The Girlfriend Contract

Emily’s POV

I’m lying on my bed with my legs crossed, my laptop balanced dangerously on my knees, my phone in my right hand, my thumb flicking upward in a practiced rhythm as Instagram refreshes itself again and again. Another sponsored post. Another perfectly curated couple. Another athlete holding a protein shake like it’s holy water. I grimace and keep scrolling.

April’s face filled my laptop screen, her dark curls piled on top of her head in a way that looked effortless but absolutely wasn’t. She was sitting cross-legged on her dorm bed, chewing gum loudly and watching me with that look, the one that said she already knew that something was wrong.

“You’ve been scrolling for five straight minutes. That’s either avoidance or spiraling. Which one is it?” She asked.

“Both.” I muttered.

I double-tap a photo without looking. It was some influencer in tennis whites. Cute, bland and harmless.

April snorted. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend Instagram is relaxing, but your eyes look like you’re dissociating.”

“I am not dissociating.”

“You just liked a photo of a dog chiropractor.”

I froze and then scrolled back. It was a golden retriever in a tiny lab coat.

“…Okay. Maybe a little dissociation.” I added.

April grinned victoriously. “So. Talk to me. What’s going on in that very pink, very stressed brain of yours?” She asked.

I glanced around my room like it might overhear us. Blush-colored throw pillows. A white vanity cluttered with skincare bottles and neatly stacked textbooks that said Advanced Musculoskeletal Rehabilitation, Biomechanics of Athletic Injury. The walls are lined with framed photos from conferences, certificates, and exactly one candid picture of me laughing, taken before I learned how to pose.

“This is supposed to be my calm semester. No surprises. No chaos. Just classes, clinic hours, and maybe sleep.”

April raised an eyebrow. “You’re tempting fate.”

I open my mouth to respond when my phone buzzes in my hand.

Unknown number.

My stomach dropped instantly, like my body recognized bad news before my brain did.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

April leaned closer to her camera. “What?” She whisper-asked.

“I don’t know, but unknown numbers are never good.”

“Answer it. “Put it on speaker.” she said immediately.

I hesitated before I swiped to accept the call. “Emily Taylor speaking,” I said, my professional voice snapping into place like armor.

“Emily, good evening. This is Dr. Lawrence Marcus, head of the Sports Rehabilitation Department.”

My heart slammed so hard in my chest I’m sure April could hear it through the screen.

“Oh. Hi, Dr. Marcus,” I said, sitting up straighter. My Instagram app now forgotten. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Yes, everything is fine,” he replied smoothly. “I’m calling with good news. After reviewing your academic performance, clinical evaluations, and faculty recommendations, we have selected you for a prestigious off-campus clinical internship this upcoming term.”

April’s mouth dropped open. She mimes oh my Gosh silently.

My fingers dug into my duvet. “That’s…that’s incredible. Thank you so much, Dr. Marcus.”

“There’s more,” he continued. “The placement is at Westview University.”

The room tilted.

Westview.

As in nationally ranked. As in televised games. As in that Westview.

“I-sorry,” I just had to make sure that I heard correctly. “Did you say Westview University?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “You will be working directly with their championship lacrosse program.”

My chest tightened as my thoughts scattered. Lacrosse means contact injuries, shoulders, ACLs and Media pressure. And another thing… Athletes.

“And,” Dr. Marcus added far too casually, “You will be assigned to assist their team captain with recovery and performance management.”

I already knew. My body already knew.

“Noah Harris,” he said.

I felt sick.

April made a choking noise. “No. Nope. Absolutely not,” she whispered fiercely.

I swallowed. “Dr. Marcus…is there another athlete I could…”

“No,” he said firmly, firm yet it wasn’t unkind. “Noah Harris is the priority case. His shoulder injury is critical to the team’s season. Your role will be central.”

Images flashed through my mind without permission. The headlines, grainy photos, and rumors whispered in comment sections.

Noah Harris in bar fight.

Westview star athlete under investigation.

Party boy captain strikes again.

“I’m not sure I’m the right fit,” I said carefully. “I specialize in rehabilitation science, yes, but-”

“That’s exactly why you were chosen,” Dr. Marcus interrupted. “Your methods are precise. Evidence-based. And frankly, Emily, this opportunity is rare.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “You are aware that the department can only issue one elite recommendation this year for the Johns Hopkins MD–PhD program in Sports Medicine.” He continued.

My breath catched. “Yes,” I whispered.

“This internship will determine who receives it.”

There it is. The thing I’ve been working towards since I was nineteen. The reason I skipped parties, turned down trips, built a resume so polished people assumed it wasn’t real. The future I could almost touch.

“I would also like to add that Westview has agreed to offer you a special scholarship for the duration of your placement. Housing included.” He added.

April mouthed holy sh- and clamped her hand over her mouth.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“I…when would I need to be there?” I asked.

“Orientation begins in two weeks.”

Two weeks.

Leaving home. Leaving comfort. Walking straight into the orbit of a man I’ve spent years side-eyeing from a distance.

“I need your answer tonight,” Dr. Marcus finished gently. “Opportunities like this don’t wait.”

The call ends.

The silence afterwards was deafening.

I stared at my phone like it might start yelling at me.

“Well?” April demanded. That pulled me back to reality as I forgot about her on the other side of laptop screen.

I suddenly laughed, it was a sharp, brittle sound that didn’t feel like it belonged to me. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

She squealed. “EMILY. THIS IS HUGE.”

“It’s terrifying.Westview is intense. And Noah Harris is…”

“A disaster?” she supplied.

“A walking red flag with a six-pack,” I snapped. “He’s everything I avoid.”

April softened. “You don’t have to date him. You’re there to do your job.”

I shook my head. “Athletes like him don’t respect people like me. They see pink and assume fluff.”

I glanced down at my manicure. It was Baby pink and glossy.

“I’ve worked too hard to be dismissed,” I whispered.

April’s voice became gentle. “Or maybe this is where you prove them wrong.”

My phone lit up again. It was a text from my mom.

Mom: Your father says opportunities don’t come twice. We’re proud of you.

Pressure bloomed behind my eyes. I think about Johns Hopkins. About the future version of me in a white coat, finally undeniable. About staying here and always wondering what if.

“I hate him,” I said quietly.

“You don’t even know him,” April replied.

“I know his reputation.”

She shrugged. “Reputations aren’t always the whole story.”

I closed my eyes. Westview University. Noah Harris. Two weeks. Fear coiled in my chest, but beneath it, was something sharper and electric. It was ambition.

“…I’ll do it,” I said.

April beamed. “That’s my girl.”

I refuse to be underestimated as a woman.

“Whatever happens,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else, “I won’t let him ruin this.”