Falling For The Wrong Player

The first time Alex Anderson called me beautiful, I threw a drink in his face.

Two years later, I discovered I would have to spend an entire semester working with him.

If I had known what would happen next, I would have dropped the class, abandoned my scholarship, and run as far away from Westbridge University as possible.

Unfortunately, I did not know.

All I knew was that Alex Anderson was the last person I wanted to see on a Monday morning.

"Tell me this is a mistake."

I stared at the email on my laptop, reading the announcement for the fourth time.

WESTBRIDGE WOLVES STUDENT AMBASSADOR CAMPAIGN

Student Media Representative: Sabrina Cole.

Athletic Department Representative: Alex Anderson.

I turned toward my best friend, Cathy Brooks, who was sitting across from me in the student media office.

"You recommended me for this?"

Cathy lowered her coffee.

"I thought you would be perfect for it."

"You recommended me for a project with your ex-boyfriend?"

"I did not know they would pair you together."

"Then why is his name directly beneath mine?"

She glanced at my laptop and sighed.

"Because the university apparently enjoys making my life difficult."

I stared at her.

"Your life?"

"Fine. Our lives."

I closed the laptop before I could throw it across the room.

Alex Anderson was the captain of the Westbridge Wolves, the university football team. He was also the most popular guy on campus, a talented quarterback, and a walking reminder that good looks and good character were two entirely different things.

Girls lined up for his attention. Professors praised his leadership. The university administration treated him like a national treasure.

I considered him a public nuisance.

He was arrogant, charming when it suited him, and far too comfortable with the attention he received. Two years earlier, I had learned the hard way that his compliments were not always sincere.

I had no intention of repeating that mistake.

"I cannot do this," I announced.

Cathy leaned forward. "Sabrina, listen to me. This campaign is a huge opportunity. You will interview the players, write feature stories, create content, and cover university events. It could help you secure an internship before graduation."

I hated that she made sense.

My scholarship covered my tuition, but I still needed money for transportation, food, and other expenses. I worked part-time at the student media office and accepted freelance writing assignments whenever I could find them.

An opportunity like this could change things for me.

It could also place me within arm's reach of Alex Anderson.

"I will request another assignment."

"The names have already been announced."

"Then I will request a correction."

Cathy gave me a sympathetic look.

I hated that look almost as much as I hated Alex.

Before I could continue arguing, the office door opened.

"Am I interrupting something?"

I knew that voice.

I turned slowly.

Alex stood in the doorway wearing a black football jersey and gray sweatpants. His dark hair was damp from practice, and his duffel bag hung casually from one shoulder.

His gaze moved from Cathy to me.

Then he smiled.

"Well, this is an interesting surprise."

I turned back to my laptop.

"Not for me."

He walked into the room and pulled out the chair beside mine.

"Good morning to you too, Sabrina."

"I did not invite you to sit here."

"Fortunately, the university did."

He placed a folder on the table between us.

I stared at it without touching it.

"What is that?"

"Our campaign schedule."

"Give it to someone else."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I would rather interview a brick wall than spend time with you."

He considered that for a moment.

"Would the brick wall know how to throw a football?"

"Probably not, but I imagine it would have a better personality."

Cathy made a choking sound.

Alex laughed.

I hated that his laughter sounded genuine. I hated that he could look at an insult as though it were an invitation to flirt. Most of all, I hated that he seemed completely unaffected by my dislike of him.

"You are still angry about that party," he said.

I finally turned toward him.

"Do not flatter yourself."

"Then why do you look like you want to throw something at me?"

"Because you are sitting beside me."

He leaned closer.

"You know, most girls would be thrilled to have my attention."

"Most girls have not heard you brag about how easy it is to manipulate them."

His smile faltered.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Two years earlier, I had attended a party with Cathy. Alex had approached me in the kitchen, complimented my appearance, and asked for my number. I had believed he was genuinely interested until I overheard him telling his teammates that he could make any girl fall for him if he tried hard enough.

I had returned to the kitchen and thrown my drink in his face.

By morning, half the university knew what I had done.

Alex had laughed about it publicly, but I had seen the humiliation in his eyes before he covered it with another charming smile.

I had never apologized.

He had never forgotten.

"I was an idiot back then," he said unexpectedly.

