The Trade (Coastal Rivals Book 1)

Crushes, I’ve decided, are a curse. A painful, gut-twisting, heart-wrenching curse. They swoop in, make you feel all giddy and hopeful, and then smack you down with the brutal weight of rejection.

West clearly isn’t interested in me whatsoever. In fact, he’s so uninterested that he’s trying to pawn me off on his teammates, like some used car he’s tired of driving or a beat-up piece of furniture he’s left out on his front lawn.

I mean, Miller? Yeah, I suppose he was cute, but I caught him staring at my ass more than a handful of times. Meanwhile, West, who had managed to whip up this whirlwind of emotions inside me, barely glanced in my direction the entire night.

His behavior was nothing like the friendly, teasing dynamic we’ve been nurturing recently. So, what on earth made me think there was something more between us? Why did I fool myself into believing that our banter in the library was anything more than that? Just harmless, inconsequential flirting.

Clearly, I need to recalibrate my romance radar.

Oh well, there are plenty of other interested guys to choose from, those who won’t just shove me off onto their friends. I was probably being naive about the two of us, anyway, but reality has a knack for crushing those illusions.

If anything real had developed between us, it would have fizzled out sooner rather than later, leaving nothing but a weird vibe and one less . . . friend to hang out with.

Because that’s what we are. Friends. It snuck up on me quicker than I expected, but I’ve become a little bit attached to him. To us. West is someone I look forward to spending time with, someone I enjoy teasing and being teased by. Especially when I call him Theo, a name that he pretends to despise, but I can tell he kind of likes it.

That cheeky little spark in his eyes is anything but subtle.

But none of that matters now because he doesn’t want me back, and I have to accept that. So, I’m good with being just friends. And hell, maybe I will hook up with Miller if that’s what he wants from me. He is an athlete, after all, and I did make a promise to try one on for size.

Thursday sneaks up on me, and now it’s been exactly five days since I last spoke to West. No word, no text, no casual bump-into-you-at-the-library type deal. Nothing at all. And now that I think about it, it’s been radio silence from his pal Miller, too.

What the hell’s going on with them?

A nagging curiosity, woven with an unpleasant twinge of disappointment, picks at the edges of my mind. But I shrug it off and take matters into my own hands.

“Hey, Shan,” I call, striding into her bedroom without so much as a knock. The room smells of vanilla and strawberries—her signature scents—and there’s a soft glow emanating from the lamp beside her desk.

There’s also another girl lounging on her bed, feet kicked up against the wall, engrossed in scrolling through her phone. I recognize her as Emmy, one of Shannon’s teammates. Her ash-blonde hair is tied up in a half knot, and she’s wearing this dark shade of lipstick that contrasts her pale skin.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” I say, offering her a tiny wave before turning back to my roommate. “Er, Shan, do you have a minute to talk about Miller?”

“What’s up? He still hasn’t texted you?” she asks, brows arching in surprise.

“Nope,” I say as I flop onto the edge of her bed.

Emmy perks up from her spot beside me. “Are you talking about Remi Miller?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “Do you know anything about him?

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, I know he’s a wide receiver, but he also dated one of our teammates last year. From what I heard, it was quite the dramafest.”

“What kind of drama?” I ask.

“I think there was cheating involved, but I’m not exactly sure.”

“Ah, okay. I suppose that’s good to know.”

“God, it’s always something with these guys,” Shannon groans. “So, does this mean you’ve officially moved on from . . . you-know-who?”

“There was never anything to move on from, Shan,” I say, trying to shrug off the heaviness. “He’s just not interested.”

She swivels in her chair to face me. “He seemed out of sorts the other night, don’t you think? Maybe he was just having an off day?”

“Yeah, maybe.” The words leave my mouth, but I remain unconvinced. It’s pointless to continue wondering what’s going inside that head of his. Instead, I steer the conversation in a new direction. “Are you still up for the Vault later?”

Her face falls. “Oh, I totally forgot to tell you. We have another meeting for Spirit Night.”

I push down a pang of disappointment. “No problem.”

“Sorry, Jade.”

“It’s all good,” I say, waving off her concern. I honestly don’t mind going places alone. Sometimes, the quiet solitude is more comforting than company. Still, Shannon’s presence has a way of making things feel lighter.

She gives me a soft, sympathetic smile. “You probably work better alone, anyway.”

My lips curve into a smirk. “Only in the bedroom.”

“Oh, my God.” Shannon smacks a hand across her forehead, rubbing it down the side of her cheek. “See, we have to find someone better suited to your needs.”

“Very true.”

The room fills with our shared laughter, and the lingering traces of disappointment and confusion seem less overwhelming. I’m thankful for the comfort Shannon provides, for the friendship that’s blossomed between us.

She’s quickly becoming my go-to person, a confidante, and, in a lot of ways, my anchor. There’s only one other person who still takes precedence.

On principle, Mica will always be my first and closest friend. But there are certain topics that are strictly off-limits between us—my love life, my solo sex life, and any potentially graphic details about an athlete’s performance in bed, to name a few.

He’s the overprotective type, and I can practically hear his threats to the male species on my behalf. But despite his overbearing nature, I wouldn’t have him any other way.

Later that afternoon, I settle into the North Campus Library, a place that’s become almost as familiar as my own bedroom. I’ve claimed a table as my private workspace—books splayed open in chaotic order, pens and highlighters to my right, my torn-up notebook on my left. My laptop’s placed precariously at the center, screen glowing in the dim light.

Finally, I can put this dead seal article to rest. It was interesting, to say the least, but it’s a mental image I’m eager to forget. And Garrett, being the annoying person he is, promptly found another mundane piece for me to cover—the missing bricks in the middle of campus.

