom's eyes flick from Abby to me and back, and I can already see the gears in her head turning. I can tell that she's going to take this and run with it if I don't stomp it out immediately.

"Abby's my lab partner. She's going to write an article about me for a scholarship," I say flatly, so they get the hint as Olivia pulls Abby in for a hug. My sister ignores my comment as she asks Abby where she got her sweater.

"An article?" Mom asks, her eyes growing wide as if it's the most impressive thing she's ever heard. To be fair, it is pretty fucking impressive. I couldn't write an article to save my life—not a good one, at least.

She nods, and her eyes light up at my mom's obvious interest. "Yes, it's for USASN. I'm going to submit it for a scholarship contest."

"That's amazing, Abby." She gasps.

When she looks back at me with bright eyes, I already know she's planning on laminating the article and adding it to her collection that she started when my high school newspaper wrote an article on me for the first time. She nearly cried when I brought it home for her, and ever since, she's collected every single article written about me. She has them all safely tucked away in photo books in my old bedroom closet.

"If you need anything—baby pictures, old videos, old team rosters—anything at all, you let me know."

"This isn't that kind of article, Mom." I shake my head, looking at Abby for backup. I'm expecting her to agree with me and tell my mom that she just needs a few quotes for the article, but when she gives me a sheepish smile, my heart sinks in my chest.

"Well, actually..." She coughs and looks up at me nervously. "I was thinking that maybe, if you're okay with it, I would write a feature article."

I stare at her as her words sink in.

A feature article. That's a hell of a lot more intense than a few quick quotes.

"What a great idea, Abby." My mom gasps, grabbing Abby's hands to pull her attention back to her. "I have bins full of pictures that you could use for it, and I could probably try to find pictures of him from when he was a toddler on his first little league team. Oh, he was so precious. He had the cutest little cheeks and that dimple."

Micah and James take the baby picture talk as their cue to slip away, and I'm left watching as my mom delves into the story about how I peed myself during my first basketball game when I was three. Apparently, I got so nervous that I pissed myself, which is a story that seems to come up more than it really should.

Abby's laugh echoes through the room, and the throaty sound piques my attention. When she smiles at me over her shoulder, her cheeks glowing with that pretty rosy color, the resolve in my body starts to reluctantly wither away.

It couldn't be that bad, could it?

"I can't wait to read the article. When will it be ready?" my mom asks.

"Well, we still need to do the interview," Abby says, looking over at me with a shameless smile. "And I still need to convince him to let me write the feature article."

I raise a brow at her and watch as her plan perfectly unfolds right in front of my eyes.

"Oh, honey, you should let her write this article," my mom chirps. "It's for a scholarship."

Abby's smiling up at me, trying to look innocent as if she didn't just purposely use my own mother against me.

"I don't know," I say, rubbing a rough hand through my hair.

"You can approve it before I submit it, and I'll take out anything you're not comfortable with," she offers quickly, looking up at me with pleading eyes.

"That seems fair." Olivia smiles at Abby.

I glance at my sister, raising my brows. Et Tu, Brute?

When I look back at Abby, she's watching me with furrowed brows, like she's already preparing for me to say no. Honestly, I would usually say no. I fucking hate interviews. The only reason I even agreed to this was because I figured she'd just need a few easy quotes to add in, but when I look back up at my mom, she nods at me with a look that I know is meant to say, it's for a scholarship, Tristan, you shouldn't say no.

I take a deep breath and shrug. "Yeah, that's fine, I guess."

Abby bites back a smile, and I watch the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip, pulling it into her mouth as her eyes brighten.

"Well, we should probably let you two get started then," Mom says, grabbing her keys out of her purse. She pulls me into a hug and presses a kiss on my cheek before turning to Abby.

"I look forward to reading your article, Abby." She pulls her into a hug, rubbing her back a few times before squeezing her tightly and letting her go. "And please reach out if you need anything at all."

"I will," she agrees as her lips pull back into a bright smile. "Thank you so much—for everything."

Abby looks over at me quickly and then back at my mom, and I know she knows that I only agreed to this feature because my mom was here. My mom seems to sense that, too, because she nods back at her with a satisfied smile.

"You let me know if he's being difficult. I'll sort him right out for you."

"Jesus, Mom." I groan, opening the door for her.

Liv grins as she walks past, offering me a good luck pat on my arm as she goes, but it's my mom's pointed smile as she looks between me and Abby one last time that catches my attention. It's a smile that means she's going to ask about Abby and this damn article every time she calls to check in.

I close the door behind them, inwardly groaning at the fact that I just committed myself to a full fucking feature article, and when I look down at Abby standing in the middle of the hall with an excited smile tugging at her lips, I run a hand through my hair quickly.

"So . . ." I sigh, watching her cheeks fill with that pretty rosy color again. "Where are we doing this, Ryan?"

