THE THINGS YOU MEANT TO BREAK

Elara's  POV

There are three universal truths about varsity football in the UK.

First: the people screaming the loudest from the terraces are always the ones who couldn't kick a ball straight if their lives depended on it.

Second: a stadium packed with supposedly sharp, upper-tier university students will regress into pure, unadulterated neanderthals the second a referee makes a iffy call.

And third: my brother, Rian Mercer, has never met a problem he couldn't turn into a total clusterfuck.

"He’s gonna get himself sent off," I muttered, pulling my coat tighter against the brisk damp air cutting through Westbridge Stadium.

Sienna, perched next to me on the cold plastic fold-down seat, blew on her steaming paper cup of cheap, watery hot chocolate. "Your brother?"

"No. The ref. Rian is going to wind him up until the poor bastard gives himself a red card."

Sienna squinted down toward the pitch.

Down in the penalty box, Rian stood with his blue-and-white Bellmere jersey half-soaked in sweat and mud, his chest heaving, his jaw set like concrete. He was squaring up to a bloke in the black-and-gold kit of the Wolves—a lad who currently had two fingers jammed aggressively into Rian’s sternum.

Even from twenty rows up, I could feel the atmosphere turning sour.

"Ah," Sienna said, taking a tiny sip. "The angry one."

"They're both fucking angry."

"No, I mean the one who looks like he’s never been told no a day in his privileged life."

I followed her eyes.

Lucian Vale.

You couldn't survive a single term at Westbridge without hearing his name. Right winger. Academic golden boy. Son of someone with far too much money. He was the kind of guy whose entire existence felt like a curated PR campaign. His face was plastered on the athletic department’s promo banners, his name sat casually at the top of the Dean’s List, and he featured on the Instagram stories of half the girls on campus who had suddenly developed a passionate interest in non-league football.

The campus obsessed over him: brilliant, loaded, completely emotionally unavailable, and entirely too pretty for his own good.

I’d never gotten the hype. From where I sat, he just looked like a rich prick who was perpetually annoyed that the rest of us were taking up his air.

Right now, dark wet curls were plastered across his forehead, a thick smear of pitch-dirt covered one knee, and he was glaring at Rian with an expression that suggested my brother’s very existence was a personal insult.

Then, for a fraction of a second, his head snapped up.

His eyes swept the stands.

They locked onto mine.

Cold. Sharp. Assessing.

I looked away first. Not because I was intimidated—fuck that—but because I’ve spent twenty years learning the signs of a man about to make a disastrous decision, and I preferred not to be tagged as a witness.

Unfortunately, my brother was already deep in it.

"Rian!" I roared, cupping my hands around my mouth.

He caught the sound and flicked a glance toward the stands.

I pointed a stern finger straight at him. Don't.

He rolled his eyes and scoffed.

I pointed harder, giving him the glare our mother perfected. I bloody mean it.

He turned straight back to Lucian Vale—and shoved him square in the chest.

The stadium tore open into absolute chaos.

The match had been a boiler room long before the shove.

The Westbridge Wolves and the Bellmere Ravens had been tearing chunks out of each other in the Cup for three years. At this point, it wasn't even about football anymore; it was an annual dick-measuring contest between two sets of lads who lacked the basic emotional intelligence to lose gracefully.

The Wolves had the fast, flashy attack. The Ravens had a brick-wall defense. The Wolves had Lucian Vale. The Ravens had my absolute headache of a brother.

1–1 on the board. Less than eight minutes of stoppage time left.

The crowd was a single, rabid animal. A bunch of drunk engineering lads behind us were hammering empty cider cans against the metal hoardings, while some freshers near the front were leading a chant implying the ref took bribes from the away team.

Sienna blew a strand of blonde hair out of her face. "Do you reckon any of them will ever grow up?"

"Not while the uni pays them four-figure sports grants to kick a piece of leather around."

She snorted into her drink.

Down on the pitch, the Wolves broke through midfield.

Lucian took the ball on his chest near the right touchline. The way he moved was infuriating—effortless, sleek, like he owned the grass beneath his boots. He chopped inside, left our left-back grasping at air, and whipped a brutal low ball toward the six-yard box.

Rian lunged. Intercepted. Cleared it long.

The crowd groaned.

Lucian pulled up dead in his tracks. It was a tiny moment, but I caught it. His shoulders went rigid. He stared at Rian’s back as the ball sailed away, his jaw tightening as if Rian had just spat on his shoes rather than made a clean tackle.

"Why does he look like he wants to sue him?" Sienna asked.

"Because Rian didn't roll over and let him score."

"Ah. God forbid."

The ball bounced back toward midfield. A Wolves midfielder snapped it up and fed it right back into the channel.

