When I was 13, I thought I was in love. Back then, I swore I would marry him in a white gown on Madaket Beach in Nantucket, where our families vacationed together, and there was part of me that was sure Dad had already given him his blessing. We'd get permission to walk downtown to get ice cream at dusk - just the two of us - and watch the ferries kiss the blazing horizon. It was romance before I even knew what that was supposed to be.

So, to say that Dallas Gunther and I had history would be an understatement.

When the cigar smoke lifted in the dusty old library at the back of the Cornell Club in Midtown Manhattan, Dad might have still been giving Dallas his blessing. They stood in the arched doorway of the wood-trimmed library, the soft hum of the room's conversation swallowing their voices.

Dallas was taller than Dad, but he certainly didn't loom over him, physically or metaphorically. His lackadaisical demeanor and unrefined, boyish look about him gave away his 18 years. I knew he respected Dad, but it wasn't hard to do so.

As Dallas got Dad to laugh at whatever he'd just said, his own dad materialized beside him and placed a hand endearingly on his shoulder. Patrick Gunther reflected how I imagined Dallas would in thirty years, with faint grey peppering the dark hair that he'd learned to tame with gel - the same couldn't be said for Dallas. 

With one last charming smile, Dallas separated himself from the two Cornell alumni and entered the room. Even in a relatively crowded space, glances gravitated towards him as if he was the brightest star in the sky. Just like Trip.

After performing my obligatory small talk with the other legacy kids, I'd strategically separated myself from them. I'd staked out a spot at one of the pool tables in the corner of the lounge, pool cue in hand. 

I made a show of flicking a lock of hair over my shoulder as Dallas finally approached the pool table.

"Well, I guess I could have worse company," I said with a nonchalant shrug.

"Nice to see you too, Chan."

Dallas was violating the unspoken dress code of the club by not wearing a tie, with the top two buttons on his dress shirt undone in casual dishevelment, but honestly, thank god. He entirely transcended the rigid preppy nonsense of Guys With Ties.

The last time I saw Dallas was at his disastrous birthday party last July at a lakeside country club in Connecticut. I'd gone to bat for Dallas when Tony D slandered him at Winter Formal, but I'd already decided that I wasn't going to tell him about that confrontation. It wasn't necessary and I didn't need his recognition.

I poked Dallas in the chest with the tip of my pool cue. "Are you game?"

"Always." He grabbed another pool cue from the mount on the wall.

Before we started, he flagged down one of the waiters milling around. "Whiskey, neat."

Dallas was clearly confident that no one on the staff would question him. There was an elevated sense of privilege at the club that I could've also taken advantage of if I was so inclined.

As he went about setting up the game, I allowed myself a moment to appraise him. He'd looked objectively better on his holiday card. I knew his mother Meredith Gunther well enough to know that she'd spent hours deliberating over which photos were the best and what layout complimented the script font. But I also knew Dallas Gunther, sometimes a little too well for my own good, and the purple crescents beneath his eyes and the wrinkles pinching the collar of his shirt were new enough. He seemed in dire need of sunlight and fresh air. That wasn't something you could photoshop out.

I leaned back against the smooth edge of the pool table. "What's keeping you up at night, Dallas?"

Dallas took his first shot, the balls clattering across the emerald green of the table. "Don't you mean who?"

I rolled my eyes at his deflection. I'd seen it coming a mile away.

"Since when did you start playing defense?" I aimed for a striped ball and whiffed it. "I thought you were the quarterback."

Dallas chuckled and poked my hip with his pool cue. "You really haven't improved."

I arched an eyebrow. "Put me out of my misery, then."

"In what way?"

"Are you flirting or do you actually want to start a fight?"

Part of me genuinely wanted to know.

It wasn't as if flirting wasn't commonplace for us. We'd even taken it a step further than that once upon a time. Kissing in the basement of Dad's Beacon Hill townhouse on New Year's Eve was my idea, and cracking open our first bottle of champagne was his. Both were formative teenage experiences that only felt right experiencing together. Even though I was barely thirteen, Dallas was older and taller and things that most girls that age built castles in the sky for. The difference between 13 and 14 seemed far more than 365 days.

Dallas scoffed. "You wouldn't actually fight me."

I was initially taken aback as memories of Winter Formal flashed through my mind, but Dallas Gunther and Grayson Kirby were not at all synonymous. 

I casually flicked my wrist, dismissing his statement. "You wouldn't let it get that far, anyway."

"Keep telling yourself that," he shrugged, leaning over the table to take his next shot.

I hummed in reluctant acknowledgement. To avoid being jabbed by Dallas's elbow, I went to move to his other side, but I let my fingertips gently graze diagonally down his back. 

