Chapter One – Liam
There are three things I don’t lose.
Games.
Money.
Control.
Everything else is negotiable.
The music in the frat house is loud enough to rattle the windows, bass vibrating through the floor beneath my sneakers. Bodies crowd the living room, cheap beer sloshing over plastic cups, laughter echoing too sharp, too fake.
I don’t drink much. I don’t need to.
Winning is intoxicating enough.
“Carter!” Mason shouts over the music, tossing me a bottle anyway. “You coming to the bar crawl tomorrow or are you too elite for us now?”
I roll my eyes. “I have practice at six.”
“Of course you do,” he smirks. “Golden boy schedule.”
I don’t correct him.
Hockey captain. Finance major. Future heir to Carter Holdings. Legacy student. Campus headline. I’ve heard it all.
What they don’t know?
I’m bored.
Winning has become predictable.
Girls? Easier than face-offs.
Smile. Eye contact. Controlled charm.
They lean in every time.
It’s not arrogance if it’s consistent.
Across the room, someone clears space on the coffee table and starts yelling about shots. Mason leans closer to me, lowering his voice.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You’ve never chased someone who doesn’t want you.”
I glance at him.
“That’s not a problem,” I say calmly. “That’s efficiency.”
He laughs. “No, seriously. You’ve never had to work for it. Never been rejected.”
I shrug. “Because I don’t aim wrong.”
“Bull.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m inspired,” he corrects. “Let’s make it interesting.”
I already don’t like where this is going.
“Say I pick someone,” Mason continues, grinning now. “Someone who doesn’t care about your last name, your money, your captain patch. You have one month to make her fall for you.”
I scoff. “That’s stupid.”
“Scared?”
That word.
I feel it like a tap to the ego.
“I’m not scared,” I say evenly.
“Then do it.”
The room feels smaller suddenly, louder. I don’t even know why I’m considering it.
Because he’s wrong.
Because no one is immune.
“Who?” I ask.
Mason scans the room dramatically, then shakes his head. “Not here. She wouldn’t be caught dead at this party.”
That catches my attention.
“Who?”
“You’ve seen her. Library. Always sitting by the window on the second floor. Headphones. Highlighter. That girl.”
I know exactly who he means.
Dark hair always pulled into a low ponytail. Oversized sweaters. Focused expression like the world doesn’t deserve her attention.
She walks like she has somewhere better to be.
I’ve noticed her before.
Not because she looked at me.
But because she didn’t.
“Elena Reyes,” Mason says. “Psych major. Scholarship kid. Works at the campus café.”
I don’t respond immediately.
She’s not like the others.
Not flashy. Not loud.
Still.
Everyone has something they want.
“What’s the wager?” I ask.
Mason grins slowly.
“There it is.”
I hate that I feel the pull of competition.
“Thirty days,” he says. “You make her fall for you. She has to be the one who says it first.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You host the spring formal. On your dime.”
That’s nothing.
“And if I do?”
Mason hesitates, then smirks. “I admit you’re untouchable.”
There it is.
Recognition.
Validation.
Control confirmed.
I glance toward the staircase, imagining her somewhere quiet, somewhere untouched by this chaos.
Thirty days.
I extend my hand.
“You’re on.”
Elena
The café smells like espresso and burnt sugar.
It’s calming.
Predictable.
Unlike most things.
“Large caramel macchiato for—” I check the cup. “Liam.”
The name barely registers until he steps forward.
Of course it’s him.
Liam Carter.
Campus royalty.
Perfect jawline. Controlled smile. That effortless confidence that makes girls lean forward without realizing it.
I hand him the cup.
He studies me like I’m a problem to solve.
“You’re Elena, right?” he says.
Direct eye contact.
Measured tone.
He already knows the answer.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t leave.
Most guys either flirt clumsily or don’t bother at all.
He just watches.
“You’re in my Behavioral Theories lecture,” he says.
“I am.”
“You always sit by the window.”
Observation noted.
“That’s where the light is,” I reply calmly.
A corner of his mouth lifts.
Interesting.
He’s not used to neutral responses.
“Do you always analyze people while they’re talking?” he asks.
“I study psychology,” I say. “It would be a waste not to.”
His eyes flash briefly — amusement? Challenge?
“Analyze me then.”
There’s no mockery in his tone.
That’s what makes it dangerous.
“You’re used to being liked,” I say. “You equate attention with control.”
He goes very still.
Most people laugh that off.
He doesn’t.
“And?” he asks quietly.
“You don’t like not knowing how this interaction will end.”
Silence.
Something shifts behind his eyes.
Then he smiles.
“You’re wrong about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I already know how this interaction ends.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll see you again.”
He says it like a fact.
Not a hope.
Not a question.
A conclusion.
I hold his gaze evenly.
“Confidence isn’t always accuracy.”
He lets out a low laugh, steps back, and finally takes his drink.
“We’ll test that.”
And then he walks away.
I tell myself I don’t watch him leave.
But I do.
And I don’t like the way my pulse feels slightly… unsettled.