Yes, bricks. I can’t decide whether to laugh or groan.

In the midst of contemplating this thrilling topic, something unfamiliar nudges my attention. Raising my eyes from the screen, I find West sliding into the seat beside me.

“I thought you’d be here today,” he says, an air of nonchalance in his tone. He gives a quick look around, then turns back to me. “Where’s your study buddy?”

“Cheer stuff,” I say, my voice relaxed, a casual lift of my shoulder accompanying the words.

“Ah, gotcha.” He cocks his head slightly, eyeing me with a playful glint. “I’m not meeting with my tutor for a couple of hours. Mind if I join you for a bit?”

“Go ahead.”

Without another word, he wraps his fingers around my armrest. Slowly, with an unsettling intimacy, he swivels me around to face him, the legs of the chair grating against the linoleum floor.

His caramel eyes lock onto mine, his tone low, sincere. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you since Saturday.”

“I’ve been good.” I force out the words, working to keep the tremor out of my voice. His gaze lingers on me, and there’s a wild fluttering in the pit of my stomach. I nibble on my lower lip, hoping to ground myself with the mild sting. “Speaking of Saturday, your boy never called me.”

I throw the statement out there like bait, waiting to gauge his reaction. But his expression morphs into one of confusion. He blinks, genuinely caught off guard. “My boy?”

“Miller, right?”

His features relax into recognition. “Oh, right.” His broad shoulders lean back against the chair, arms folding over his chest in an unconscious defense. “Probably because I never actually gave him your number.”

My brain sputters to a halt, words struggling to piece together. “What? Then why ask me if you could?”

A hint of a smirk crosses his face. “Shan told me you wanted to try dating an athlete. I was trying to help you out, but then I changed my mind.”

My pulse quickens. There’s something new in his gaze, a secret I can’t quite decipher. “Why?”

“I realized that Miller’s actually a fucking douchebag,” he drawls, his smirk deepening. “Just because you want to date an athlete doesn’t mean you should go for one who only wants up your skirt.”

His words hang in the air between us, and I let out a snort of incredulous laughter. “Is there any other kind?”

He blinks at me as though trying to communicate a message I’m not quite receiving. “Is that a serious question?”

“Yes?”

“Of course there’s another kind,” he grumbles, barely meeting my gaze. “There are nice guys out there who just so happen to be athletes.”

“Oh, please.” I scoff at his defense. “We’ve gone over this. I’m so tired of nice guys.”

He narrows his eyes, a challenge flickering in their depths. “Why’s that?”

“You know who was a nice guy? Fred Tomlin,” I insist, my voice rising with frustration. “You know who else were nice guys? My last two ex-boyfriends. Want to know what they all had in common?”

He leans back in his chair, amusement softening the sharp edges of his features. “I’m sure you’re gonna tell me either way.”

“They were all terribly boring, terribly self-involved, and equally as terrible in bed.”

His chuckle is short-lived. “Jesus, Jade.”

“What? I’m serious,” I say, defensive and exasperated. “At first, I thought it was just me. Like, I don’t know, I’m a tough nut to crack or something. But no, I can get myself off just fine alone.”

His brows shoot up in surprise, but he remains silent, waiting for me to continue.

I plow ahead, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. “You know exactly what I mean,” I say, more for my benefit than his. “That’s the whole reason Shan suggested the athlete thing in the first place. We all know your reputation.”

His surprise ebbs, replaced by a stern gaze. He leans forward slightly. “So, what then, you just want to be with a guy who can get you off?”

“I guess.” My own words wobble, and I’m acutely aware of the blush flooding my cheeks. “I don’t know, I thought maybe . . . for a second, I wanted a relationship. But maybe that’s not what I need right now.”

“Oh?” The muscles in his neck twitch. “So, what, you just want a fuck buddy?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

“You can do what you want. But it’s certainly not gonna be with fucking Remington Miller, that’s for damn sure.”

“What about your roommate, Cam?” I suggest. “He seemed kind of interested.”

“Fuck no.”

I can’t help but groan at his stubbornness. “Are you just gonna veto everyone?”

He glares at me, his jaw firmly set. “Yes, Jade. If anyone’s gonna get you off, it’s gonna be me.”

“What?” I manage to squeak out, my heart pounding in my ears.

He takes a moment, licking his lips before locking his gaze on mine. “You heard me.”

“You want to . . .”

“Fuck yeah, I want to.”

I struggle to catch my breath, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air between us. “I don’t think we can be . . . fuck buddies, Theo. We’re already friends and”—I gesture to the table beside us—“study partners. It would be too messy.”

His response is immediate, almost automatic. “I can keep my shit in separate boxes.”

I shake my head, my brain buzzing with a whirlwind of thoughts. “Yeah, well, I can’t,” I admit. “Mixing sex and friendship and . . . whatever else. It’s too confusing.”

The look on his face shifts from frustration to hurt. “So, you want to fuck somebody you don’t even know?”

“I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure out what I want, okay?”

“Sure, Jade. Whatever.”

His dismissive attitude stings, and I can’t help but challenge him. “So now you’re mad that I won’t fuck you?”

He flinches but quickly regains his composure. “No, I’m not.” His shoulders slump a little, a tiny wisp of air pushing between his full lips. It’s a careful mix between a sigh and a shallow exhale, as if he needs just one extra breath of time to calculate a response. “Trust me, I’m not. I just . . . I want you to be careful. It’s your body, you do what you want with it.”

“Yeah, okay.”

With that, he pushes on the armrest of my chair, forcibly turning me back to face the desk. But before I can fully resume my work, his low voice stops me.

“Just—just don’t go for Miller, okay?” His plea is earnest, his gaze intense.

“Okay,” I say with a sigh. “I won’t.”