Lucian was already sprinting.

What happened next was a blur of studs, mud, and bad blood. A sliding challenge. A sickening crack of shinguards. The shrill burst of the ref's whistle. Rian spinning around, teeth bared. Lucian closing the distance, getting right into his space.

Then the shove.

The ref blew furiously, jogging over while players from both sides surged in, shoving shoulders and slinging insults.

Lucian said something low, just out of earshot.

Rian fired back.

Lucian laughed—a dry, bitter sound that didn't reach his eyes. The kind of laugh that meant he’d already decided how he was going to make you pay for it.

"Oh, brilliant," I muttered, pressing two fingers to the bridge of my nose.

"What?" Sienna asked.

"That look. That's the face Rian makes right before he lands himself in the urgent care unit."

"Does he get hit a lot?"

"Only when he deals with lads who think their dad's bank balance makes them bulletproof."

Rian took a threatening step forward. Lucian didn't flinch an inch. A Raven center-back grabbed Rian in a headlock to pull him back while the ref pulled out a yellow card and thrust it into Rian's face.

The stadium erupted in loud, echoing boos.

Lucian glanced at the yellow card, then slowly turned his eyes back to Rian. He offered a faint, razor-thin smirk.

I slammed my eyes shut. Please, I prayed mentally to whatever poor deity was tasked with overseeing arrogant university athletes, just let me get through one bloody Saturday without having to bail my brother out of a disciplinary board.

The Wolves stole it in the ninety-second minute.

Lucian, obviously.

The cross came in high from the left wing. Lucian peeled off his marker, tracked the flight, and caught it on the volley—a ruthless, thunderous strike that nearly tore the top corner of the net off.

The home crowd went mental. Plastic cups flew into the air, people were jumping on seats, screaming until their faces turned purple.

Sienna leapt up, nearly tipping her cocoa over my boots. "Fuck me, that was clean!"

"It was bloody obnoxious," I corrected, grinding my teeth.

"Your brother’s going to pop a blood vessel."

"Rian would argue with a lamppost if Lucian said it was giving off light."

On the pitch, Lucian was swallowed by a wall of black-and-gold jerseys. But as the crowd chanted his name, he untangled himself from the huddle and turned around. He looked straight past his celebrating teammates, straight toward the Ravens' box.

Toward Rian.

Rian stood alone, hands on hips, chest rising and falling heavily, staring at the turf with an expression of pure, concentrated venom.

Lucian lifted one hand. Not a wave. Not a chest-thump. Just a subtle, two-finger flick near his forehead.

I see you. Game over.

Rian’s jaw twitched.

"Right, that's it," I muttered, grabbing my tote bag. "I’m going down."

Sienna blinked. "Why?"

"Because if I don't go down there, Rian's going to end up in a police cell before pub time."

"Again?"

"Again."

We picked our way through the rows of cheering students and headed down the concrete stairs toward the tunnel.

"One of these days, El," Sienna called over the racket, "you're going to stop babysitting him."

"The day he stops acting like he was raised by feral dogs, I'll consider it."

"Technically, Lucian’s the Wolf."

"Sienna, I swear to God—"

"I’m just saying! The boy’s fit. Toxic as radioactive waste, but fit."

"I hate your priorities."

"So do I, babe. So do I."

The tunnel beneath the stands smelled awful—a suffocating mix of damp concrete, deep heat rub, industrial bleach, and stale sweat.

A heavy-set security guard blocked the double doors leading to the changing rooms. He recognized me after two seasons of this nonsense and gave me an exhausted, pitying nod.

"Rian still in there, Dave?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Aye. Changing room’s locked down for ten minutes. Team talk." Dave sighed, rubbing his neck. "Your brother and Vale had a proper shouting match in the corridor. Coach had to drag 'em apart."

I dragged a hand down my face. "Jesus wept."

Sienna patted my back gently. "There, there."

"Don't 'there, there' me. You're enjoying this."

"I really am."

We leaned against the cold painted brick. Five minutes dragged into ten. I pulled out my phone. My mum had sent three texts.

> Mum: Did you submit that corporate law internship application? Dad wants to look over your cover letter tonight.

>

I stared at the screen. A knot tighter than a tourniquet formed in my gut.

Law. Finance. Corporate graduate schemes.

That was the plan. Their plan. The safe, respectable path they’d worked seventy hours a week to pave for us. They didn't want a writer for a daughter; they wanted a daughter with a pension plan and a steady salary.

I typed: Almost done. Just polishing it.

I hovered over send, felt a spike of guilt, deleted it, and typed back: Will show you later.

Locked the screen. Slapped the phone back into my bag.

Sienna threw me a sideways glance. "Mum?"

"Parents."

"The internship thing again?"