I blinked.

That was not the response I had anticipated.

"Back then?" I asked.

His mouth curved again.

"There you are."

I looked away before he could see that the exchange had unsettled me.

"Just give me the schedule."

He slid the folder toward me.

The first few pages contained dates for interviews, training sessions, team dinners, and weekend events. I turned another page and stopped.

FEATURE STORY: AN EXCLUSIVE PROFILE OF CAPTAIN ALEX ANDERSON.

I looked up.

"You have got to be joking."

"I am afraid not."

"You expect me to write your profile?"

"I expect you to ask intelligent questions and write an interesting article."

"And I expect you to stop talking before I lose my scholarship and end up in prison."

He laughed again.

I was beginning to suspect that irritating me was his favorite hobby.

My phone vibrated.

An unknown number had sent me a message.

You should quit the campaign before it is too late.

I frowned and opened the message.

Another one appeared.

You have no idea what happened between Alex and George. Do not let him fool you the way he fooled Cathy.

My fingers went still.

George Bennett.

Alex's former best friend.

My first crush.

The boy who had helped me settle into university, remembered the smallest details about me, and once spent an entire afternoon helping me prepare for a scholarship interview.

Then he had disappeared from Westbridge after a mysterious falling-out with Alex.

Nobody ever gave me the complete story. Cathy refused to discuss it, and Alex became cold whenever George's name came up.

I had not heard anything about George in months.

I looked at the unknown number.

A third message appeared.

Ask Alex what he did to his best friend. Then ask why George had to leave.

A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach.

I locked my phone and slipped it into my bag.

"You all right?" Alex asked.

"Fine."

His expression changed.

"Let me see your phone."

I stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Who messaged you?"

"How do you know someone messaged me?"

His jaw tightened.

For the first time that morning, Alex looked less like the confident football captain everyone admired and more like someone who had just heard a threat.

"Sabrina, I need you to answer me."

I should have told him to mind his own business.

Instead, I took out my phone and showed him the messages.

He read them without moving.

Then his face went completely pale.

He stood so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor.

"Where did you get this number?" he demanded.

"I did not send the messages to myself, Alex."

He barely seemed to hear me. His eyes remained fixed on the screen.

"Did you tell anyone about these?"

"No. What is going on?"

He looked toward the door, then back at me.

I had never seen him look frightened before.

Not even when I had thrown that drink in his face.

"Because," he said quietly, "George Bennett is supposed to be dead."

"George Bennett is supposed to be dead."

For three seconds, I forgot how to breathe.

Then I laughed.

Not because anything was funny, but because Alex Anderson had just delivered the most ridiculous sentence I had ever heard, and some part of my brain refused to accept it as reality.

"Are you serious?"

He did not answer.

"Alex, that is not something you say to someone as a joke."

"I am not joking."

I studied his face, searching for the familiar smirk, the teasing expression, anything that would tell me he was trying to frighten me.

There was nothing.

His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid. He looked as though he regretted saying the words but could not take them back.

I snatched my phone from his hand.

"What do you mean, George is supposed to be dead?"

"Keep your voice down."

"Do not tell me to keep my voice down! You just told me that someone I knew is dead, and I have a message from that same person warning me about you."

"I said George was supposed to be dead. I did not say he was."

"That distinction is not helping."

Alex dragged a hand through his hair and glanced toward Cathy. She had stopped pretending to be busy and was watching us with wide eyes.

"Cathy," he said, "could you give us a minute?"

"No," I answered before she could respond.

Alex looked at me.

"You want answers, do you not?"

"I want you to stop acting as though you are in charge of everyone in the room."

"And I want to know why someone is sending you messages about George."

"Perhaps you should ask yourself that question."

Something hardened in his expression.

For a moment, I thought he would argue. Instead, he picked up the folder from the table and pushed it toward me.

"Read the campaign schedule. We start tomorrow at nine in the morning."

I stared at him.

"You cannot be serious."

"Unfortunately, I am."

He walked toward the door.

"Alex!"

He stopped but did not turn around.

"What happened to George?"

His shoulders stiffened.

"I cannot explain something you do not understand."

"Then explain it."

He looked back at me, and the expression in his eyes made my stomach twist.

"Stay away from him, Sabrina."

Then he left.

