Chapter 2 — The Ivy Quad Encounter

Sullivan

The thing about running into someone you haven’t seen in years—especially someone you owe an apology to—is that it throws you off your game. And being off my game? Dangerous territory.

I wasn’t expecting to see Rosie Troutman today. Hell, I wasn’t expecting to see her at all. I figured she’d be halfway across the country by now, building some groundbreaking app or winning debates at a think tank. But there she was, standing in the middle of the Ivy Quad, looking like she wanted to throttle me with her coffee cup.

And damn if she didn’t look good doing it.

Her auburn hair was pulled into one of those messy buns that somehow looked intentional, with loose strands framing her sharp jawline. She had on a chunky sweater—the kind that would swallow most people whole but on her looked effortlessly... Rosie. Her boots crunched against the scattered leaves as she shifted her weight, her shoulders back, chin lifted, looking like she was ready to take on the world—or at least verbally destroy whoever got in her way.

That “whoever” turned out to be me.

“Troutman,” I said, keeping my voice breezy, like my chest hadn’t just tightened at the sight of her.

Her hazel eyes snapped to mine, narrowing instantly. The glare she gave me could have turned fresh milk into yogurt. “Sullivan Starr,” she said flatly, her tone sharp enough to cut through the din of the quad.

Yep. She was still mad.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her fingers tightened around her coffee cup, and for a second, I wondered if it might actually crack under the pressure.

“Transferring,” I said, leaning against the football booth like I wasn’t feeling the full brunt of her disdain. “New team. New start. You know how it is.”

Her lips twitched, like she was holding back something sharp. That was the thing about Rosie—she didn’t do throwaway insults. If she was going to cut you down, it was going to be surgical. Precise.

“Missed you too, Troutman,” I added, trying for a grin.

Her scoff was immediate, her gaze as unyielding as granite. “Still holding that grudge, huh?”

“It’s not a grudge. It’s a perfectly reasonable reaction to being betrayed,” she snapped, her voice as biting as the crisp autumn air.

Ouch. That one landed harder than I wanted to admit.

I let the grin falter, just for a moment, hoping she’d notice. “Look, I—”

“Don’t,” she said, cutting me off with a sharp gesture that left no room for argument. “Whatever excuse you’ve been rehearsing for the past four years? I don’t want to hear it. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Her words hit like a gut punch, but before I could respond, she spun on her heel and marched off, her boots crunching against the leaves as she went.

I stood there for a moment, watching her go, hating how familiar this all felt. Rosie walking away. Me screwing up.

The Ivy Quad buzzed around me—students laughing, the crisp scent of popcorn wafting from one of the booths, the faint breeze carrying a hint of autumn—but all I could focus on was the weight in my chest. Seeing Rosie again wasn’t just unexpected; it was like the universe had yanked the rug out from under me and handed me the shards of our past fallout as some twisted consolation prize.

“Yo, Sullivan!”

I turned toward the voice just in time to see Marcus Troutman jogging up, his football pendant catching the sunlight as it swung with each step.

If Rosie’s glare was all sharp edges and fire, Marcus’ grin was warm and open, like he hadn’t inherited an ounce of his sister’s wrath. He had the same sharp cheekbones and confident energy as Rosie, but where she wielded hers like a weapon, Marcus carried his with a boyish ease that made him impossible to dislike.

“Sullivan Starr, the man, the myth, the transfer!” Marcus clapped me on the shoulder, his enthusiasm almost enough to distract me from the knot in my stomach. Almost.

“What’s up, Troutman?” I replied, forcing a grin back into place.

“Coach said you were transferring, but I didn’t think I’d see you this quick,” he said, his boyish smile widening. “You ready to lead South Harmon to glory?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

Marcus launched into a play-by-play of South Harmon’s last season, complete with exaggerated reenactments and excited arm waving. He practically bounced on the balls of his feet as he talked, his energy infectious.

It was refreshing, in a way. Marcus was like a Labrador puppy in cleats—earnest, eager to please, and blissfully unaware of the heavy social undercurrents I was trying to navigate.

Still, as animated as he was, my attention kept drifting. Standing here, talking to Marcus, I couldn’t stop the flicker of guilt that came from knowing how close he was to Rosie. That pendant around his neck? I recognized it. Rosie had told me about it once, proud of how she’d picked it out for his birthday. Seeing it now felt like a reminder of everything I’d messed up—not just with her, but with the people tied to her.

“Earth to Sullivan,” Marcus said, snapping his fingers in front of my face.

I blinked. “Sorry. What?”

“I said, you coming to practice later? Coach wants to introduce you to the team.”

“Yeah,” I said, my grin feeling more forced by the second. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Marcus didn’t seem to notice. He peppered me with more questions about training schedules and strategies, his excitement spilling out unchecked. I nodded along, chiming in when I could, but my mind was elsewhere.

I hadn’t seen Rosie in four years. Four years of pushing down regret, convincing myself I’d done the right thing—or at least, the only thing I could have done in the moment. And now, here she was, glaring at me like I was the scum of the earth.

I deserved it.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was even a shred of a chance to fix things. To fix us.

If there even was an “us” left to fix.

As Marcus kept talking, I glanced down at my wristband, the black silicone worn smooth at the edges. *Eyes Forward*. It was supposed to remind me to focus on the road ahead, to not get caught up in the past.

But right now, the past was glaring at me with hazel eyes that burned as sharp as ever.

And I had no idea how to move forward without facing it first.