Amory Ellison was not just Andover's Central Midfielder.
He was also the best tennis player on campus—undefeated in singles since his sophomore spring, known for his gliding movement across the court and his devastating backhand that came with all the elegance of a sonnet and the finality of a guillotine.
He was Andover's top golfer too—of course. His swing was near-silent and absurdly perfect, as if he'd been taught by ghosts of Scottish aristocrats. He once birdied four consecutive holes during a match against Choate, all while wearing a linen shirt untucked and humming Sinatra.
And as if the gods hadn't had their fill of irony, Amory was also captain of the basketball team.
The basketball court was his stage, his steps poetic even when pivoting, passing, scoring from the three-point line with a flick of his wrist and a gaze that never seemed hurried. He wasn't the biggest player. He wasn't even the fastest. But he knew. Knew where the ball would be. Knew how to disappear and reappear like a magician with excellent footwork. When he called a play, the others listened—not because he shouted, but because somehow, his stillness was louder than anyone's yelling.
Some whispered that he had to be part machine. Others suspected he was simply made of a different material—ego and myth, wrapped in Lacoste.
"Does he ever fail at anything?" a sophomore once asked in the dining hall.
"Social monogamy," someone replied.
But athletically? No. Never.
Faculty shook their heads in amused disbelief. Coaches fought over him in departmental meetings. Admissions loved him. Even alumni knew his name.
The sun was soft and golden that afternoon, casting a sleepy glow over the Great Lawn. It was one of those rare Andover days when time felt suspended—after the game, before the next wave of deadlines, the air thick with the scent of cut grass and damp books. Nicole sat cross-legged on the grass, sipping iced coffee, her cardigan half-pulled off one shoulder. Amory lay beside her, propped on one elbow, looking far too relaxed for someone who'd upended half the campus the day before.
"Date me," he said, as if ordering a second cup of espresso.
Nicole blinked. "I have a boyfriend."
"Dump him," Amory replied, in that maddeningly light voice he reserved for ruining things.
"I can't just—"
"Amory!" someone shouted from across the lawn. John Kessler, tossing a Frisbee. "Wanna join?"
"Just a sec!" Amory called back without taking his eyes off Nicole.
He turned back to her like nothing had happened. "Kate Moss dumped Johnny Depp for Leo DiCaprio."
Nicole stared at him, deadpan. "You're not Leo."
Amory shrugged, shameless. "You're not Kate. Nor is David Johnny. And personally, I think the resemblance between Leo and me is significantly greater than any resemblance between Johnny and David."
Nicole stared at him for a beat longer, then said, "You're impossible."
"Only on weekdays," he replied, flashing that half-smile she hated because she could never fully hate it.
She sighed, glancing across the lawn where David was tossing a football with some other guys—good, kind, predictable David. Then back at Amory, who looked like trouble wrapped in cashmere and cologne, already picking a blade of grass apart like he wasn't the one destabilizing her entire emotional infrastructure.
"Why now?" she asked finally.
Amory looked at her, and for a second, just a second, the smirk slipped. "Because yesterday I kissed you, and you didn't flinch."
Nicole looked away. "That doesn't mean anything."
Amory's voice was quiet now. "It means everything."
The sun had begun its slow descent over the quad, casting long golden shadows across the grass. Students were scattered in lazy clusters, textbooks open but forgotten, the energy soft and unhurried, a rare peace humming through Andover's spine.
Nicole was still sitting with her knees drawn up, the condensation from her iced coffee dampening the sleeve of her cardigan. Amory lay on his back now, one arm folded under his head, the other plucking at the grass with theatrical detachment. His eyes were half-closed, but his voice was all intention.
"I think I have a crush on you," he said, like someone testing out a secret for the first time. Then he pouted—actually pouted—turning to face her. "You used to like me. You still do. I know you still do."
Nicole didn't deny it.
She didn't laugh, or deflect, or make one of her usual barbed comments about his ego.
She said, softly, "I liked you since I first saw you."
Amory turned fully onto his side, stunned quiet for once. His mouth parted like he was about to say something grand or clever—but nothing came.
Nicole looked at him for a long time, and she knew the truth.
She knew what everyone else at Andover knew.
That no girl—not one, not ever—had refused Amory Ellison. Even if he was impossible. Even if he made them carry his bag. Even if he forgot birthdays or got distracted in the middle of a date or compared their emotional vulnerability to the third act of The Great Gatsby.
No girl had turned him down. And none had ever broken up with him. It just… didn't happen.
Maybe it was his face. Or his charm. Or that tragic sense of untouchable romance he wore like cologne. But mostly, it was that when he looked at you, you felt like you might belong in the kind of story people reread.
So Nicole—intelligent, sharp, proud Nicole—said yes.
"Yes," she murmured.
Amory's expression shifted, somewhere between triumph and something softer, deeper. He didn't say anything at first. He just reached for her hand and laced their fingers together as if it had always been that simple.
And for that afternoon, it was.
