The Sorority Trap

The bike’s tires hummed against the cracked pavement as Danny pedaled through the twilight streets, the pizza box strapped precariously to the rear rack. It jostled with every pothole, threatening to spill its greasy cargo, but Danny kept his grip firm on the handlebars. The evening air carried a faint tang of pepperoni and exhaust, mingling with the sharp bite of pine from the trees lining the college town’s quieter edges.

His red Pizza Palace uniform—faded from too many washes—itched at the collar, the polyester clinging to his skin with a thin layer of sweat. At 22, Danny wasn’t exactly the poster boy for college glory. By day, he slouched through lectures, a shadow in oversized hoodies; by night, he delivered pizzas, his sneakers squeaking against the pedals like a metronome counting out his mediocrity. But Fridays—Fridays were different. Fridays meant Lila.

He coasted to a stop outside the sorority house, a hulking Victorian relic with ivy snaking up its weathered bricks and golden light pouring from every window. The muffled thump of bass and peals of laughter seeped through the walls, a siren call that twisted Danny’s stomach into knots. He adjusted his cap, the brim damp with nervous sweat, and wiped his palms on his jeans before hefting the pizza box.

This was her turf—Lila’s domain, a fortress of popularity he’d never breach. He’d watched her in Psych 101 all semester, perched in the front row with her cascade of glossy hair and a laugh that could derail a professor mid-sentence. She was a senior, a queen, the kind of girl who didn’t just enter a space—she owned it.

And Danny? He was the guy in the back, doodling stick figures in his notebook, too chickenshit to even clear his throat when she was near.