The Heart's Perfect Pitch

Chapter One - Baymount University

Here's the thing they don't tell you about starting your second year of University: you come back feeling like you've got it all figured out, only to realize that, nope, you're just a slightly older freshman with worse coffee habits. I mean, I had "plans" this year. Big ones. The kind where I'd focus on my grades, dodge every bit of campus drama, and keep a safe ten-mile radius from anything resembling a sports player with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But as I dragged my suitcase up the steps of BayU's dorms, sweating through my "New Year, New Me" shirt, I had the strange feeling that at least one of those goals was doomed. And, naturally, right as I'm thinking that, who do I nearly trip over on the way inside? Mr. Hotshot Baseball Player himself. Because apparently the universe thinks I need a test of willpower this semester.

I mean, I didn't "actually" trip over him, but it's close enough. He's just standing there, blocking the doorway, talking to one of his teammates, like the whole world doesn't have somewhere more important to be. He and his friends are all decked out in their school baseball jerseys, this flashy blue and silver getup that practically screams look at us, we're athletes. And he's wearing this expression, you know, the one where someone looks like they've been inconvenienced by the fact that other humans exist?

Yep. That's Bryan Munzo.

The rumour mill has given him many titles over the years, but my personal favourite is "The Heartbreaker." And not just in the usual romantic sense. No, Bryan has a particular skill for devastating the spirits of anyone he's forced to share oxygen with, just with that trademark glare.

"Excuse me, you're blocking me. Could you move, please?" I say shyly, pretending I'm not dying because I had to bring this suitcase up three flights.

He glances over at me with his brown eyes, barely lifting an eyebrow. "What, didn't see me here?"

Oh, I saw him. Unfortunately, it's hard not to see Bryan when he's taking up half the doorway. But no way am I giving him that satisfaction.

"Actually, no," I say, straightening up. "But now that I do... maybe you could move?" I didn't know where all that boldness came from, but I will gladly take it.

There's a flicker of surprise in his eyes, a brief flash that softens his usual hard expression. For one fleeting moment, he almost looks... impressed? But then he casually runs a hand through his dark hair, the movement lifting the hem of his shirt just enough to reveal a glimpse of ink curling along his hip bone—a hint of one of the many tattoos that everyone knows he has but nobody ever sees up close. The sight is distracting, making my heart stumble as I catch the edge of some intricate design, half-hidden, half-daring me to wonder what else is there.

He smirks, letting his gaze linger a bit longer, and then just says it, casual and low, like he's testing me: "You're blushing. It's cute, Amber Lee."

My cheeks burn instantly, a rush of warmth spreading up to my temples. Thanks to my asian genes, my fair skin always flares up. I fight the urge to look away, feeling exposed under his steady gaze, like he's caught onto something I didn't even realize I was giving away. But I hold my ground, forcing myself to stay calm, even though my pulse is still racing.

Of course, he knows my name. Everyone knows everyone's business around here. But there's something about the way he says it, like it's a challenge, like he's waiting to see what I'll do. Wait, did he say I was blushing? Nah, he's just playing with me. Well, I hope.

I push past him, muttering, "Thanks."

He just chuckles, and that's about all the validation he needs before he goes back to his conversation, like I'm already forgotten.