Then, without a word, Amory stood up, brushing grass from his slacks with theatrical indifference. He gave Nicole's hand a final, deliberate squeeze—like sealing a contract—and offered a grin so effortlessly golden it could have powered the Chapel bells.
"Duty calls," he said, eyes flicking across the lawn where John and a group of seniors were still tossing a Frisbee, waiting for him like minor characters in a myth.
Nicole blinked. "Seriously?"
But Amory was already walking off, sleeves pushed up just enough to seem accidental, hair falling perfectly into place with every step. He jogged the last few strides, caught the disc mid-air with absurd grace, and spun on his heel to send it flying across the field.
From across the quad, Cary muttered to Albert, "Did he just secure a girlfriend and then immediately go play Frisbee?"
Albert didn't even look up. "Classic Amory. Emotional monogamy with built-in intermission."
Nicole watched him from her place in the grass, shaking her head with a mixture of disbelief and—annoyingly—affection. Only Amory could drop a confession, get a yes, and then immediately sprint off to a social sport like nothing had happened.
But she wasn't surprised. Not really.
Because, of course, no girl had ever broken up with Amory.
He simply left things on pause.
When Nicole told them—told Heather and Amanda, casually, over coffee in the back corner of the library's café annex like it was just another minor development in her week—Heather didn't react right away.
She blinked. Once. Stirred her latte. Then said, too carefully, "You're dating Amory?"
Nicole nodded, eyes on her cup, trying to sound breezy. "Yeah. I mean, he asked. After the game. On the Great Lawn."
Amanda nearly dropped her muffin. "Wait—he asked? Like, out loud? Not just… implied it with a sonnet or a dramatic glance?"
Nicole laughed. "Out loud. Actual words. Shocking, I know."
Heather's lips tightened, the way they always did when she was about to say something she'd later pretend she hadn't meant. "Wow. That's… fast. I mean, you were just with David, like, yesterday."
Nicole looked up slowly. "It's not fast. David and I weren't serious."
Heather gave a tight little shrug. "No, sure, I just didn't think Amory was really… capable of anything real."
"Or that he actually liked anyone," Amanda added, tearing a napkin into confetti.
There was a pause.
Heather stirred her latte again, more aggressively this time. "I guess I always thought, if he was going to date someone... I don't know. I just didn't think it would be so predictable."
Nicole blinked. "Predictable?"
Heather met her eyes, and for a second there was something raw in hers—like a fracture too small to name. "I mean, it's you. You've had a crush on him since… forever. It's just very storybook, that's all."
Amanda looked between them, suddenly very interested in her muffin again.
Nicole didn't answer right away. She saw what was unspoken. She knew Heather—knew the carefully measured glances she sometimes gave Amory, the way she'd always acted above his theatrics, like she didn't care, like she saw through it—except that she did care. Maybe even hoped, in some distant corner of herself, that one day she'd be the girl he asked.
And now she wasn't.
Nicole straightened, coolly. "Well, maybe it is storybook. But sometimes people get the ending they want."
Heather smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Sure. For now."
Mid-December 2002, snow powdered the edges of the quad like someone had sifted powdered sugar over the campus. The trees were bare, the air metallic and cold, and the bulletin boards were cluttered with finals schedules and rumors. But all anyone really cared about that day was the thick, trembling breath of college decisions.
At noon, it happened.
Yale sent its emails.
Amory Ellison—of course—was accepted. And, astonishingly, so was Cary, whose personal statement had been a heartfelt meditation on his struggles with poverty and the humble resilience learned by "playing with stones" in his childhood. In truth, Cary had grown up in a gated community outside Boston with heated floors and four Labradors. But the essay had tone, and tone, as Amory always said, was ninety percent of truth.
They found each other on the steps of the library and high-fived like they'd won a minor war. Cary yelled something half-invented about legacy and rocks; Amory beamed like royalty being recognized by a fellow heir.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the news had already saturated the school like heat from a radiator.
"He got in," students whispered. "Yale. Early decision."
Nicole heard it before she even reached the dining hall.
Inside, the usual chaos reigned—laughter, trays clattering, someone reciting Hamlet in a bad British accent near the vending machines. Amory stood near the far wall, already surrounded by a constellation of underclassmen and upperclassmen alike, his acceptance letter printed out and folded into fourths in the inside pocket of his peacoat. Cary was beside him, grinning like he'd gotten away with something (because he had).
Then Heather walked up.
She looked unusually polished—hair straightened, scarf coordinated, expression unreadable. She touched Amory lightly on the arm and leaned in close, saying something low, something meant only for him.
Amory listened, then—midway through whatever Heather was trying to say—tilted his head slightly and glanced across the dining hall.
At Nicole.
He arched his eyebrows.
Then gave Heather a small, amused shrug, as if to say, What do you want me to do about it?
Heather's lips tightened, just for a flicker of a second, before she smiled.
It wasn't a warm smile. Not really.
And Nicole, watching from across the room, said nothing—just sipped her tea and looked away.