Chapter 1

The equipment shed smelled of old sweat, pressurized rubber, and the impending storm. Outside, the university marching band practiced their halftime set, the brassy, discordant notes muffled by the corrugated metal walls. Inside, the silence was a physical weight.

Jace stood by the door, his broad shoulders blocking the only light. He was the campus golden boy, the quarterback whose jersey hung in every bookstore window, yet his hands shook as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small piece of plastic and held it out. The fluorescent light caught the edges of Mila’s student ID.

"You dropped this," Jace said, his voice gravelly. "Last night. At The Velvet Room."

Mila didn't reach for it. She stood against a stack of tackling dummies, her frame looking small and fragile—**weak**, as the scouts might say of a player—but her eyes were hard as flint. She didn’t offer an excuse. There was no point. The neon pink lights of the club had been clear enough.

"I didn't think the star of the SEC spent his Monday nights in places like that," Mila replied, her voice steady.

"I was there with the O-line. It doesn't matter." Jace stepped forward, the floorboards groaning. "Mila, I know about your mom. I know about the bills. You shouldn’t be doing that. You’re better than that place."

Mila let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Better than? Is that what this is? A rescue mission?"

"I can help," Jace insisted, his intensity rising. He reached for his wallet, his movements frantic. "I have NIL money. I have more than I need. Just tell me how much, and you can quit. You don’t have to put yourself through that."

The air in the shed seemed to vanish. Mila’s expression shifted from defiance to a cold, piercing pity. "You think this is about me, Jace? You’re vibrating. You’re looking at me like I’m already a ghost."

Jace flinched as if she’d struck him. The memory of his sister—her pale face, the hospital room he couldn't afford to upgrade, the way the **death** certificate felt heavier than any trophy—surfaced like a bruise. He had been too young then, too **weak** to change the outcome. Now, with fame and a bank account, he was trying to buy back the **past**.

"My sister didn't have anyone," Jace whispered, the admission breaking his polished veneer. "I watched her disappear because we were broke. I won't watch it happen again."

"I am not your sister," Mila said, stepping into his space. She took the ID from his hand, her fingers brushing his calloused palm. "And I’m not a project for you to finish so you can sleep better at night. I’m a woman making a choice to keep a roof over my head. You aren't 'saving' me, Jace. You’re just trying to save yourself."

Jace’s shoulders slumped. The hero persona, the one the U.S. media loved to polish, crumbled in the damp heat of the shed. He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the exhaustion behind her eyes, the grit that he had mistaken for a cry for help.

"I just... I don't want you to get hurt," he finished lamely.

Mila tucked the ID into her pocket and walked toward the door. Jace didn’t move to stop her this time. She paused at the threshold, the gray light of the rainy afternoon washing over her.

"The world is a lot dirtier than the highlight reels, Jace," she said softly.

She stepped out into the rain, disappearing into the crowd of students rushing between classes. Jace remained in the dark, surrounded by the ghosts of his past and the gear of a game that suddenly felt very small. He didn't know if he would show up at the club that night, or if he would ever speak to her again. He only knew that the girl he thought was drowning was the only one who knew how to swim.

Would you like me to expand on Jace's backstory regarding his sister, or perhaps generate an image of the tension in the equipment shed?