1
Avery
Tonight was supposed to be my peak collegiate moment. The atmosphere was straight out of a cinematic sports montage: the humid autumn air, the distant, rhythmic thrum of the drumline, and the blinding glow of the stadium lights turning the horizon a hazy shade of electric blue. This was the biggest rivalry game of the season, and as the girlfriend of the starting quarterback, I was supposed to be the one in the stands, wearing a jersey that was three sizes too big and losing my voice from cheering.
Instead, I’m standing in the shadows of Parking Lot C, watching my eight-month relationship dissolve into a puddle of clichés and coldness.
"Are you actually serious right now?" I ask, my voice trembling in a way that makes me want to punch myself. I’m staring at Tyler Matthews like he’s just told me he doesn't believe in gravity.
Tyler doesn’t look at me. Instead, he runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair—the kind of hair that requires more product than I use in a week—and looks toward the stadium entrance. He’s already checked out. He’s already in "The Zone," and apparently, there’s no room for me in his mental depth chart.
"Avery, come on," he sighs, the sound dripping with an impatience that makes my blood simmer. "I told you, I can't deal with this tonight. The scouts are here. My head is in the game."
"Deal with what?" I demand, taking a step closer. The smell of his expensive cologne, which I used to love, now just makes me feel nauseous. "Your girlfriend existing? Having a conversation? God forbid I wanted to wish you luck before the kickoff."
He finally looks at me, but his eyes are flat. "I need to focus. Coach already thinks I’m distracted because of that C- minus you 'helped' me with in Econ. This just isn't working anymore."
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, painful rush. Eight months. Eight months of being his tutor, his cheerleader, and his emotional support human. Eight months of pretending his roommates weren't Neanderthals and sharing my fries even though he always said he wasn't hungry.
"You’re breaking up with me... twenty minutes before the biggest game of the year?" I whisper. "Is this a joke? Is there a hidden camera?"
"I think we both knew this was temporary, Ave," he says, shifting his weight toward the stadium. "It was fun, but I’ve got a career to think about. You’re a distraction I can’t afford right now."
A distraction. I watch him turn his back on me and jog toward the tunnel, his cleats clicking against the asphalt—a rhythmic, mocking sound that marks the end of us. He doesn’t look back. Not once. I stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling the sting of tears finally winning the battle against my eyelids. I’m a total wreck, crying in a parking lot while ten thousand people are screaming for the guy who just dumped me like a piece of expired milk.
I sink onto the concrete curb, burying my face in my hands. My dignity hasn't just left the building; it’s currently sprinting toward the end zone in a gold and black jersey.
The heavy thud of a car door closing nearby makes me jump. I frantically wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand, praying to the universe that it’s just some late-arriving fan who will ignore the girl having a breakdown in the dirt.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps approach. They don't sound like a fan's sneakers; they sound like someone who owns the ground they walk on. A pair of pristine, high-end cleats stops inches from my toes.
I look up, squinting against the glare of the overhead lights, and the breath I was trying to steady hitches in my throat. Standing there, silhouetted against the stadium glow like some sort of dark-haired, broad-shouldered omen, is Liam Carter.
The Captain of Kingsley University. Our sworn enemy. The man who has spent the last three years dismantling our defense and looking effortlessly devastating while doing it.
"Is the guy who made you cry on your school’s football team?" he asks. His voice is a low, rich baritone that vibrates right through my chest.
I nod, too stunned to lie. "Yeah."
Liam’s jaw flexes, a hard, sharp line that makes him look dangerous. He doesn't look away, and he doesn't look pitying. He looks... annoyed on my behalf. He drops into a crouch in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees. Up close, he’s a problem. He’s all messy dark hair, intense eyes, and a rugged, athletic grace that makes Tyler look like a junior varsity backup.
"Want me to kick his ass on the field tonight?" he asks, his mouth tilting into the faintest, most lethal smirk I’ve ever seen.
A wet, shaky laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I swipe at a stray tear, feeling a sudden, frantic spark of heat in my veins. "You’d really do that?"
"Consider it a favor for a damsel in distress," he says, though his eyes tell me he doesn't think I'm a damsel at all. "Who is he?"
"The captain," I say, my voice gaining a bit of its edge back. "Tyler Matthews."
Liam’s eyebrows shoot up, and a dark, predatory satisfaction flickers across his face. He looks at me again, truly looking this time, his gaze lingering on my eyes before dropping to my lips. "Wait. You’re Avery."
My heart does a slow, heavy roll in my ribcage. "How do you know my name?"
"I pay attention," he says simply. He stands up, looming over me, and extends a large, calloused hand.
I hesitate for a heartbeat, then reach out. When my palm meets his, a jolt of pure electricity zips up my arm. He pulls me to my feet with effortless strength, bringing me closer to him than is strictly necessary. He smells like cedarwood and anticipation.
He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sends chills down my spine. "Tell Matthews something for me, Avery."
"What?" I breathe.
He slings his helmet under his arm and starts walking toward the visitor’s entrance, his gait confident and predatory. He stops at the edge of the light, glancing back over his shoulder with a wink that makes my knees feel like jelly.
"Tonight," he says, "the game isn't the only thing he’s losing."
I stand there, watching him disappear into the tunnel, my heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with Tyler and everything to do with the man about to ruin him. Suddenly, I’m not crying anymore.
In fact, I’ve never wanted our rivals to win more in my entire life.