I stood frozen beside the table, staring at the empty doorway.

Cathy approached slowly.

"What did he mean?"

I turned to her. "You tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Everything you know about George and Alex."

Her face changed.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. Her eyes shifted toward the door, and her fingers tightened around her coffee cup.

"Cathy."

"I do not know what Alex was talking about."

"You are a terrible liar."

"And you are asking questions I cannot answer."

"Cannot or will not?"

She looked at me with an expression that made my anger falter.

"Please, Sabrina. Let it go."

That frightened me more than Alex's words.

Cathy was many things, but she had never been a coward. She had defended me against people who mocked my clothes, argued with professors over unfair grades, and once threatened to report a senior student for spreading rumors about me.

If she was afraid to discuss George Bennett, there had to be a reason.

I picked up my bag.

"I have to go."

"Where?"

"To find out whether George is alive."

By noon, I had checked every social media account I could find connected to George Bennett.

His old university profile had disappeared. His photographs were no longer available on the account he used to share football updates. Even the messages I had sent him before he left Westbridge were buried beneath years of unanswered conversations.

I had not spoken to him since the end of my freshman year.

Back then, I had convinced myself that he had simply moved on with his life. People left universities. Friendships faded. Crushes remained unspoken and eventually became embarrassing memories.

But dead?

I could not accept that.

I was sitting beneath an oak tree outside the communications building when my phone vibrated again.

Unknown: Did you ask him?

I typed a reply before I could change my mind.

Me: Who are you?

The response came almost immediately.

Unknown: Someone who knows what Alex did.

Me: If you know so much, tell me what happened to George.

For several minutes, nothing happened.

Then my phone vibrated.

Unknown: Ask Alex why he was the last person to see George before the accident.

My stomach tightened.

Accident?

I read the message again, hoping I had misunderstood it.

A shadow fell across my notebook.

"You look like you have just failed every class you are taking."

I nearly dropped my phone.

Alex stood in front of me, holding two bottles of water.

I stared at him.

"Do you make a habit of appearing whenever someone is thinking about you?"

"Only when they are thinking unpleasant things."

"I assure you, my thoughts are much worse than unpleasant."

He held out one of the bottles.

I did not take it.

He placed it beside me and sat down anyway.

I shifted away.

He noticed.

"Am I contagious?"

"Only to people with poor judgment."

He gave a quiet laugh, but it faded when he noticed my phone.

"You received another message."

It was not a question.

I slipped the phone into my bag.

"That is none of your business."

"It becomes my business when someone uses your name to threaten me."

"I was not aware the messages mentioned you personally."

"They do not have to."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Listen to me. Whatever you think you know about George, you are missing important information."

"Then give me the information."

"I cannot."

"Convenient."

His eyes met mine.

"I know you do not trust me. I know you think I am the worst person on this campus. You are entitled to your opinion. But this is not a game."

"Then stop treating me like a child."

"I am trying to keep you out of something that could hurt you."

I almost laughed.

"You do not get to decide what I can handle, Alex."

"I know."

His answer was so quiet that I paused.

He looked away, watching a group of students cross the courtyard.

For the first time, I wondered whether the arrogance I associated with him was covering something else. Guilt, perhaps. Regret. Fear.

Whatever it was, I had no intention of making it my problem.

I stood and slung my bag over my shoulder.

"Tomorrow morning, I will do the interview. I will write the profile. I will complete every assignment the university gives me."

"Good."

"But outside that project, stay away from me."

He rose to his feet.

"That might be difficult."

"Why?"

"Because the campaign rules require us to attend the same events, travel together for away games, and work closely on the final documentary."

I stared at him.

He had the audacity to look amused.

"You are enjoying this."

"Not nearly as much as you think."

"Then stop smiling."

He lowered his gaze to my mouth.

"I was not smiling at your request."

My heart gave one ridiculous, traitorous beat.

I hated him for noticing.

I hated myself more for noticing that he had noticed.

"Stay away from me," I repeated.

This time, his expression became serious.

"I will, Sabrina. As long as you stay away from George."

I walked away without answering.

But halfway across the courtyard, my phone vibrated again.

I stopped beneath the building entrance and opened the message.

It contained a photograph.

The image was dark and grainy, but the two men in it were unmistakable.

