THE GIRL HE REPLACED

(Ivy)

I came home early with a cake.

A whole chocolate cake, with GOOD GAME, BABY piped across the top in blue icing. It cost me twenty dollars and a little of my pride, because the baker asked if it was for my boyfriend and I said yes like an idiot in love.

Dominic Prescott had scored twice that night. The Hawks won four to two. Everyone was heading to the after party, and I told my friends I had a better plan.

I was going to surprise him.

I climbed the stairs to our apartment, balancing the cake box on one arm. I could already picture it. Dom would grin that stupid golden boy grin, pick me up, and spin me around.

I heard laughing before I even got the key in the lock.

A girl's laugh.

I should have turned around right there. Any smart woman would have. But I was holding a cake, and apparently the cake made me brave.

I opened the door.

Dom was on the couch. Our couch. The one I paid half for. And my roommate Sloane was sitting in his lap, kissing him like she was trying to win a prize.

She was wearing my hoodie. The grey one. The soft one. The one I'd been looking for since Tuesday.

The cake box slipped out of my hands.

It hit the floor with a very sad thump.

They jumped apart. Sloane yanked the hoodie down over her knees like that would fix anything.

Dom stood up and looked at me.

He didn't look guilty. He didn't look scared. He looked annoyed. Like I was a waiter who had brought him the wrong order.

"Ivy," he said. "You're home early."

"Yeah," I said. My voice came out weirdly calm. "I can see that."

"This isn't what it looks like."

"It looks like my roommate is on your lap."

"Okay, so it's exactly what it looks like." He shrugged. He actually shrugged. "Look, it's been over for a while. You just didn't notice."

"Over?" I laughed, and it sounded cracked. "Dom, I stayed up until three last night helping you with your scouting video."

"See, that's the thing." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You're a lot sometimes. You're always there. Always helping. It's suffocating."

I stared at him.

Three years. Three years of driving him to early practices. Three years of washing his jerseys and taking notes at every game and telling people he was going places. I put my whole life on hold so he could look good.

"How long?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"How long, Dom?"

He glanced at Sloane. Sloane studied the floor like it was a hot new show.

"A while," he said.

That's when something in me went quiet. Not broken. Just quiet. Like a light switching off in a room I used to live in.

I looked at Sloane. "You wore my hoodie."

"I was cold," she mumbled.

"You were cold." I nodded slowly. "Okay. Great. Hope it keeps you warm when he does this to you."

Dom rolled his eyes. "Don't be dramatic."

"I'm going to tell everyone what you did."

And he laughed. Not a nervous laugh. A real one, easy and cruel.

"Go ahead," he said. "Who's going to believe you? I'm Dominic Prescott. You're the girl who carries my water bottles."

The words landed harder than any slap.

I turned around and walked out. I left the cake on the floor. I hope Sloane stepped in it.

---

The campus bar was loud, sticky, and exactly the kind of place where nobody asks if you're okay.

I ordered something strong and sat at the end of the counter. My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the wood and told myself not to cry in public. Crying in public is for people who have already lost. I wasn't ready to lose yet.

I made it through half a drink.

"Ivy."

I closed my eyes.

Of course he followed me.

Dom slid onto the stool next to mine like we were old friends meeting for coffee. He had changed out of his game jersey into a clean black shirt. He smelled like expensive cologne and zero regret.

"What do you want?" I said.

"To talk. You left in a hurry."

"I walked in on you with my roommate."

"And I feel bad about how it went down." He gave me a soft smile. The one that used to work. "We can still be friends, you know. No reason to make a scene."

"A scene," I repeated.

"You're being emotional."

"I'm being emotional."

"You always do this." He sighed like I was a tired old problem. "You get so intense. That's why I needed space."

Space. With my hoodie.

I turned to face him fully. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

"You think I'm going to crawl back, don't you?"

He leaned in, close enough that I could see the little scar over his eyebrow. The scar I used to kiss.

"Ivy," he said quietly. "You will. You always do. And honestly? You're not going to find anyone better than me."

I heard the words. Every one of them.

And I snapped.

"Oh really?" I said, loud enough that the guys playing darts looked over. "You think I can't find someone better?"

"Ivy."

"I'll bring someone to the end of season hockey gala. Someone who is ten times better than you, Dominic. Someone who actually knows how to treat a woman."

The bar got quieter. A few heads turned. Somewhere, a girl whispered "oh my God."

Dom threw back his head and laughed.

"Okay," he said. "Sure. And who exactly is that going to be? Who would want you?"

My stomach dropped. Because I had nobody. I had no plan, no backup, no mystery man hiding in my phone. I had a ruined night, a dead cake, and a big mouth.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to save myself.

"I do."

The voice came from behind Dom.

Low. Dry. Amused.

I knew that voice. Everybody on campus knew that voice, because it usually came with an insult attached.

Dom stiffened.

He turned slowly.

Easton Whitaker leaned against the pillar behind us with a beer in one hand and a crooked smile on his face. Tall, messy dark hair, hockey captain, and the man who had spent three years making sarcastic comments every time I showed up to watch Dom play.

"Whitaker," Dom said, flat. "Mind your business."

"I would," East said. "But you were being so loud."

I stared at him. This was the guy who once told me that my Dom-themed poster looked "like a hostage situation." He had never said more than ten nice words to me.

"I don't need your help," I said.

"Didn't offer it." His eyes flicked to me, and something in them was unreadable. "I said I want her."

Dom snorted. "You? You hate her."

"I don't hate her." East pushed off the pillar and walked up to us, calm as anything. He stopped right beside my stool. Close. Warm. "I hate you. There's a difference."

Heat crawled up my neck. I could not tell if it was anger or something much more dangerous.

East looked Dom dead in the eye.

"I'll take your girl to the gala," he said. "Actually, I'll take her on eight dates first."