After Dallas took his shot, he stood up and pushed back any tousled hair that had fallen onto his forehead. It was difficult not to track his movements - there was something intrinsically effortless about it.

Dallas intercepted my stare and pinned me with a knowing grin. "What?"

There was no reason for me to deflect. With the tip of the pool cue, I tapped him on one shoulder and then the other, keeping my eyes glued to his. In a perfect world, he would be on his knees, and I would be knighting him with a sword. "I must have a thing for guys with ridiculous hair."

"Are you saying that I'm still your type?"

"Apparently."

"But you're telling me there's another guy with ridiculous hair?" Dallas clapped a hand to his chest, almost as if he physically took the blow of my word. "Chan, I'm wounded."

I made my shot this time around. "Should I deliver a coup de grâce?"

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I'll live."

After nailing another shot, Dallas turned his body to face me and tapped his fingers on the deep mahogany edges of the pool table. The clacking of the signet ring on his pinky made far too loud of a clattering in our quiet corner. 

I tilted my head, daring to be skeptical. "Are you sure about that?"

He hesitated for a moment, raking his hand through his hair again. "I'm juggling a lot right now, and I'm not exactly a circus performer."

I effortlessly deciphered the implications of his words. Neither of us was particularly good at being alone for long.

"Well, it sounds like you have your hands full. I'd hate to see you dropping your balls." I snagged a red ball out of the nearest pocket and methodically handed it to Dallas for dramatic effect.

Maybe I was just imagining the way his fingertips lingered on my skin as he pulled away, but the way his gaze held mine created enough electricity between us to blow a fuse. I couldn't have imagined that if I tried.

"The man, the myth, the legend."

My gaze shot over Dallas's shoulder, and I narrowed my eyes at the sight of a tall guy sauntering over to us with an empty whisky glass in his hand. I recognized him from previous events I'd attended at the club, but I hadn't bothered retaining his name. Dallas was the only person my age who I chose to associate with while here. 

As I refocused on Dallas, I watched the life drain from his eyes, but he still executed a well-rehearsed serendipitous smile.

"You're a long way from the Hamptons, Tristan," he said in lieu of a traditional greeting.

"It's a solid launching point to Ithaca," Tristan responded, his heavy accent immediately grating my nerves. "Am I gonna see you at accepted students day tomorrow?"

"If you're lucky." Dallas offered Tristan a quick raise of his glass.

"Rumor has it, the basketball team room is bigger than football," Tristan said, a not-so-subtle taunt in his voice.

I barely resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. Testosterone undoubtedly fueled egocentric stupidity.

"Really?" Dallas mussed. He resumed tapping his fingertips on the edge of the pool table. "That's so interesting. Football brought the school at least $50 million in revenue last season. Remind me what basketball makes?"

Tristan's features twitched, his mind likely racing to conjure up a half-decent response to a question he didn't know the answer to.

I sighed, my patience with this conversation expiring. Tristan wasn't worth my time or Dallas's, and we were better off elsewhere.

I snaked an arm through one of Dallas's. "Are you ready to get out of here?"

Dallas didn't miss a beat. He silently nudged his head towards the open door beside us, leading out into what we both knew to be a secluded hallway.

As if Tristan was only just noticing me, he jabbed a finger in my direction. "You've never liked me," he accused in a slurred voice. "Why don't you like me?"

"Chandler doesn't like anyone," Dallas jumped in with a wicked grin before I could even take a breath. "Except me."

"And we're leaving now," I said, yanking Dallas in his suggested direction.

Upon arriving in the hallway outside the library, Dallas cast a glance over his shoulder before prying open the nearest window and stepping aside.

"Ladies first."

With a sigh, I slipped myself through the window and stepped out onto the fire escape.

New York City drowned out the sound of the wrought iron creaking beneath my footsteps. A cold gust of wind greeted me at the railing, making me wish I wasn't wearing a short-sleeve mini-dress, but the view was a proper distraction. Lights flickered like diamonds against the dark of the night.

I turned away from the cityscape just as Dallas sat down on the stairs of the fire escape. A conniving idea breached my thoughts. "It's freezing out here."

Dallas Gunther wasn't an idiot - he knew exactly what I wanted.

He heaved out a sigh as I sat down beside him. "You're so high maintenance."

In a bout of effortless, fluid motion, Dallas slipped his jacket off and gently draped it over my shoulders, letting the warmth of his touch linger for a moment. I drew in a measured breath, allowing the familiarity of his vanilla and tobacco cologne envelope me. It would be so easy to believe that my world only existed here on this fire escape in the middle of the country's most prolific city.

"And yet I'm still wearing your jacket," I pointed out, freeing my hair from beneath the collar. 

