The morning the article broke on the homepage of the Daily website, I woke to a string of texts from Ellison asking me to meet her at the media center that afternoon.

Conference room A.

Very important!!!

Don't be late.

Of course, I took this series of exceedingly vague and slightly ominous messages to mean that something had gone horribly wrong.

Hanna had slipped out of bed sometime earlier that morning to head to the gym (for once, I actually regretted turning down the offer to go with her), so she wasn't around to be my voice of reason. Which meant that, as I scuttled about the apartment tugging on my sandals and a jean jacket and then shoving granola bars into the zippered outer pocket of my backpack, my anxious little brain worked overtime to dream up worst case scenarios.

A huge factual error had slipped past the editors. Someone behind one of the tips the Daily had received had come forward to say it was all a joke. Josefina Rodriguez had been located and had just decided to take a vacation with the huge cash tip Vaughn gave her for delivering towels to his room.

I was a miserable wreck.

And, to make matters worse, I had to sit through two hours of Writing 301, a general education requirement I really should've gotten a free pass for considering I already spent the bulk of my academic life writing.

When class finally let out, I trudged to the student union like a member of the French aristocracy on her way to the guillotine.

The media center was no more or less crowded than usual—a handful of people were parked in the bean bag chairs, sipping coffee and frowning at their laptops, and there was a group of guys gathered around one of the computer monitors laughing at some gaming video on YouTube.

I'd been half expecting everyone in the place to turn and stare at me the second the elevator doors tugged open, but no one did.

This was a small comfort.

See, I told myself. You're fine. You're good.

I hurried around the corner, into the hall the led to Ellison's office, and shouldered open the first door to my left.

Then I stopped short—because there were no fewer than thirty people crammed into the conference room, sitting in swivel chairs and leaning against the wall, all of them chattering and drinking out of white paper cups and munching on pizza from the mountain of cardboard boxes piled up on the table.

"There she is!" Ellison cheered from somewhere in the crowd.

Half the room turned to look at me. I shrunk a little under the weight of all the eyes, but plastered on a smile and waved. A couple people clapped. I stood there and let it happen, wishing desperately that they'd stop.

Ellison came around the conference table, a can of Diet Coke in one hand, to save me from the embarrassment of it all. She looked casual, for Ellison Michaels—hair in an artfully "messy" bun, oversized sweater and leggings, a pair of incredibly cute thick-framed glasses perched on her nose.

"Come on, Cates," she said, hand on my shoulder to steer me away from the door and into the room, like she thought I might turn and make a break for it. "Cheese or pepperoni?"

"You could've told me we were having a party," I mumbled.

I'd wasted the morning knee-deep in my own pessimism when I could've skipped my shitty granola bar breakfast to prepare my body for the onslaught of free food.

Ellison shrugged. "I thought it'd be a fun surprise. Here—let me grab you a cup of champagne. You look like you could use it."

She disappeared back into the crowd.

I turned and regarded the mountain of pizza boxes. All my worrying that morning had done a real number on my appetite, but I knew better than to turn down free pizza when it was offered. I stepped up to the table and popped open one of the boxes, letting the hot scent of bread and cheese and tomato sauce waft up to my face.

It was hard to choose between cheese and pepperoni, so I took one of each and smacked them together, cheese-to-cheese. The sandwich of champions.

The first bite was heaven. The second bite was even better.

"Hey, Laurel!"

I turned, hand cupped under my chin to catchy a string of melted cheese that'd gone rogue, and came face to face with Joey Aldridge. The very same Joey Aldridge who, two weeks earlier, hadn't recognized me in Buchanan.

Now he was beaming at me over a paper plate piled with five or six slices of glorious cheese pizza, blond hair all mussed and cheeks ruddy.

He knows my name, I thought.

"Hi, Joey!" I said, recovering from my momentary shock (and swallowing the bite of pizza in my mouth). "Um. Did you guys all know about this? This whole, like, pizza thing?"

Joey nodded.

"Ellison sent out an e-mail yesterday. She said it was a surprise party."

I glanced around the room, a strange warmth blooming in my chest.

And people had showed up?

Okay, well, obviously. Free pizza.

"Anyway," Joey pressed on, "I just wanted to tell you how awesome the Vaughn article is. I finally got to read the final draft this morning. It's—it's really, really good, Laurel."

"Ellison and the team did a really good job with all the editing," I said, nodding.

"But you broke the story," Joey insisted. "I've been covering football for, like, two years, and I never picked up on it. I mean—Vaughn was always kind of an ass, but I thought he was just putting on a tough-guy act for the team. I never expected him to have this whole side of himself he was hiding."

"I don't think anyone really knew," I offer. "Even the players who were close to him."

Joey nods. "Yeah, I guess. But anyway. I'm really glad you broke the story. For those girls. This is a big deal, Laurel. And we're all really proud to have you on the Daily team."

It took me a moment to realize that he was speaking for everyone.

I looked around, catching the eyes of people over the conference table. A couple of them smiled at me. One, a girl I'd never spoken to in my life, offered me a thumbs-up with the hand that wasn't holding a paper cup.

I'd never had so many people—so many strangers, acquaintances, and classmates—notice me. I'd never been the center of a room.

