Logline
To heal from the emotional trauma of her parents' divorce, a college student must choose between settling for her safe-bet boyfriend and risking everything for a charming, but off-limits, athlete while trying not to make the same mistakes as her parents.
Blurb
Grace Bellamy knows exactly how her junior year at a prestigious New England liberal arts college will go: good grades, an established social niche, and a clear vision for the future, all to stay on track for grad school and a successful career in psychology. None of these plans include the charming, but unavailable, soccer player John Jay.
But then her carefully constructed plans threaten to collapse like a house of cards: her academic goals are put in jeopardy and old family wounds break open. On top of it all, trying not to fall for the athlete who represents all the privilege she despises proves more and more difficult—and puts her relationship with her sweet, reliable boyfriend Liam on the line. When faced with an ultimatum, Grace must make a choice. Can she figure out in time what she truly wants before she loses them both, and herself?
First 1,000 Words
I shouldn't have picked the seat by the door.
Think, Grace! Did you forget to turn on your brain this morning?
Now there was nowhere to move. The classroom was packed and about twenty eager students occupied the chairs, anxiously moving around their backpacks, opening their fresh notebooks, and sharpening their already sharp pencils. Everyone knew to show up early for the first class so as to pick a good seat. A seat in the center of the room, where the professor saw and took note of you when you looked at him like his lecture was the most fascinating thing you'd heard since at least the last new moon.
It would not be the most fascinating thing. Political science was not my favorite subject and I was looking forward to my psychology major classes more, but I needed this class to fulfill a requirement, and I needed this A to maintain my 4.0 GPA. Grad school applications to good universities were cutthroat. Hence, I needed a seat in the center of the room.
Everyone knew to pick a center seat but me, and everyone knew to come early but the guy who had strolled in nonchalantly and was now sliding into the last open seat in the semicircle, right next to me, a minute after class had started. The professor had begun talking already and shot the newcomer a disapproving look—which the recipient didn't even register. I was hoping to God his bad first impression wouldn't rub off on me when it became apparent that his tardiness went hand in hand with an inability to shut up.
"Is this seat taken?" the troublemaker whispered, not waiting for an answer. What had I done wrong for the universe to do this to me? Had I stepped on an ant on my way to class? The fact that he wasn't out of breath told me that he could have been on time if he had wanted to. People like him made my blood boil. People who didn't value the privilege of being educated at this exceptional and pricey liberal arts school.
His long legs stretched out in front of him. He had the posture of an athlete, and short, caramel-colored, meticulously blow-dried hair. His olive skin tone matched his hazel eyes spectacularly. At least a dozen female gazes tracked his movements as he leaned toward me.
"Have I missed anything yet?" My throat constricted in annoyance. I narrowed my eyes and sent him a glare to make him shut his big mouth. The professor was in the middle of taking roll, and it was two minutes into the first class of The Early Republic. What could he have missed? If he wouldn't stop talking to me people would think he knew me. He wouldn't know me. I didn't associate with jocks.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye, my head tilted. He wasn't quite sturdy enough for rugby or football, not quite tall enough for basketball, not quite stuck-up enough for golf or squash—on second thought, seeing his wrinkle-free chino shorts, I wasn't willing to discard those options quite yet. Skiing? Swimming? Baseball?
"Hi," said the guy, "I'm—"
"John Jay," Professor Wolf called.
"Here." My new neighbor's voice was a deep and firm baritone.
The professor moved on and I finally broke my silence. "Your name is John Jay?" That was perfect. The brands of his backpack and sneakers spoke of money I had only ever seen on TV—or on campus.
He shrugged one shoulder like he'd been hearing this his entire life, which he probably had been in the sophisticated circles his family undoubtedly frequented. "What's your name?"
Should I risk answering him? His dark blue panther t-shirt was well-worn which backed my athlete theory but didn't give anything away. What sport did he play? I was so focused on my attempts at deduction that I almost missed the professor calling "Grace Bellamy."
"Here." By now, I was a little too late and a little too loud. The professor didn't bat an eye, checked me off the list, and called out the next name. Still, I sank a little deeper into my chair, twisting a lock of blond hair around my finger. Had he printed out the list in order of registration or something? I wouldn't have made a fool of myself had he taken roll in alphabetical order like any normal person.
"Nice to meet you, Grace," John said while I was still recovering from embarrassment. "I hear he's super tough." He pointed the eraser end of his pencil at Professor Wolf. I shut my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. That's what you choose to open your mouth and disturb class for? There wasn't a person on this small campus who hadn't heard that Professor Wolf was not to be messed with. He was rumored not to be familiar with the letter A or any numeric dimension above 89. My GPA would not enjoy this class, but John Jay's GPA would curse this class.
But I didn't say it. I wasn't going to dig my hole even deeper by marking myself as a chatterbox to Professor Hardass the first five minutes into the academic year. My reputation as a good student was integral to my success. Though I didn't know how far reputation would get me with an instructor like him. Each of the many wrinkles on his face spoke of an untold story about a life in academia—academia as a straight, white, American man—but still. It was clear he had had four times as many years as we did to collect all the experience.
He could have lived through the Early Republic himself and I would not have been surprised. His age notwithstanding, he distinguished himself with the most stellar references among all of the college faculty. It was his secret why he chose to teach at this small liberal arts institution in the middle—no, at the fringes—of nowhere instead of at a big research university, maybe even at the real Ivies, not just the unofficial Little Ivies that our school was part of.
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