Chapter 2
Mads
Iam madly in love with Blake Aster.
And there is nothing I love more about her than when she’s riled up.
She’s stomping down the hall ahead of me, shoulders squared, blue hair swishing behind her. It used to be blonde, before the… incident.
Three years and I’m still watching her the same way, like she hung the damn moon and doesn’t even realize it. She’s never looked my way for more than a second, too wrapped up in school and football to spare me a glance, but it doesn’t matter. I’d follow her anywhere. I already do.
And it’s not like I haven’t been into other people—my type’s never been that specific—but nobody’s ever stuck in my head like this. Not the way she does. Which is pathetic, really, because one look from her does me in worse than anything anyone else could offer.
The corridor stretches long and dim, lined with wood-paneled walls and glass cases filled with trophies that look older than we are.
The air carries that permanent mix of floor polish and dust, the whole building creaking under the weight of too many years.
Harsh light flickers from a brass sconce, throwing shadows across the worn runner that muffles her footsteps just enough.
Her neck is flushed, jaw set like she’s imagining what my blood would look like on the floor. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Doc strides beside me, seconds away from knocking our heads together.
But I don’t care.
I’d sit through a hundred disciplinary meetings if it means I get to watch Blake huff and stomp and yell in my general direction.
Hell, I hope they make us do some kind of team-building punishment. Community service. Shared detention. Is detention a thing in college? Pick your poison. As long as I get to spend more time with her, I’ll scrub the locker room floors with a damn toothbrush.
She glances back once, just to glare at me, and I grin.
God, she’s going to kill me.
I hope she waits until after the playoffs.
Growing up the youngest of three brothers, I learned quickly that winding people up was both an art and a survival tactic.
And maybe that’s why I get such a thrill out of Blake’s temper now. She doesn’t lose control often, but when she does? Christ, it’s like watching someone score the winning goal in stoppage time.
Doc holds the door open to her office, and we file in under the silent threat of death. Blake goes first, still fuming.
I follow, trying not to look smug. I am pretty sure I fail.
Doc’s office is as sharp and utilitarian as she is.
No soft lighting, no art prints, just shelves lined with binders full of injury reports and player stats that look heavy enough to double as weapons.
The desk is bare except for two chairs and a single photo frame turned face down. I wonder who she’s mad at.
Aside from us.
The only nod to comfort is the mini fridge wedged beside an old radiator, probably filled with electrolyte shots and enough caffeine to power the whole building through another blackout.
My teammates never shut up about Doc. Constant locker-room banter about how she’s too fit to be a coach.
Not that they don’t respect her; they do.
Everyone does. It’s just the kind of crude joking that fills dead air between showers.
And sure, she’s objectively beautiful, but I’m not a fucking idiot.
You don’t reduce the woman who controls your starting lineup to a punchline.
Plus, if she ever heard them, they’d all immediately regret the fact that they were born with balls.
Coach Carmichael shuts the door behind us, lets out a sigh, and leans back against the wall, arms folded. He’s the good cop, which makes Doc the full-blown MI5 operative in this scenario.
She doesn’t sit.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she says.
“I’ve ignored a lot this season. Bags swapped, rooms flipped, conditioning gear going mysteriously missing.
Fucking glitter,” she glares at me, and I gladly take the heat in Blake’s place.
“I figured you were all blowing off steam. Getting the rivalry out of your system before playoffs.”
She steps closer. I stop breathing.
“But now your underclassman teammates are coming to me about it. Roommates.” She glares at me. Mental note: kick Chase’s ass. He’s the worst roommate alive.
“Even the damn student athletic trainer said she’s ‘emotionally fatigued’ by your drama,” she continues. “So, unless you’re aiming to be benched for the rest of the season, you better start talking because this fucking elevator bullshit was the last straw.”
Blake opens her mouth to deny everything, but I beat her to it.
“The lift wasn’t either of us.”
Doc raises an eyebrow.
“Ma’am,” I add.
She definitely does not believe me. “No?”
“No, I mean it. I’ve pulled some daft stunts this year, fair enough. But locking Blake in a broken lift? That’s not a joke. I’d never do that to her. And it wasn’t her, either. She looked ready to collapse when it jammed.”
Blake turns to look at me, startled.
“So what was it?” Carmichael asks, tone measured. “Coincidence?”
“Mechanical failure, maybe,” I say. “But it wasn’t me.”
Doc watches me with unsettling stillness, her arms crossed so tightly I hear the fabric of her windbreaker strain.
“The thing is,” she says slowly, “facilities says that the elevator passed inspection two weeks ago. No history of issues. Someone shut it down manually.”
Blake’s head jerks toward me, her eyes narrowing.
“How, exactly, would I shut it down while on it?” I ask. “Had to have been some other kind of problem.”
Doc tilts her head, her voice low and pointed.
“Or someone thought it’d be funny. And if I find out anyone on my roster had a hand in helping you out with a prank like this?
I won’t just bench you for a game or two.