Alex stood beside George outside a building I did not recognize. They appeared to be arguing. George's face was turned toward the camera, his expression furious, while Alex held one hand out as if trying to stop him from leaving.

A timestamp sat beneath the photograph.

October 14, 11:47 p.m.

I remembered that date.

It was the night George disappeared from Westbridge.

Another message appeared.

Unknown: Alex told everyone George was gone because of an accident.

My throat tightened.

The next message made my blood run cold.

Unknown: But the accident happened after this picture was taken.

I stared at the image, my fingers trembling around the phone.

Then a final message appeared.

Unknown: Ask him what was in the car, Sabrina.

I lifted my head.

Across the courtyard, Alex was watching me from the steps of the communications building.

He was no longer smiling.

He knew I had seen something.

And judging by the look on his face, whatever had happened to George Bennett was far worse than I had imagined.

I spent the entire night staring at a picture of two men who seemed to be hiding a terrible secret.

By eight the next morning, I had reached three conclusions.

First, someone was deliberately trying to turn me against Alex Anderson.

Second, Alex knew more about George Bennett's disappearance than he was willing to admit.

Third, I was going to regret accepting the campaign assignment.

Unfortunately, regret did not pay my bills, and neither did pride.

So, at eight fifty-five, I walked into the Westbridge Wolves training facility with my notebook, my camera, and the determination to treat Alex Anderson like a professional responsibility rather than the walking disaster he appeared to be.

The smell of fresh grass drifted through the open doors. Players moved across the field while coaches shouted instructions. I could hear the sharp whistle of the assistant coach and the thud of footballs hitting the ground.

I had barely taken three steps inside when a football rolled toward my feet.

I stopped it with my shoe.

"Nice save."

I looked up.

Alex stood several feet away, wearing his black training uniform. His hair was damp, and a towel hung around his neck. He looked annoyingly comfortable in his surroundings.

I picked up the ball and held it out.

"Try to keep your equipment on your side of the field."

He accepted it, his fingers brushing mine.

The contact lasted less than a second.

It was still long enough to irritate me.

"Good morning to you too," he said.

"Where is the coach?"

"Busy."

"The assistant coach?"

"Also busy."

"Someone who can explain the campaign schedule without wasting my time?"

He placed the football beneath one arm.

"You are looking at him."

I stared at him.

"You are not the entire football department."

"No, but I am the captain."

"Congratulations. Would you like a medal?"

"I would prefer an apology for the way you treated me yesterday."

I laughed.

"You told me someone was supposed to be dead, then refused to explain why. I think we are past apologies."

His expression changed.

For a moment, I thought he might finally tell me the truth.

Instead, he gestured toward the sideline.

"Come on. I will show you where we are filming."

I followed him because I had work to do, not because I wanted to be alone with him.

That distinction mattered.

At least, I kept telling myself it did.

We spent the next twenty minutes discussing the campaign. I asked questions about the team's training routine, the university's upcoming charity match, and the captain's responsibilities. Alex answered most of them with surprising patience.

He was still arrogant, but he was not careless with his answers. He knew his teammates' statistics, remembered the names of the younger players, and noticed when one of them struggled with a drill.

When a freshman missed a pass and stumbled, Alex jogged over to help him up.

"Do not let one mistake convince you that you do not belong here," he told the boy. "You made it onto this team for a reason. Now prove you deserve to stay."

I watched him for a moment longer than necessary.

I had expected a show-off.

I had not expected a captain who seemed to take his responsibility seriously.

Alex returned and caught me watching.

"Something interesting?"

"Your teammates seem to like you."

"They have excellent taste."

"There it is."

"What?"

"Arrogance."

He grinned.

"You would miss it if I stopped."

"I would celebrate."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"Then why are you smiling?"

My smile disappeared immediately.

"I am not."

"Of course not."

I turned toward my notebook before he could see the heat creeping into my cheeks.

This was exactly why I needed distance from him. Alex could turn an ordinary conversation into something that felt uncomfortably personal, and I refused to become another girl who mistook his attention for affection.

Especially when he was Cathy's ex-boyfriend.

Especially when someone was sending me warnings about his past.

And especially when I could not stop thinking about the photograph.

"Alex," I said, keeping my eyes on my notes. "I have a question about the night George left."

