Chapter 2 : Yale Dream

Danilo’s Pov

I barely heard a word coming out of my teacher’s mouth. My thoughts were still stuck on one thing—or rather, one person.

Had Carter Hayes really looked at me in the hallway?

It was stupid, I knew. Maybe Carter had been looking past me, maybe he was sizing up Antonia, maybe he wasn’t even paying attention. But there was a flicker in his expression, something almost teasing in the way his lips curved before he turned away. And I couldn’t get it out of my head.

I hadn’t even realized I was smiling faintly until Mr. Flanagan’s voice cut through the fog.

“Mr. Ramos.”

I blinked. The classroom had gone still. All eyes turned toward me.

“Care to join us, or are you planning to daydream your way into Harvard or is it Yale?” Mr. Flanagan stood with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed.

I straightened in my seat. “Sorry, sir. I—uh—got a little distracted.”

Flanagan didn’t smile. Instead, he stepped away from the whiteboard and picked up a thin stack of papers from his desk. He flipped through them with deliberate care, pausing halfway through.

“These essays,” he said, his eyes scanning the page. “Specifically, the ones handed in by our... star athletes. The ones who barely attend my class.”

A few heads turned—some in confusion, others in growing dread.

“They’re good. Surprisingly good,” Flanagan said. His voice had that dangerous, pleasant tone teachers used before they hit you with something awful. “In fact, they’re suspiciously good. So good they read like they were all written by the same person.”

My heart thudded. My mouth went dry.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to explain that, Mr. Ramos?”

Every muscle in my body tensed. I could feel eyes on me again, but this time, they were heavier. Accusing. A couple of the jocks turned in their seats, their expressions unreadable, but their posture said everything: don’t snitch.

I forced a calm expression and shook my head. “I’m not sure what you mean or how it is any of my business, sir.”

Flanagan narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know how this could be any of your business?”

He shook his head. “A few of these essays use nearly identical phrasing. References to obscure historical texts I know most students in this class wouldn’t bother looking up. But you would. Wouldn’t you?”

“I study a lot, Sir,” I replied, carefully. “Maybe I just think like some of them.”

A low chuckle came from the back of the class. I didn’t have to turn to know it was Parker—wide-shouldered, lazy-eyed, and dumb as a rock. Of all the jocks I wrote for, he is the dumbest.

“Let me be clear,” Flanagan continued, his voice sharper now, his gaze fixed on me. “If I find out that students are submitting work they didn’t write, all parties involved will be penalized. That includes the person doing the writing. Understand?”

I gave a short nod. “Understood, Sir.”

I didn’t look back at the jocks. I didn’t need to. I already knew their glares would be there, silently reminding me of the unspoken deal we had. I helped them scrape by. They don't hit me or prank me. Sort of.

Flanagan muttered something under his breath and turned back toward the board.

I exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease out of my shoulders just as the classroom door opened.

Carter Hayes strolled in, probably after his meeting with the principal, his presence as effortless and commanding as always. His black leather jacket unbuttoned, revealing a tight white V shirt that was borderline inappropriate, but he looked gorgeous like he belonged on the cover of a teen magazine.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Hayes,” Flanagan said without looking up.

Carter said nothing. Just walked to the back of the room with an easy swagger that turned heads, mine included.

My eyes followed him instinctively, heart ticking up a notch with every step Carter took. I didn’t even try to stop myself. There was something hypnotic about the way Carter moved—like he owned the floor beneath him. As he passed by my desk, my shoulder almost brushed against his waist.

And for a second, Carter looked down at me.

I froze.

There wasn’t a smirk this time. No sarcastic glint. Just a cool, unreadable stare. It only lasted a moment, but it was enough to leave me rattled. Was it recognition? Amusement? Curiosity? I don't fucking know.

Then Carter was gone—slipping into the back seat like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just hijacked my pulse and turned my stomach into knots.

I forced myself to face forward again, cheeks burning, but I didn’t miss the smirk forming on Antonia’s lips. She was perched at the far end of the row, next to the window, head tilted just enough to catch my reaction.

Of course she saw.

I looked away quickly, hoping the heat crawling up my neck would cool. But before I could collect a single coherent thought, the intercom crackled to life with a loud, grating buzz that made half the class flinch.

“Attention,” came the familiar, slightly nasal voice of Mrs. Warren, the guidance counselor. “Danilo Ramos, please report to my office. As soon as you can.”

A hush fell. Then, every head in the room slowly turned in my direction.

I shut my eyes, exhaling a quiet groan.

Seriously? Could this day get any weirder? I really hope this is good news.

When class ended, I grabbed my books in a hurry, slung my bag over my shoulder, and made for the door. Just before leaving, I dared one last glance at Carter, laughing with his friends—completely unaware that he’d taken up all the space in my head.

—-

—-

The guidance office was tucked into a quieter hallway, far from the buzzing chaos of the main building. As I approached the frosted glass door with Mrs. Warren – Guidance Counselor stenciled on it in fading gold letters, I hesitated.

I wasn’t in trouble—probably—but being summoned over the intercom like that still felt like getting called to the principal’s office in elementary school. Only this time, I wasn’t afraid of detention. I was afraid of disappointment.

Mrs. Warren greeted me with a tired smile when I stepped inside. The office smelled like jasmine tea and cheap carpet cleaner. Her desk was cluttered but not messy, filled with open folders, a stress ball shaped like a brain, and a motivational poster that read YOUR FUTURE STARTS NOW in bold blue letters.

“Danilo,” she said, motioning for him to sit. “Thanks for coming.”

I sank into the chair across from her, shifting my backpack onto my lap.

She folded her hands. “Let’s talk about Yale.”

That got my attention.

“I’ve read your transcript. Strong GPA. Great recommendations. Good SAT scores. Your personal essay was impressive. But Yale is competitive—extremely competitive. And while your academic record is solid, there’s something missing.”

My stomach dropped. “Missing?”

“Extracurriculars,” she said simply. “You're not on any sports team, club, committee... nothing that shows who you are beyond the classroom. Ivy Leagues want well-rounded students. They want leaders. Passion. Character.”

I swallowed. “I... I’m not really the ‘team spirit’ type. I like doing things on my own.”

Mrs. Warren smiled gently. “That’s okay. Not everyone needs to be a part of the football team. But you need to show involvement. It can be art, debate, drama, volunteer work—something that shows you engage with your community.”

I nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. “And if I don’t?”

“You’ll still have options,” she said carefully. “But Yale may not be one of them.”

The words landed hard.