1
Allison
There are levels to getting your heart ripped out.
Walking in on your boyfriend screwing someone else? That’s Level One. Walking in on him screwing your roommate? Level Two. Finding them in your bed, while she’s wearing your varsity cheer hoodie? That’s the Boss Level of betrayal.
She isn't even a flyer. She’s a math major with a penchant for "borrowing" things—my clothes, my snacks, and apparently, my boyfriend’s dick.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a lamp. I just stood there, keys digging into my palm, watching my life shatter like a cheap bottle of vodka. The worst part? Derek didn’t even look guilty. He just looked over his shoulder, mid-thrust, and blinked at me.
“Allie—shit. I thought you had practice.”
Like cheating was just a scheduling conflict he forgot to put in his Google Calendar. Like the last two years of my life were just a placeholder until he could find someone who didn't mind the smell of betrayal in the morning.
I walked out without a word. Not because I’m some Zen master of emotional regulation, but because if I’d opened my mouth, I would have spent the night in a holding cell.
That was forty-eight hours ago. Two days of pure, unadulterated rage simmering under my skin. Now, I’m standing on the sidelines of the Crestmont vs. Halston game—the kind of rivalry that usually ends in a police presence and at least three campus-wide bans. The stadium is a riot of red smoke, pounding drums, and enough testosterone to power a small city.
My eyes sweep the field. I’m not looking for Derek. I’m looking for the nuclear option.
Tyler Maddox.
Halston’s star quarterback. The guy every girl on the East Coast wants and every NFL scout is drooling over. He’s six-foot-four of pure, carved muscle and bad intentions. He’s got that effortless, "I own this world" swagger, a sleeve of ink that disappears under his pads, and dimples that should honestly come with a warning label from the Surgeon General.
He’s tossing a ball with a lazy, one-handed flick, looking bored by the gravity of the game. It’s a joke to him. Everything is. When he finally spots me, he doesn't look away. He doesn't do the polite, "rival school" nod. He gives me a slow, predatory smirk that makes my stomach do a backflip I didn't authorize.
Perfect.
I don't think. If I think, I'll stop. I march across the fifty-yard line, crossing into enemy territory in my Crestmont red. The crowd goes dead silent. The shift in energy is instantaneous—a collective gasp that ripples through the bleachers. My coach is screaming my name, but I’m locked on Maddox.
He palms the ball, watching me approach with narrowed, amused eyes. He doesn't move an inch, just stands there like a mountain waiting for the climber to fall.
“Allison Tate,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates in my chest. He tosses the ball to a teammate without even looking. “You’re a long way from home. You looking for a trade, or did you just realize which side of the field has the better views?”
He’s huge. Up close, he’s a wall of heat, adrenaline, and expensive cologne. I don’t say a word. Words are for people who aren't about to set their entire reputation on fire.
I reach up, fist my hands into the mesh of his jersey, and pull his head down to mine.
The stadium explodes. The sound of a thousand cameras clicking is like gunfire.
For a split second, he’s stiff—pure shock radiating off his frame. Then, his brain catches up. He groans into my mouth, a low, carnal sound, and his hands slam onto my waist to yank me flush against him. It’s not a "kiss." It’s a hostile takeover. He tastes like mint and pre-game energy, and he’s kissing me with the kind of hungry precision that makes me forget Derek ever existed. His tongue slides against mine, claiming space, marking territory in front of twenty thousand people.
One of his hands moves from my waist to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my ponytail, holding me there like he has no intention of ever letting go.
When he finally pulls back, just an inch, his eyes are dark, focused, and dangerously sharp. The air between us is thick enough to choke on.
“That for the cameras?” he mutters, his thumb grazing my lower lip, which I’m certain is already bruised.
“Allison! What the hell are you doing?!”
Derek. He’s sprinting toward us from the Crestmont bench, face a mottled purple, looking like he’s about to have an aneurysm. He looks small. He looks pathetic.
Maddox doesn't even glance at him. He keeps his eyes on me, his smirk widening into something lethal. He leans down, his lips brushing my ear so only I can hear him, though I know Derek is close enough to see the intimacy of it.
“Give me a reason to stay in this zip code, Tate,” he whispers, his voice rough and certain. “Say the word, and I’ll transfer to Crestmont. I’d love to watch his face every single morning when I walk you to class.”
He’s either the most insane man I’ve ever met, or the most brilliant.
Before I can breathe, he’s gone. He jogs backward toward his huddle, his eyes locked on mine the entire time, winking as he pops those devastating dimples.
I’m left standing on the turf, my skin humming and my heart slamming against my ribs. I’ve officially started a war, and for the first time since I found that hoodie on my floor, I’m the one holding the match.