I momentarily wondered if that was just who Dallas was or who he was when we were together, but the gentle nudge of his elbow derailed my thoughts.

"Actually, can you pass me what's in the inside pocket?"

I slipped a hand into his jacket and retrieved what appeared to be a joint. The cold air stung the back of my throat as I inhaled a tight breath, nearly dropping it through the gaps of wrought iron beneath us.

"Seriously?" I seethed.

"I need the lighter, too," Dallas requested, seemingly unfazed by my obvious distaste.

I dipped my hand back into the pocket and handed it to him with a scowl. "Now who's being high maintenance?"

"I'm not high maintenance. I'm stressed." Dallas quickly lit the joint in the midst of the wind, temporarily bathing his face in a warm glow. He inhaled and blew a stream of smoke out into the night.

I failed to hide whatever emotion crossed my features, and it prompted Dallas to attempt damage control.

"Don't worry, Chan, it's just CBD. I'm alright."

"If you say so."

"I do say so."

I hoped that when I relinquished his jacket, the stench of the joint wouldn't cling to my dress. I knew Dad would believe that I didn't smoke, but I wanted to avoid somehow jeopardizing Dallas. Patrick Gunther certainly wouldn't condone his son's behavior if he knew about it, which I could only assume he didn't.

"We know each other pretty well, right?" I drawled and decided not to wait for his response. "I've seen you lie through your teeth enough times to your parents to know when you're lying to me." 

Dallas gave me a dismissive chuckle. "You just don't get it."

And maybe I didn't because I didn't know it all, but that wouldn't deter me. I knew enough to know how to press him.

"Try me."

"You still have mommy issues, don't you?"

I almost flinched. Almost.

If there was one person in my life who actually understood my family dynamic, it was Dallas. My classmates at Cannondale loved to speculate about my relationship with my mom, but he'd sat through enough dinner parties with me to offer legitimate commentary.

"That's a story I know you've heard already," I said, the wind whisking away my voice.

"I'll be honest, I don't pay attention to that stuff. If it's not conducive to football or my education, I'm not really interested." Dallas paused, the city lights reflecting in his eyes as he looked at me. "I mean, you can still tell me if you want."

"I try not to talk to her anymore because it never ends well for me." I offered up a shrug. "That's just the way it is these days."

The hum of the city masked the brief pause in our conversation.

"Lacrosse is still the plan for college, then?" Dallas asked.

I appreciated him swiftly changing the subject, and perked up a bit. "If you must know, the plan is to commit to a NESCAC in July."

"I actually got a whole packet from Middlebury during football season. They're nice, just a little too...lowkey for me. Good for you though," Dallas said, his tone thoroughly genuine. "Gotta have the grades for those schools too."

Because of course, Dallas had received a packet from Middlebury College.

Middlebury was one of three NESCAC schools - or little Ivy League colleges - that I was seriously considering. I'd been talking with their coaching staff since last summer, and was personally invited to the picturesque campus in Vermont last fall for a tour. Starting on July 1st, Middlebury could review my transcript and standardized test scores. In a perfect world, I'd receive an offer and would apply early decision next fall. But by then, Dallas would be some hot shot football star at a school he thought was more deserving of his talents.

I exhaled a tight breath. "Let's just hope I nail my April ACT."

"You know it's just us here, right? Big brother isn't watching."

I twirled at my thin gold rings, momentarily needing an excuse to dodge Dallas's eyes. "I can't break 30 on the math section. My overall score would be 33 if I could."

Dallas took another hit of his so-called CBD joint, the smoke curling up and tangling into the haphazard locks of his hair. "I could help. I got 35 on my first go, and I'm a highly requested math tutor at New Livingston."

I rolled my eyes. I imagined he had plenty of girls lining up for him to help with math.

"I'm in AP Calculus as a junior," I retorted, refusing to dig a grave for my pride. "I can do math, but just not that fast."

My irritation wasn't lost on Dallas as his lips twitched up into a subtle smirk. "Last time I checked, you don't play defense either."

"I'm a midfielder, so technically I do play defense, but whatever. You've made your point."

He scoffed. "So, do you want my help or not?"

"I'll get back to you after my next practice test."

"Well, I'm confident you'll pull it off either way."

I arched an eyebrow, vaguely intrigued by his lackadaisical optimism. "Is that the mentality that's shipping your ass off to Cornell?"

Dallas leaned forward and glanced around, as if he were making sure nobody could hear us. "Uh...well, I'm not going to Cornell."

"But you're going to accepted students day tomorrow, aren't you?" I asked, unable to keep my curiosity at bay.

Dallas shrugged. "Well, I am an accepted student. Just not a student that will be attending in the fall."

