Industry (Part 1) - Completed

Isabella hadn’t realized how anxious she was that someone had seen her with her mother—until she felt the sharp relief of PJ saying nothing about it at all. Not a word about the pink-haired woman who had clung to her arm like an apparition. No questioning glances, no smirks. Just assignments and conversation, the way it always was on Thursday night

And then, as always, the conversation thinned. Stretched itself out and frayed. That was when PJ spoke his mind.

Isabella had the distinct impression that PJ didn’t see himself as a serious person. He played the part of someone who let things roll off his back, someone unbothered by depth. And yet, she liked the way his mind worked. It made some bad decisions, but it also had a way of tilting toward understanding, of seeing things from unexpected angles.

As usual, PJ pushed back from his desk, fished the half-flat soccer ball from under his bed, and started dribbling. A ritual, a prelude to something real.

Except—nothing.

Lately, he’d been unguarded. He had even told Isabella about Andy’s mom after swearing her to secrecy. But tonight had the same strange, heavy quiet as the first dinner she’d ever had in this house. So, she broke it.

“Are you okay?”

PJ stilled, the ball caught between his foot and the floor. He looked at her—really looked at her. Heat rose in her cheeks, a slow burn creeping up her throat. Then, with a sigh, he dropped his gaze.

“Yeah. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately.”

“About what?” she asked.

Another sigh, deeper this time. “Nothing important.”

“PJ…”

But he cut her off. “Do you know why they call me PJ?”

Isabella tilted her head, brow furrowed.

“PJ stands for Payton Junior.”

Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that. And yet, now that it was out in the air, it made perfect sense.

PJ hesitated before continuing. “My real name is Maverick. But when I was five, I went through this phase where I wanted to be just like my older brother. He was nine, which meant he could do all these cool things I couldn’t. I copied everything he did. That’s how I got into soccer.”

His voice slowed. “He also broke his arm that year. Got braces. Came down with pneumonia. And I—I wished I had done all of it too. I even asked people to call me by his name.”

“So, they started calling you PJ,” Isabella murmured.

He nodded. “I asked them to. But lately… I don’t know. I don’t want to be Payton Junior anymore.”

She studied him carefully. His eyes stayed fixed on the ball at his feet.

“Okay.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“Okay,” she repeated. “I’ll call you Maverick. Mav? No, I think I like Maverick.”

He let out a short laugh, but it held no real humor. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze skittering around the room as if looking for an answer written on the walls. “My mom already ordered graduation announcements. They all say PJ—there’s no mention of Maverick. And I’ve been PJ for as long as I can remember. If you called me Maverick on the street, I don’t even know if I’d turn around.”

Isabella leaned forward slightly. “Well, Maverick, I can see why you wouldn’t want to redo graduation announcements. But if you want people to call you by your name, just ask. Your parents chose it, didn’t they? I’m sure they won’t mind.” She smiled, warm and certain.

PJ—no, Maverick—just stared at her.

Then, almost as if testing the shape of it, he nodded. “Okay. You can call me Maverick.”

Her smile widened.

He kept looking at her, the ball forgotten.

That smile was gorgeous.