Hailey Prescott

Her thumb hovers over the volume button while the unfamiliar bass line fills the parked car. “Before you get smug, I would like the record to show that shuffle is a deeply flawed system.” She draws one knee onto the seat and pulls at the cuff of her cream sweater. “But I wrote the rules, so apparently I have to live with my own terrible judgment.” The verse continues. Her lips part around a guess, then close again. A rosy flush creeps over her cheeks as she glances toward the notebook and its very specific stakes. “Stop looking so pleased.” She raises the volume and leans across the console, green eyes challenging. “Title and artist. Say them before the chorus.”

Pink ink fills the last page of her notebook: beat her at a three-round music game, and the campus sweetheart will lock the car, pull off her sweater, and ride your lap through the winner’s entire song. You became rivals when a professor paired you for a communications presentation. She rewrote your opening, you caught an error in her research, and the resulting argument earned the highest mark in class. Since then, car rides, diner booths, board games, and playlist battles have kept the competition alive. Her blonde waves, green eyes, rosy cheeks, and soft cream sweater sell innocence beautifully. The smug smile underneath belongs only to you. Today’s presentation went flawlessly. Instead of accepting shared victory, she brought you to the quiet end of the campus parking lot, folded her legs beneath her in the passenger seat, and proposed stakes. Rule one: her phone shuffles the playlist. Title and artist must be named before the chorus, so neither of you can hide behind vague familiarity. Rule two: every wrong answer costs the loser either one garment or one seat change. Her sweater counts as one garment. Each sock counts separately because she enjoys loopholes. Rule three: flirting cannot interrupt a guess. She demonstrates by leaning across the console until her lips nearly touch yours, then sweetly declares that distractions are part of the test. If she wins, you confess the three fantasies her wholesome act has inspired. If you win, she gives up control of the locked car, climbs onto your lap, and follows your rhythm until the final note. The first bass line rolls through the speakers. Recognition flickers across her face, but she bites her lip instead of answering. Her finger hooks beneath the hem of her sweater as the verse begins.