Chapter 1
Sasha
“Boys, let me warn you first,” Coach Rourke says, his bald head shiny as always.
He carries the register file in one hand, tapping it lightly against his palm. He stands tall — too tall — the kind of tall that reminds you no one on this team could ever match his height or the sheer bulk of his body frame.
“The Scorpions team has a new captain,” he continues. “Renji Hattori. Known to be the best in the field. They say he’s never lost. Not once. All the way from Japan. So this year? Buckle up, boys. More training, less relaxing. Got it? I believe in you. Alright, Warthogs — let’s move.”
He ends with a shout, his cheeks covered with brown beard, stern face almost too white under the lights, eyes sharp before they soften with the smallest smile.
Then he disappears.
Ha.
I laugh silently, smirking.
That doesn’t scare me. Not even a little.
My team isn’t afraid either. We’ve been chewing this team up for years. They’ve only won twice against us — and even with this so-called best captain, he’s got nothing on us.
I’ll crush him.
God, I’m going to enjoy watching him get crushed, like that best captain thing is just a stupid slogan.
Shaking my head, alone, I bet he’s going to cry.
Once I finish putting on my last shoe, my eyes drift to Rohan. He’s already fully geared up, helmet in place.
He walks over, taps my shoulder, then leads the team out the door, leaving me behind as I grab my helmet from the top of my locker and hurry after them.
I meet the team halfway. They part for me without a word, and I slip through, jogging lightly. The second the crowd sees me, a rush hits — pure thrill, pure adrenaline — as screaming and chanting explode around me. cheerleading bounce everywhere, up, down, left, right, legs kicking high, and for a moment I feel like the king of the Warthogs, not just the captain.
My team jogs out behind me.
We move toward the noise.
It’s intoxicating.
Then another roar erupts, louder, sharper, and my head snaps to the side. The Scorpions burst onto the field like they’re being chased by a monster.
They always do that.
Our uniforms are charcoal grey highlighted with white and blue hues. Theirs are black highlighted with white and red.
I search for the new captain and spot him immediately. Hattori stretches across the back of his jersey. I can’t see his face — helmet on — but I can tell that he’s tall. Definitely my height.
Minutes later, we’re lined up on the field.
I’m captain, offensive guard. Rohan’s co-captain, middle linebacker.
We crouch low. One hand on the turf. Eyes locked on my target — Jackson, the Scorpions’ co-captain, free safety. Fast bastard. I always put him on the ground.
Breathing.
Groaning.
Growling like a wild warthog ready to tear into its prey.
Ears sharp. Waiting for the whistle.
Mind and body primed to win again.
The last Scorpions captain couldn’t handle losing. Quit football altogether.
Weak.
We exposed that weakness.
I stretch my neck side to side, smirking beneath my helmet.
Phrrrrrrrrr—
The whistle shrieks, thrill detonating through my veins, and I move instantly. My team has the ball.
Jackson.
I’ve got him.
My shoulders tense, harden, and I slam into him, driving him into the ground in one brutal hit.
While I’m busy flattening their players, we score.
Minutes later — again.
And again.
We slam our chests together after every point, laughing, shouting, loving every second.
We take a short break. Catch our breath. Water. Energy.
Then we’re back.
Whistle.
Cleats pound the turf. Helmets clink. Shoulder pads crash. The crowd roars.
And then—
The Scorpions score.
I lift my head, watching them celebrate like idiots over a single point.
I chuckle.
Ridiculous.
We line up again.
They score.
Two points mean nothing.
They score again.
What?
Are they cheating?
I scan the field, locking eyes with Rohan. He was searching for me too.
What the fuck?
We play again — and they score like I never even touched Jackson.
“Fuck,” I mutter through my mouthguard.
Now I’m seething.
The Warthogs don’t lose.
We never lose.
My breathing turns heavy, so hard I swear I can see it even though the heat is brutal.
We play.
I tackle.
I slam them into the ground where they belong.
And they score.
Again.
My heart hammers, rage burning hot in my chest.
And then—
They score.
They win.
They won?
Fuck.
Who the hell is this new captain?
I rip my helmet off, yank out my mouthguard, spit onto the ground, and stalk toward the bench. The Scorpions are celebrating — jumping, chest-bumping, the crowd losing their minds. Their cheerleading wave red pom-poms that stab at my eyes.
“I heard the new Scorpions captain is handsome and hot,” two girls giggle behind me.
I whirl around.
How dare they?
It’s Luo and another girl.
“Luo?” I snap his name like a warning.