"Always."

"Nightmare."

Before I could answer, the heavy double doors clattered open.

Rian walked out first. His hair was dripping wet from a rushed shower, his kit bag slung over one shoulder, and a nasty, raw red scrap bruised the top of his left cheekbone.

I snapped straight upright. "What the hell happened to your face?"

"Nothing," he grunted, keeping his head down.

"You're bleeding, Rian."

"It's a scratch. Drop it."

"Your definition of a scratch usually involves stitches."

He glanced at Sienna. "Alright."

"Hiya," Sienna said smoothly. "Rough luck out there."

"They got lucky," Rian growled.

"Did Lucian do that to your face?" I asked, stepping right into his path so he had to stop.

His whole demeanor stiffened. The air between us instantly turned defensive. "Elara. Drop it."

"Did he hit you?"

"I said, stay out of it."

"That isn't a no."

He grabbed his bag strap tightly. "It's the only answer you're getting. Go wait in the car."

"Don't speak to me like I'm twelve—"

The heavy fire door swung open again behind him.

Lucian Vale stepped out into the corridor.

He was out of his kit, dressed in a plain black heavy-cotton tee, dark jeans, and a jacket hung loosely over one shoulder. His dark hair was still damp, pushed back carelessly off his face. The cocky adrenaline from the pitch had faded, replaced by an expression of supreme, icy indifference. Like the whole match had been an inconvenient chore he’d been forced to complete.

His dark eyes drifted up, scanning the corridor, and landed squarely on Rian. Then they flicked to me.

He paused.

Just a fraction of a second, but I felt it. A deliberate, slow sweep of his gaze.

Rian instantly shifted his weight, putting his shoulder between us. " don't even think about it, Vale."

Lucian stopped, leaning one shoulder against the concrete wall, his lips twisting into a lazy, patronizing smirk. "I wasn't looking at you, Mercer. Relax before you blow a gasket."

"Keep walking."

"Still tossing out orders after taking an L?" Lucian’s voice was smooth, quiet, and absolutely dripping with condescension. "Thought you'd be halfway to the pub by now, drowning your sorrows."

Rian took a sharp step forward.

I caught my brother's forearm, digging my fingers into his jacket. "Rian. Stop."

Rian flexed his arm, his breathing heavy, but he didn't advance.

Lucian watched the interaction with mild amusement, his dark eyes tracking my hand on Rian’s arm before rising back up to my face.

"Your sister seems to have double the brain cells you do, Mercer," Lucian said quietly. "Shame it didn't run in the family."

"Keep her name out of your mouth," Rian spat, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.

"I gave her a compliment."

"You don't get to speak to her."

Lucian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Is that right?"

I reached my limit. I stepped directly out from behind Rian’s shadow, taking a deliberate step toward Lucian.

"Are you always this insufferable," I asked, my voice deadly level, "or do you just put on a special performance when there's an audience?"

Rian snapped his head toward me. "Elara, don't."

Lucian didn't move an inch. Up close, he was taller than he looked on the pitch, broad-shouldered and sharp-edged. The faint track of an old scar cut through his right eyebrow. His dark brown eyes weren't bright or angry—they were cold, weary, and far too perceptive.

"Excuse me?" he said softly.

I adjusted my bag strap over my shoulder. "I asked if you're always this insufferable. It's a fairly simple question, Vale."

"I heard you."

"Then why are you standing there looking confused?"

Behind me, Sienna let out a tiny, choked gasp. Rian muttered a low, horrified, "Oh, sweet Jesus."

For a second, Lucian just stared at me. The smug, detached grin slowly faded off his face, replaced by something sharper. He wasn't looking at me like I was just another student in the crowd anymore.

He was actually looking at me.

His eyes dropped down to the weathered leather notebook wedged under my arm. The spine was split, a black elastic band holding the frayed pages together. On the front cover, scrawled in black ink, was the working title of the manuscript I’d spent the last seven months pouring my soul into—the one thing in my life my parents didn't know about.

"You write?" he asked, his voice losing its mocking bite.

I pulled the notebook a fraction closer to my side. "Sometimes."

"Poetry?"

"Why? Do I look like the type?"

He leaned back slightly against the brick, his gaze lingering on the worn cover. "You look like the type who overthinks everything and writes bitter prose about it."

I felt a flash of heat prickle at the back of my neck. "Then it's a good thing my writing isn't any of your business."

"Touchy."

"Exhausted," I corrected cleanly. "Because between my brother's anger management issues and your desperate need for validation, I'm wasting my Saturday afternoon."

Sienna coughed loudly to hide a laugh.

Lucian tilted his head, a genuine flicker of amusement finally breaking through his hard exterior. "You've got a sharp tongue, Mercer."