The playful expression vanished from his face.

"Ask me something about football."

"That is not what I asked."

"And it is not what I am answering."

I closed my notebook.

"Why were you the last person seen with him?"

His jaw tightened.

"Who told you that?"

"No one has to tell me. I saw the photograph."

He went still.

For several seconds, the noise from the field seemed to grow distant.

Then he looked directly at me.

"You should not have that photograph."

"That is an interesting response."

"Where did you get it?"

"An unknown number sent it to me."

He swore under his breath.

I stepped closer.

"What was in the car, Alex?"

His eyes snapped to mine.

I knew immediately that I had touched something important.

Before he could answer, a coach called his name from across the field.

Alex did not look away from me.

"Do not ask that question again."

"Give me a reason not to."

His expression hardened.

"Because the answer will not change what happened."

"That is for me to decide."

He stared at me for another moment before walking away.

I watched him return to practice, my frustration growing with every step he took.

He could not keep ordering me to stop asking questions while refusing to tell me why those questions mattered.

I was not one of his teammates.

I was not one of the girls who fell silent when he frowned.

And I was certainly not going to let him decide what I was allowed to know.

By the time practice ended, my notes were complete, my patience was gone, and my stomach was reminding me that I had skipped breakfast.

I was packing my equipment when a voice called from behind me.

"Hey, Sabrina."

I turned to find one of Alex's teammates approaching. I recognized him from the team photographs I had studied the previous night.

Ryan, the team's starting wide receiver, was tall, broad-shouldered, and considerably less intimidating than his captain.

"Ryan, right?"

He smiled. "I am impressed. You already know my name."

"I have done my research."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you have a mysterious past and someone threatens to expose you."

His smile faltered.

I noticed.

Before I could ask why, he shook his head.

"Alex told me you might be around today."

"Did he also tell you that he is impossible to work with?"

"Several times."

I laughed despite myself.

Ryan leaned against the equipment table.

"For what it is worth, Alex is not as bad as people think."

"I did not ask for a character reference."

"No, but you look like someone who has already made up her mind."

"Have you ever considered that people might have good reasons for their opinions?"

"Every day. Usually after Alex gives me a reason to question mine."

That earned another reluctant laugh.

Ryan studied me for a moment.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask."

"Have you heard from George?"

The laughter died in my throat.

"Why would you ask me that?"

He looked toward the field.

"No reason."

"Ryan."

He hesitated.

Then he said, "Just be careful about what you believe. Both of them have their own version of what happened."

"Both of them?"

He looked back at me.

"Alex and George."

Before I could ask another question, he straightened and walked away.

I stood beside the equipment table, feeling as though everyone around me knew a story that I had been deliberately excluded from.

My phone vibrated.

For one hopeful second, I thought the unknown sender might finally provide an answer.

Instead, I received a message from Cathy.

Cathy: Please tell me you did not ask Alex about George again.

I frowned.

Me: Why?

The reply came almost immediately.

Cathy: Because some things should stay buried.

I stared at the screen.

Then I typed the question I had been avoiding since the first message arrived.

Me: Cathy, did George really die?

The typing indicator appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

My pulse quickened.

Finally, her answer arrived.

Cathy: I do not know.

I read the words twice.

Before I could respond, another message appeared.

Cathy: But if he contacts you, do not meet him alone.

A chill crept down my spine.

I was about to ask her what she meant when someone stepped beside me.

I looked up, expecting Alex.

It was not Alex.

A guy I did not recognize stood near the entrance, dressed in a dark jacket with his hands tucked into his pockets. He looked to be around our age, with dark hair and a tense expression.

His eyes settled on me.

"Sabrina Cole?"

I tightened my grip on my phone.

"Yes?"

He glanced toward the field, where Alex was speaking with his coach.

Then he looked back at me.

"I need to talk to you about George Bennett."

My heart began to pound.

"Who are you?"

He ignored the question.

"Did Alex tell you what happened the night George disappeared?"

"No."

"Of course he did not."

He stepped closer and lowered his voice.

"Then you need to understand something before you get any closer to him."

I swallowed.

"What?"

The guy glanced over his shoulder again.

Then he delivered the words that made every warning I had received feel suddenly real.

"George did not disappear because of an accident. Alex was the reason he never came back."