He purrs softly, staying quiet. He should know better.
“I’m sorry,” the girl says quickly.
Good.
How did we lose?
How did this happen?
My team will explain.
I don’t train them to lose. Not like this.
And I didn’t even see his face — only his back, jet black hair pulled into a loose bun.
That fucking bun.
__________
Back in my dorm, stretched out on my bed after a long shower, my mind refuses to let him go.
Handsome and hot.
I thought I was the one the cheerleading drooled over. Now they’re obsessed with a rival?
He’s not handsome and hot. He’s just new.
They should learn the difference.
I’m the hot one.
Still… curiosity gnaws at me.
I grab my phone from the pillow, unlock it, and search Renji Hattori on Instagram. I roll onto my stomach, legs hanging off the bed.
His profile pops up.
Profile picture: a football field.
Scrolling.
Nothing. No face. Just pics and videos of gear, balls, fields. Football. Everything football.
I scroll harder, irritation tightening my jaw — until I realize it ends.
The first post.
Three years ago.
“Hm,” I hum.
Then my finger betrays me and taps Follow.
Panic slams into my chest. I drop my phone like it burned me and jump back, staring at it from a distance.
Ping.
I lean closer.
Renji Hattori followed you back.
“Fuck me.”
Another notification appears — a story.
Time for celebration. The Viper Club. Tonight at 9 p.m. With my team.
“The Viper Club,” I mutter, smirking.
It’s 8:30 p.m.
Plenty of time.
I shove my feet into my slippers and rush down the hall to Rohan’s room.
Knock. Knock. Pause. Knock-knock-knock.
“Come in,” his deep voice calls.
He knows it’s me.
I storm inside.
He’s studying, of course — shirtless, seated in front of his weird black laptop that looks encrypted to hell.
Rohan’s IT. Computer science. I’m architecture. When I’m bored, I build miniature houses or design them on my laptop.
Architecture hooked me young — Uncle Justin’s house, designed by Uncle Vinnie, a masterpiece. I was ten when he showed me the plans. From then on, I drew everything.
We grew up surrounded by intensity — underground gyms, fight clubs, shooting ranges owned by uncle Andrei and uncle Matteo while uncle Matius own a dancing house for ballet. Training like the world would end if we didn’t.
Football give us that same rush.
I jump onto Rohan’s bed. “The rivals are hitting the Viper Club at nine.”
He rolls his chair toward me. “How do you know?”
“Instagram. That captain posted it. His page has no face of him, just football. Guy’s obsessed. It’s going to hurt when they don’t win the next game.”
“So?” he asks.
I tilt my head, grin sharp. “We crash their celebration.”
His smile mirrors mine. “Whole team?”
“Whole team.”
We’re not letting this go.
By 9:50, we’re inside the club — dressed to kill. Lights flashing. Music pounding. Eyes scanning.
There.
The Scorpions — laughing, heading down the stairs.
But no captain.
Then I see him.
Walking toward me with Jackson, laughing like they’ve known each other forever.
I nudge Rohan. He follows.
We trail them through the crowd. People dancing, shouting, sweating.
They stop.
Turn toward each other, smiling like they’re communicating without words.
I step forward.
Captain to captain.
Jackson moves aside.
And my breath catches.
Fuck.
My eyes widen. Heat crawls up my neck. Tight. Strange. Wrong.
He’s not handsome.
He’s gorgeous.
Beautiful.
Unreal.
Black-and-white checkered shirt, short sleeves, hanging open — nothing underneath. Nipples not exposed. Abs. Six of them. Defined like they’re showing off. Slim waist, pushed slightly forward. Sexy... Fucking slutty.
I swallow hard.
Then his face.
What the fuck is this guy?
Model? Idol? Built in a lab?
Slim black brows. Long lashes. Deep brown eyes lined dark, like midnight or smoke. Hair so black it looks unreal — damp, tied into a bun with loose strands framing his face.
No human should look like this.
Even girls who think they’re stunning don’t compare.
Perfect.
Lethal.
My stomach twists, something unfamiliar stirring.
He looks fucking gay.
I love gays. I mean, our uncles and parents are gay.
But Rohan and I aren’t.
We fuck girls. All the time.
And yet—
He smiles.
His face brightens up.
The world stops.
I hear nothing but my heartbeat.
“Sorry,” he says — deep, soft, accented with Japanese just enough.
Reality snaps back.
He moves past me.
And as he does—
He pushes his ass out.
It brushes my soft cock.
Twitch.
Fuck.
My mind explodes.