"My surname is Bennett," I said coolly. "And I'm not 'a Mercer'. I'm myself."

Lucian’s eyes locked onto mine, holding them. "Bennett," he repeated quietly, testing the word like he was storing it away. "Right."

Rian grabbed my shoulder and shoved me gently behind him again. "We're done here. Stay the fuck away from her, Lucian. I won't tell you again."

The air in the narrow corridor instantly plunged ten degrees.

Lucian straightened up off the wall. The subtle arrogance vanished, replaced by an edge so sharp it made my skin prickle. He stepped into Rian’s space, towering over him by an inch or two.

"Is that a threat, mate?" Lucian murmured, his tone eerily soft.

"It's a promise."

"You couldn't even keep me out of your box for ninety minutes," Lucian sneered, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "You think you can stop me doing whatever the hell I want off the pitch?"

"Try me."

They stood chest-to-chest, two idiot ego-driven athletes seconds away from turning a corridor into a brawl.

I stepped straight back between them, slamming my hand flat against Lucian’s chest.

Through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, his skin was warm, his heart hammering a fast, aggressive rhythm. He froze instantly, his eyes snapping down to where my palm was resting over his chest.

"Both of you," I hissed, glaring between them, "shut up. You look like two dogs fighting over a bone. It’s embarrassing."

Neither of them spoke.

I turned my head and looked Lucian dead in the eye. "You won the match. Take your little trophy, go back to your over-priced student flat, and leave us alone."

Lucian looked down at my hand on his chest, then slowly dragged his gaze up to mine. His jaw worked silently for a moment.

"See you around, Mercer," Lucian said, his eyes never leaving my face as he addressed Rian.

He turned on his heel and walked away down the corridor, his boots echoing sharply against the concrete until he disappeared through the double doors at the far end.

The rain was coming down in sheets by the time we reached Rian’s beaten-up Ford Fiesta in the outer car park.

Sienna scrambled into the back seat, shaking out her wet coat, while I slid into the front passenger side, slamming the door shut against the howling wind. Rian yanked his door closed, threw his gear bag into the footwell, and stared blankly at the steering wheel.

For three miles, the only sound was the heavy slap of the windscreen wipers and the drone of the engine.

"You know," I said, breaking the silence as we stopped at a red light, "for a guy who claims to hate Lucian Vale, you spend a terrifying amount of energy obsessing over him."

"Don't start, El," Rian snapped, keeping his eyes glued to the dark road ahead.

"I'm not starting anything. I'm just saying—"

"You don't know him, alright? You don't know the shit he pulls."

"I don't care about him, Rian! I care about you getting kicked off the team or suspended before finals!"

Rian slammed his hands against the wheel. "He deliberately pushed my buttons! He knows exactly what to say to get under my skin!"

"And you give it to him every single time!" I yelled back, my voice echoing in the small cabin. "He waltzes in, pulls your string, and watches you dance! It's an ego trip for him, and you fall for it every week!"

Rian went quiet. His jaw flexed. He didn't answer.

From the backseat, Sienna leaned forward awkwardly. "He was a massive dickhead, t fair."

"Thank you," Rian muttered.

"Not helping, Sienna," I sighed, leaning my head back against the headrest.

Rian’s phone, sitting in the cup holder between us, suddenly buzzed.

The screen lit up.

No caller ID. Just an unsaved number.

Rian flicked his eyes down, reached over, and declined the call.

Two seconds later, it buzzed again.

"Who is it?" I asked, frowning.

"Nobody."

"Rian."

It buzzed a third time. This time, a preview text popped up on the lock screen before Rian could grab it.

> Unknown: Tell your sister she left her umbrella in the tunnel. Or I can bring it to her myself.

>

My stomach dropped into a sudden, weightless freefall.

Rian snatched the phone, jammed the power button down, and shoved it deep into his coat pocket. His knuckles were bone-white against the leather wrap of the steering wheel.

"Rian—"

"I told you," he said, his voice flat, dangerously quiet, and stripped of all anger. "Stay away from him, Elara. I mean it."

I looked out the passenger window, watching the streetlights bleed across the rain-streaked glass.

I hated the way Rian treated me like glass that was waiting to shatter. I hated the suffocating weight of my parents' expectations crushing my chest every time my phone chimed.

And most of all, I hated the fact that when I closed my eyes, I didn't see the law application or my brother's bleeding cheekbone.

I saw a pair of dark, exhausted brown eyes.

You look like the type who overthinks everything and writes bitter prose about it.

I pulled my battered notebook out of my tote bag, flipped it open to a fresh page, and clicked my pen.

At the top of the crisp white line, I wrote:

Some people don't enter your life to break you. They enter to remind you of all the pieces you've already lost.