It was kind of weird.

But it definitely wasn't the worst.

❖ ❖ ❖

I took two pizzas home in cardboard boxes. Ellison had gone a bit overboard with the order in her excitement (because the article was done) and hunger (because she'd been running off nothing but Red Bull and trail mix for seventy-two hours), and was more than happy to get rid of a few pies so she wouldn't have to take up every square inch of space in the communal fridge.

My walk home felt like something out a music video.

The sky was a cloudless, unmarred blue, and every manicured lawn and ancient oak tree was all vibrantly green and bathed in warm sunlight. The afternoon air was warm—but not so much that I was sweating—and filled with the sound of chirps of birds and the laughs of students.

I felt light on my feet, despite the weight of the extra two large pizzas.

To be honest, it probably had something to do with the two paper cups of cheap champagne I'd downed.

Back at the apartment, I fished my keys out of my backpack and was about to jam them into the lock when the door flew open.

"Congratulations!" Hanna shouted in my face, tossing up a handful of confetti that rained down on my head.

"Oh, come on, I just vacuumed—" Andre protested.

Over Hanna's shoulder, I could see him standing in the kitchen, where the two of them had hung dark green streamers over the window and tied a bouquet of multicolored balloons to the door of the refrigerator.

"You guys!" I cried. "This is so sweet. Thank you."

Hanna inhaled sharply, like one of those TSA German shepherds when they catch the scent of a fifty pound bag of cocaine.

"Where'd you get the pizza?" she demands.

Andre perked up. "Wait, there's pizza?"

I rolled my eyes and set down the boxes on our rickety dining table, then took a step back so I wouldn't be trampled as Hanna and Andre descended on them with giddy laughter and cheers.

"I'm gonna go call my dad," I announced, using a paper towel to mop up a bit of pepperoni grease that'd seeped through the cardboard and stained my fingers. "I'll be quick."

"M-kay," Hanna hummed through a mouthful of pizza.

"Save me a slice," I told them.

"No promises," she and Andre said in unison.

I slipped out the door and headed for the back exit.

Our apartment building didn't have a real garage, just a handful of parking spots tucked under the shade of the second floor along a driveway that connected to a side street. There were cars in all six spots that afternoon.

The ugliest of the bunch was mine.

On my sixteenth birthday, my dad had gifted me a white 2007 Toyota Corolla with thirty-thousand miles on it. He'd bought it from our neighbors—an older couple who didn't leave the house much and were planning to move to Oregon to be closer to their two kids, who'd both started families of their own. My dad had been nervous that I'd hate it, because it wasn't new and it definitely wasn't cute and it did sort of smell like old people.

But I'd been so happy I'd bawled my eyes out.

I loved that car. I knew all her quirks, too—like how you had to give her to the count of three after you unlocked her, because if you opened the door too quick, she'd panic and start with the alarms.

She also doubled as a great place to have a moment alone.

I'd cried in my car. I'd done homework in my car. But calling my dad was always the most fun.

I wiggled back into the driver's seat, getting comfortable, and then clicked on my phone and went to my starred contacts until I found Dad.

He answered on the second ring.

"Hey, Mija!" he greeted, chipper as could be. "What's up?"

Me-jaw. Patrick Cates couldn't seem to pick up a passable Spanish accent no matter how many telenovelas we watched or how often he spoke to my mom's side of the family. The man's language skills were just nonexistent.

"Hi Dad!" I said. "Is now a good time to talk?"

"Now works," he responded. "I'm on my lunch break. I don't have to get back to the shop until one. What's up?"

I smiled to myself. Shook my head in disbelief, because I never imagined I'd be calling my dad with this kind of news.

"I just wanted to let you know that something I helped write made the front page of the school paper."

I told him about the story, first—about the women at the Garland Country Club and the tips Ellison had dug up. Then I told him about the meetings and the late nights we'd spent fact-checking and editing and rewriting, to be sure the final article would lay out the facts without making any claims we couldn't stand behind.

And when I was done, when he'd let me ramble and had asked his questions, my dad exhaled a heavy breath.

"Laurel," he said, very seriously. "I am so proud of you."

I laughed. Then I blotted my eyes with the sleeve of my jean jacket.

"Thanks, dad."

"Really—I mean it. And that girl from Cabo, I just—I'm so proud of you. You've got your mother's smarts, that's for sure. I never would've connected the dots like that."

I sniffled and rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, but which one of us knows what a transmission is?"

He laughed at that. Then, because he's my dad, he said, "How's the car doing? The AC giving you trouble again? I can always drive down on the weekend and give it a quick once-over—"

"Dad."

"Alright, alright. I should get back to the shop. Text me about the AC, though. Te quiero mucho, kiddo."

Tea-queer-uh-moo-cho. I smiled and shook my head.

"Love you too, dad."

❖ ❖ ❖

I also want to take a quick moment to thank you guys for the support. It's been a little over two months since I started posting this story, and the first 10 chapters of a Wattpad book are always rough for the writer. There's a lot of fear. Especially when you're writing a slow-burn romance (I don't know why I love these so much the wait just hurts so good). So massive thank you to every reader. Even the silent ones! I see you adding this book to your reading lists. And I love you.

Your friendly author,

Kate