***

I drop into my desk chair and watch as Abby settles onto the very edge of my bed. She looks around my room as she pulls her bag onto her lap and riffles through it, pulling out a notebook, a pen, and a voice recorder.

"Do you mind if I record this interview?" she asks, setting her bag on the floor by her feet.

I shake my head and lean back into the chair, trying not to smirk. I never would've imagined Abby Ryan in my bed, but I'm starting to like the sight.

Pulling the notebook onto her lap, she flips it open to a page filled with bullet points, which I can only assume are her questions listed out. She looks up at me and takes a deep breath, clicking the recorder on before setting it down between us on my nightstand.

"What has your experience been like playing for USW?" She reads off the first bullet point on her paper as she uncaps her pen.

"It's been great. I'm so grateful to be out on the court with players like Micah Costa, James Parsons, Nathan Emery, and Luke McConnell."

She doesn't look up at me as she writes on her notepad.

"How has your relationship with Coach Kennley changed since you met him?"

I relax into the chair a bit more. "When I first met Coach, he was the most intimidating person I'd ever seen. I remember the first time I was late to practice, he ran me until I thought I was going to puke. He didn't fuck around." I look up at her, a little wide-eyed, when I realize that I cursed. For some reason, it feels wrong when she's sitting there so professionally, as if we're in a media room interview rather than my bedroom. "Sorry, he didn't mess around."

Her eyes raise to mine, and she smiles encouragingly, nodding her head for me to continue.

"Well, at first, I was terrified of him." I laugh at the memory of Coach when I met him freshman year. He was more of a hardass then, or he seemed it, at least. Maybe I've just gotten used to it. "But over the years, I've learned that he's hard on us because he cares. He wants us to succeed, and the harder he pushes us, the more he gets out of us. He's a role model, a mentor, and a damn good coach."

She smiles down at her paper as she writes. A few strands of her hair have fallen from behind her ear, and the loose waves sway in front of her face as her hand slides easily across the page.

"What is the hardest part of playing a college sport?"

The answer spills out quickly, since this is one of the questions that every reporter seems to ask.

"Time management. You've got to be organized, or you'll fall behind. Going from weight room workouts with the team at six in the morning to classes and then practice in the evening, there's always something that needs to be done. And if you fall behind, it's almost impossible to catch back up."

She smirks at the paper, and when her eyes flick up to mine, the playful set of her brow catches my attention. She slides the cap of her pen across her lip slowly before pointing it at me.

"Sounds to me like you plan out your day by the hour, Beck." She looks smug, and our conversation from the other day flashes in my mind. "Some might say that sounds like something a psychopath might do."

"Only if you write it down with sixteen different colored highlighters," I counter, watching her eyes narrow as her cheek twitches. When her eyes roll playfully, she looks back down at the paper.

"How do you handle the pressure of being one of college basketball's best players at the moment?"

I pause, and her eyes flick up to meet mine.

"I don't think I am," I admit. "I think I was lucky to be recruited onto a team with incredible talent. I think Micah Costa is one of the best defensemen I've ever played with—hell, the best defenseman in the entire league. I think Luke McConnell, while only a freshman, has better knowledge of the game and shooting skills than anyone else in the league right now. He's the person that I can look to, no matter what position we're in on that court, and I trust that he'll be able to make the shot if I get him the ball. I think I have a lot of players helping me to be the best that I can be, so I can't take credit for something my entire team helps me to achieve."

She watches me as I talk, considering my words as her hands still on the paper.

"Are you nervous about the draft?" she asks. Her voice loses the professional emphasis and falls into a conversational tone as she pulls her legs under her, settling into a more comfortable position on my bed.

I grab the tennis-ball-sized basketball from my desk and toss it between my hands. "Yeah," I admit, running my finger over the pebbled surface.

"Why?" She places the notebook on the bed beside her.

"It's the NBA Draft." I laugh, keeping my eyes on the small basketball in my hands. "There's a lot to be nervous about."

"Not for you." She laughs as if my comment is ridiculous. "You're a top-three pick—top two, honestly. What could you possibly have to be worried about?"

"That." I motion toward her. "People assuming that I'm worth a top pick."

She stays quiet for a beat, and I glance up from the ball to see her studying me.

"You don't think you are?"

I hesitate as I consider that, but before I can answer, we both jump at the soft knock on my door. When it cracks open slightly, Jackie peers into my room, and she opens the door a little more when she catches sight of Abby on my bed.

Fuck.

Jackie messaged me last night on Instagram, asking if I was free to hang out today. I thought I'd be done with the interview in time, but glancing down at my phone, I now realize that my timing was way off.

"Hey, Jackie—uh, this is Abby." I motion toward the girl sitting on my bed, who now looks uncomfortable as she meets the curious gaze of the girl standing by my door.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt