Chasing Lucia

Look, I'm not saying I'm obsessed with Lucia Garcia. That would be pathetic, and Trent Marshall doesn't do pathetic. I'm just... strategically interested. There's a difference.

I've been staring at my phone since my alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, reading and re-reading our text thread from last night. She didn't block me. I told myself she would—hell, I practically dared her to—but she didn't.

She didn't block me.

My roommate Kyle stumbles past my open door on his way to the bathroom, still half-asleep. "Dude, why are you smiling at your phone like a psycho? It's not even six."

"Fuck off," I say, but I'm still grinning. I can't help it.

I scroll back up to that last message she sent—that insane little cartoon threatening to cut off my balls—and I feel that same jolt of heat in my gut. Most girls at BU either worship the ground I walk on because I'm the baseball team's ace pitcher, or they avoid me because they've heard I'm an asshole. Both reactions bore me to tears.

But Lucia? Lucia tells me to fuck off with cartoon scissors. She threatens my manhood via text message. She looks at me like I'm a particularly annoying bug she's considering squashing.

It's the hottest thing I've ever experienced.

It's complicated. And also maybe entirely my fault. But in my defense, I was going through some shit.

My dad—retired Drill Sergeant Robert Marshall, winner of zero Father of the Year awards—had just gotten on my ass about my "performance metrics" not being up to par. Never mind that I had a 3.6 GPA in Sports Medicine and was being scouted by actual MLB teams. Nothing I did was ever good enough for the man who thought affection was a sign of weakness.

So there I was, having a borderline breakdown in the basement of Mugar Library at like two in the morning, when this girl sat down next to me. I had my hat pulled low, hoodie up, the full disguise. I probably looked like I was about to rob the place.

She didn't ask my name. Didn't ask what was wrong. She just... sat there. Then she started talking—soft, random shit about the weird architectural choices in the library, about how the third floor always smelled like old books and broken dreams, about her family and how her brothers were so accomplished she sometimes felt like she was drowning in their shadows.

For twenty minutes, I forgot to be Trent Marshall, star pitcher, legacy student, guy with something to prove. I was just... some dude. Some sad dude having a rough night. And she made it better without even trying.

Then she left. Just smiled at me—god, that smile—and said, "Hope tomorrow's better for you." And she was gone.

I didn't realize who she was until three days later when I saw her in the Marciano Commons, laughing with her friends. No hat obscuring my face this time. I walked right up to her, opened my mouth to say thank you, to ask her name, to do something normal—

And instead, I made fun of her cardigan.

I made fun of her fucking cardigan.

But here's the thing—when I teased her, when I was an asshole to her, she didn't just take it. She fired back. Quick, sharp, clever comebacks that made my teammates laugh and made me feel more alive than I'd felt in months. And every time she looked at me with those hazel eyes full of irritation and challenge, I felt that same rush I got on the mound with bases loaded and a full count.

So I kept doing it. Kept pushing. Kept seeking her out in the dining hall, in the library, at parties I knew she'd be at with her friends Freya and Charlotte. I became the guy who bothered Lucia Garcia, because being that guy meant being in her orbit. And her orbit was the only place I wanted to be.

Then I fucked up. Really fucked up.

I found out about her condition—galactorrhea, something I had to Google three times to even understand—completely by accident. Overheard her on the phone with her mom outside the CAS building. And because I'm apparently a Grade-A dumbass with zero emotional intelligence, I thought I could use it as leverage. To what? Get her to go out with me? Admit she felt this thing between us too?

I cornered her after her Psych 101 lecture. Tried to play it smooth. "We should talk," I'd said. "About your little secret."

The look she gave me could have stripped paint. "Try it," she'd said, voice deadly calm. "Try to blackmail me, Marshall. See what happens when I report you to Dean Morrison for harassment. See how fast your baseball career ends when BU drops you for violating the student conduct code."

I'd backed off immediately, hands raised, suddenly realizing how badly I'd miscalculated. "Lucia, wait, I wasn't—"

"You weren't what? Threatening me? Because that's sure as hell what it sounded like." She'd stepped closer, and fuck me, even furious she was beautiful. "Stay away from me, Trent. I mean it."

That was two months ago. Two months of her avoiding me, shutting down every attempt at conversation, looking through me like I was invisible. Two months of me lying awake at night, knowing I'd taken the one good thing in my life and set it on fire because I didn't know how to just say "I like you" like a normal human being.

And now—finally—she'd texted me back. Threatened me, sure. Told me to delete her number. But she'd also sent me that ridiculous kaomoji, which meant she was thinking about me. Even if those thoughts involved genital mutilation.

I have to see her. Talk to her. Find some way to explain that I'm not actually a sociopath, I just play one when I'm around girls I'm terrified of losing.

My phone buzzes with a text from Coach Williams. Practice moved to 7 AM. Field maintenance.

Perfect. That gives me an hour.

I know Lucia's routine. (Not in a creepy way. In an... observant way. There's a difference. Probably.) She hits up the Starbucks in the George Sherman Union every morning at 6:30, gets her usual vanilla oat milk latte, then camps out at one of the tables by the window to review her notes before her 9 AM Cognitive Psychology lecture.

I'm showered and dressed in fifteen minutes flat, throwing on my BU Baseball warmup jacket and a pair of joggers. My hair's still damp when I jog out the door, but who cares. I'm not trying to impress her.

The early morning campus is quiet, just a few dedicated students and staff milling around. The GSU Starbucks is moderately busy—the usual crowd of caffeine-dependent undergrads and grad students who look like they haven't slept in weeks.

And there, in line, is Lucia.

She's wearing light-wash jeans that hug her curves in a way that should be illegal, an oversized cream-colored sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, and her hair is down today—long, wavy, the kind of hair a guy could wrap his fist in while—

Focus, Marshall.

I slide into line behind her, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something vanilla and warm, like sugar cookies. It makes my mouth water.

"Stalking me now, Marshall?" she says without turning around.

How does she always know? "Maybe you're stalking me. Ever think of that?"

"At the Starbucks I've been coming to since freshman year? At 6:30 in the morning, which is when I always come here?" She turns to face me, and those hazel eyes are doing that thing where they look both annoyed and amused. "Your practice doesn't start until seven. You're never here this early."

"Practice got moved up," I lie smoothly. "Just wanted coffee."

"Right." She doesn't believe me. She crosses her arms under her chest, which only serves to push up her breasts in that sweater, and I have to physically force myself to maintain eye contact. "What do you want, Trent?"

What do I want? That's a loaded fucking question. I want to know if she thinks about me the way I think about her. I want to know if she remembers that night in the library. I want to slide that sweater off her shoulder and kiss the skin there until she stops looking at me like I'm a nuisance and starts looking at me like I'm hers.

"I wanted to apologize," I say instead. "For last night. For texting you so late. For—" I run a hand through my hair. "For being a dick. In general."

She blinks. Once. Twice. Like she's trying to figure out if this is a prank. "You're apologizing."

"Yeah."

"You. Trent Marshall. Star pitcher. Guy who made my life hell for six months."

"It wasn't hell," I protest. "We had fun."

"You had fun. I had migraines."

"You liked it," I say, and it comes out lower than I intended. More intimate. "At least a little bit."

The barista calls "Next!" and Lucia breaks eye contact, stepping up to order. I listen to her rattle off her usual—grande vanilla oat milk latte, extra hot—and when she reaches for her wallet, I'm already handing the barista my card.

"Trent—"

"And a venti cold brew, black," I add, cutting her off. "Both on me."

Lucia looks like she wants to argue, but the barista's already processed the payment. She huffs out a breath, that cute little annoyed sound she makes, and moves to the pickup area. I follow like a puppy. An athletic, six-foot-two puppy who could bench press her if required.

"You can't just buy me coffee and expect that to fix things," she says, but her voice is softer now. Less sharp.

"I know." I lean against the counter next to her, close enough that our arms almost touch. "But I figured it was a start."

"A start to what?"

"To me not being on your hit list." I grin at her. "Those kaomojis were pretty threatening. I'm genuinely concerned for my safety."

The corner of her mouth twitches. She's trying not to smile. "Maybe you should be concerned."

The barista calls her name, and she grabs her latte, wrapping both hands around the cup. I grab my cold brew, even though I hate black coffee and only ordered it because I needed an excuse to stay.

"Let me walk you to your spot," I say. "By the window."

She studies me for a long moment, those hazel eyes searching my face for something. Whatever she finds must satisfy her, because she nods. "Fine. But if you make one snarky comment about my study habits, I'm dumping this latte on your head."

We walk to her usual table, and I pull out her chair before she can do it herself. She raises an eyebrow but sits, setting down her coffee and pulling out her laptop and a truly intimidating stack of note cards.

"Developmental Psych midterm?" I ask, sitting across from her.

"Stalker vibes intensifying," she mutters, but she's still smiling. "Yes. Wednesday morning."

"You'll kill it. You always do."

She looks up at me, surprised. "How do you know that?"

"I pay attention," I say simply. Which is the understatement of the century. I could write a dissertation on Lucia Garcia at this point. "You're on the Dean's List every semester. You TA for Intro Psych. You're probably going to get into whatever grad program you apply to."

She's staring at me now, really staring, like she's seeing me for the first time. "Why do you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Be... nice. And then terrible. And then nice again." She leans forward, and I can see the genuine confusion in her eyes. "What do you want from me, Trent?"

Everything. I want everything. I want to know what you taste like. I want to hear you say my name when you're not annoyed with me. I want to be the reason you smile instead of the reason you fantasize about castration.

"I want—" I start, then my phone buzzes. It's Coach Williams again. Where are you Marshall? Everyone's here except you.

"Shit." I stand abruptly. "I have to go. Practice."

"Right." She sits back, and I can see her walls going back up. "Of course."

"Lucia—" I don't know what I'm going to say, but I need to say something. Something that will keep that softness in her expression, that will make her not hate me again.

So I do the stupidest, most impulsive thing I've ever done.

I lean down, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, and I say, "I want to take you out. Dinner. Somewhere nice. Not the dining hall. Actual food that didn't come from a buffet line."

Her lips part in surprise. "What?"

"Friday night. Let me take you to dinner." My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised she can't hear it. "Please."

She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. Then: "Why should I?"

"Because you didn't block my number," I say. "Because you came to this Starbucks knowing I might show up. Because I think you want to say yes."

"You're very confident."

"I'm terrified," I admit. "But I'm asking anyway."

Another buzz from my phone. Coach is probably going to make me run extra laps for this. Worth it.

"I'll think about it," she finally says.

It's not a yes. But it's not a no.

"I'll text you," I say, backing away before I can do something even stupider like try to kiss her in the middle of the GSU Starbucks. "Good luck with your studying."

"Marshall." She calls out just as I reach the door. I turn back. "Thanks. For the coffee."

That smile. That fucking smile is going to kill me.

"Anytime, Garcia."

To be continued...

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