"And your dad?"

"Doesn't know."

Maybe I should've been more surprised, but I really did know Dallas Gunther. Beneath all the casual arrogance and snarky charm, there was an eighteen-year-old boy who just wanted to play football.

"And so you're going to let the Cornell legacy die? The horror."

A ghost of a smile played on Dallas's lips. "I mean the offer from Cornell will stand until I do in fact drop dead, but I just have better offers. Ones that include getting the fuck out of New England and playing football at a school that actually cares about football."

"Well if I'm to believe everything I've heard about your football prowess, then you deserve it," I told him with a thin smile.

"To be determined, I guess."

I held Dallas's gaze as my curiosity decided to commandeer our conversation. "You know, if I was about to commit to a school for lacrosse, I'd tell you. I think I'm deserving of your secrets."

I wondered if Dallas remembered trading seemingly inconsequential things about ourselves during our summers in Nantucket - things that led us to a fire escape in a city with over eight million lives playing out around us.

"Oh would you now? Since when am I deserving of yours?" He threw me a coy smirk.

"Come on, Dallas. Big brother still isn't watching."

Dallas resigned himself to my words with a heavy sigh. "I've given a verbal commitment to Clemson."

I felt an amused smile spread across my face. "So you're the one that kicked Tony D out of that spot. He spent all of Fall Term bragging about going to Clemson, but then mysteriously changed his mind and committed to BC."

"I'm not saying I had a hand in that...but you're actually the only person I've told any of this to."

For a moment, I was flattered that Dallas felt like he could confide in me as though our relationship was more genuine than convenient, however we always seemed to collide when it really was most convenient. We consistently showed face at upscale events like this one, where we seemed to find each other in transitioning life phases.

"I really shouldn't be."

"Come on, Chan. You know how it is."

I leaned closer to him and conspirically put my hand on his knee, suddenly far too aware of how close we actually were. Close enough that I could count the faded dusting of freckles under his eyes if I wanted to. If I wanted to.

"I do, and that's why I can say that."

Dallas bumped my knee with his, inching just close enough for me to feel warmth radiating from his body.

"Well thanks." His voice was soft against the backdrop of the city.

He reached up and let the tips of his fingers just graze my cheek. But almost as if the feeling of skin on skin triggered something in him, he froze. The lights and the sounds of the city below us sped on, but time stopped in our little bubble.

"Nah, we shouldn't." He pulled away with a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. "I won't do that to you."

"Well, aren't you seeing someone, too?" My tone skirted the boundary of being accusatory. I wasn't the only variable in our equation, and I wasn't about to let him believe that. Also, while Trip and I were getting pretty serious - whatever that meant - we weren't technically seeing each other...yet. But I didn't need to spell that out for Dallas, or even tell him about Trip.

Dallas twirled his blunt between two fingers. "It's complicated."

I stood up, and pulled his jacket closer around me as the wind picked up. "Well, good luck with complicated. I hope she's worth it."

Dallas scoffed and shook his head before downing the rest of his drink.

We constantly revisited the edge of something, but one of us always pulled back. It was his turn this time.

At some point during the next few hours, Dallas emotionally checked out. We left the fire escape and that moment behind. I attempted to prevent him from drowning in whiskey, but he wasn't mine to look after.

When our respective dads finally got their fill of boosting each others' egos alongside their fellow Cornell alumni, they steered us out of the club and back onto the sidewalk.

Dallas glanced up at the surrounding skyscrapers, liquor glazing over his eyes. "New York City is fucking evil."

"The surface isn't everything, Dal," I said, stepping over an unidentifiable piece of garbage on the sidewalk.

As Dad initiated what I knew to be the official goodbye handshake with Patrick Gunther, I felt Dallas's eyes fall back to me.

"Catch you on the flipside then, Chandler." My name came spilling out of him in a long slur. I wasn't sure if it was just the whiskey, but he seemed compelled to scoop me into a hug.

"It's okay, you know we don't really hug," I recoiled slightly.

"Fair enough." He offered me a comical salute.

Dad effortlessly hailed a taxi and ushered me into the backseat. After he closed the door and provided the driver with the address to our hotel in SoHo, we started to merge back into traffic. Twisting around in my seat, I looked out the back window and spotted Dallas balancing on the edge of the curb. He was just another handsome, wasted guy on the streets of Manhattan.

honestly, I hope you're happy, hope you're doing well
I still keep your secrets even though you're with someone else

know it all | the band camino

✘ ✘ ✘

and that's a wrap on the first crossover chapter with moonraess's BLIND AMBITION! chandler and dallas are a valid ship.

in other news, the first lacrosse game is next chapter and the girls are READY!!!