1 - KAYLA
Jaylynn sighs dreamily. “I need to get him in my bed—”
I shoot her a glare as she practically drools over Camden Duke—my insufferable stepbrother, UMD Huskies’ star pitcher, and president of Delta Psi Alpha, the fraternity that might as well be called “Douchebags United.”
Six years of sharing a house with him during high school was enough. Now we’re at the same university on matching scholarships, and I still can’t escape his shadow.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” I tell her. “You’re not exactly his usual flavor. But I’m sure after a few boob jobs, some lip-puffing bullshit, and hair that looks like it was dipped in bleach, you’d be right up his alley.”
She clicks her tongue. “Please. Guys like him only have one type—horny college girls.” She gestures at herself. “Oh, look. That’s me!”
I laugh despite myself. “Anyone else, Jay. Literally anyone but my stepbrother.”
“No way. Haven’t you heard what they say about him?” She stretches her hands wide apart with a suggestive eyebrow raise.
“That’s disgusting.” I wrinkle my nose.
“Ah, come on, Kayla. You can’t tell me that if Camden strutted over here with those dimples and that jawline, you wouldn’t melt a little?”
I meet her gaze, expression flat. “That’s almost exactly what I’m telling you…”
She turns back toward the diamond with a smirk. “Sure, babe. Whatever you say.”
I tell myself I’m not going to look, but I do. And when I see Camden standing on the pitcher’s mound, he’s a goddamn monument.
His shoulders pull the fabric of his uniform taut, his posture so straight it’s like he’s got a steel rod instead of a spine. His maroon and gold cap is yanked low over his forehead, but nothing could disguise Camden’s jawline, sharp and clenched tight with a kind of focus that takes your breath away.
I watch Camden’s warm-up, some girls down the bleachers scream when he does it, and I want to roll my eyes so far back I can see my own brain.
But instead, I just stare at him, knowing full well that for a few heartbeats, every set of eyes—including mine—are glued to my stepbrother.
He’s taller than most, broader, and he makes the uniform work for him like a second skin. The number eighty-eight ripples between his shoulder blades, placed strategically beneath our last name —D U K E.
His forearms, tanned and bulging with veins, send the ball arcing through the air with such force I half expect to hear a sonic boom.
“Strike!”
I can’t help but compare Camden to when we were younger, both of us track stars at our rural high school outside Duluth, forced into sibling rivalry.
Back then, he was all elbows and anger, picking fights with pudgy boys, talking back to every adult in a three-mile radius. And nobody said a damn word because he was the golden boy Camden Duke, the one who was going to give our shitty small town a name.
I was the quiet one, the “old soul,” the girl who never fit in.
We orbited each other out of necessity, sharing bathroom schedules, fake pleasantries at dinner, but not a hint of warmth from either of us.
Now, on the field, Camden is all controlled power, and I realize he’s channeled every ounce of that adolescent rage into pitching.
The second and third pitch comes, and the batter strikes out. Cam doesn’t pump his fist or shout. He just stands there a second longer, letting the stadium noise wash over him, before resetting for the next batter.
I hate him. I really do.