I’ll pull your spots from the playoffs, and I’ll make sure you spend your entire final season on the bench, captain or not, explaining to everyone else how you blew it.
Who exactly would you have me replace you as goalie? As captain?”
The silence has gone taut. Practically buzzing. I refrain from verbally accepting that last part for the compliment I know it was.
I swallow hard and glance at Blake. She’s still glaring, but not at me anymore. Her eyes are fixed on the spot just over Doc’s head. “It wasn’t us,” she finally says.
Doc stares at us for a long beat, and I can’t tell if she’s gauging our sincerity or debating how much trouble she’d get in if she gave in to her violent urges.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But you’ve used up every last ounce of benefit of the doubt, Keller. Same goes for you, Aster.”
She levels us both with a look.
“No more stunts. No more revenge. If I hear about anything else between you two—so help me—I will bench you and make you volunteer together every damn weekend until the final whistle of the playoffs.”
Honestly?
That sounds amazing.
So naturally, I open my mouth and ruin my own life.
“Hypothetically,” I say, as innocently as a man covered in metaphorical glitter can manage, “if Blake’s locker were to somehow smell strongly of tinned tuna for the next seventy-two hours… would that count as a stunt or more of a team bonding experience?”
Blake spins toward me so fast that her ponytail nearly slaps me in the chest. Doc doesn’t blink.
“Out.”
“Doc—”
“Out, Keller.”
Carmichael mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.
“You want weekend service? You got it. You’ll be spending every Saturday between now and finals helping the field crew clean the visitor bleachers. Together.”
Blake groans like she’s being sentenced to death. I wink at her.
Totally worth it.
Doc won’t bench either of us unless it’s for something truly heinous, and everyone in this room knows that.
“And maybe,” I say, grinning wider and turning to Blake, “if we finish early, we can hose off together. You know…really lean into the whole grimy, sweaty, writhing-in-dirt dynamic. Bet you'd love that kind of team bonding.”
She chokes on air.
Doc's eye twitches.
“Not that it’s a fantasy or anything,” I add casually, even though I am absolutely implying it is. “It just seems efficient. Environmentally conscious. Intimate.”
Blake doesn’t just lunge—she grabs a fistful of my hoodie and slams me back against the wall with a force that definitely wasn’t in the student-athlete code of conduct. Coach Carmichael flinches so hard he nearly drops his clipboard.
And it’s not just the hit that stuns me—it’s the way she does it without hesitation, like her body’s hardwired for confrontation.
She’s half my size, but she doesn’t move like it.
No hesitation, no wasted effort. Just raw power compressed into a hundred and something pounds of pissed-off striker.
Her grip doesn’t falter, either; knuckles white, wrist locked, eyes blazing like she’s ready to plant me six feet under right outside this office window, beneath the sad little row of azaleas the grounds crew keeps forgetting to water.
It’s the kind of strength you only get from grinding through years of being underestimated—picking fights with weight rooms, outrunning every drill, and refusing to back down from anyone who thought she was too small to take seriously. And in this moment, she isn’t small at all. She’s immovable.
“Calm down, Blue.” She hates when I call her that, and I love that she hates it. I grin down at her, breath knocked out of me in the best way. “My pretty, violent little thing.”
I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and the fact that she doesn’t bite my fingers clean off feels like a win.
Doc makes a noise in her throat—half scoff, half warning—and we both freeze.
“You know what?” she says, voice deceptively calm. “I’m done. You two want to act like feral middle schoolers hopped up on pre-workout and spite? Fine.”
She opens a drawer and slams down two keycards.
“Congratulations. You’re being kicked out of your dorms. Starting tonight, you’ll be sharing the Birch Unit.”
Blake’s jaw drops. “Wait, the Birch? That’s the freaking time out tower! I thought it was just a rumor that you stuck players up there. I’ve been here for three years and no one has actually ever—”
“Yeah. They have. It’s just been over three years since anyone was so blatantly committed to acting like jackasses,” Doc snaps.
“It’s a last ditch effort, sure. But I’m not sure anything else is going to get through those thick skulls of yours.
And if I hear one more word from either of you, I’ll duct tape you into a novelty ‘This Is Our Get Along Shirt’ and make you run suicides across the parking lot until you vomit. ”
A long, horrified silence stretches across the room.
“She’s bluffing,” I whisper to Blake out of the corner of my mouth.
Doc looks directly at me and deadpans, sliding the key cards across her desk with two fingers. “I already bought the shirt.”
“But,” Blake is frantic. “We can’t live together! He’s a boy.”
“Man,” I correct her. “And if you’re curious, I’ll be more than happy to give you a full demonstration.”
She glares up at me, opens her mouth to say something else, but Doc interrupts.
“We’ve stuck teammates up there before—coed, same deal—and it worked. You’re not special. You don’t have to like each other, but you will learn to act like normal functioning human beings who aren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Living under the same roof tends to fast-track that lesson.”
Blake groans again, but this time it sounds more like a death rattle.
I smile.
Best punishment ever.