Foul & Fake (Red Card Romance #3)

Red Card Rites

In times of old… or at least since the days when men still believed themselves gods among mortals (so, roughly a decade ago), a ritual most foul took root in the hallowed grounds of Northgate University.

’Twas not a test of skill nor a trial of strength, but a rite of mischief and torment, passed down from one generation of miscreants to the next.

Each year, as the autumn leaves fall and the air grows crisp with the scent of battle (and overpriced pumpkin spice lattes), the senior warriors of the men’s soccer team, drunk on power and the unearned confidence of their forebears, select a victim from the junior ranks of the women’s team.

A singular soul upon whom they shall unleash a campaign most merciless, for reasons lost to time (and probably testosterone).

The rules are thus:

1. Thy mark must be chosen at random. Those chosen must remain so until the very end. The feistier, the better, for the greatest entertainment is wrought from the greatest suffering. The only exemption lies in those bound by courtship, for none already claimed may be claimed again.

2. Break her spirit by means both cunning and calculated.

Fill her locker with something truly vile—perhaps an assortment of questionable raw meats, carefully sourced for maximum horror.

Let whispers spread through the kingdom that she hath forged secret alliances with the enemy, her loyalty now in question.

Ensure she wakes in an unfamiliar location, relocated under the cover of darkness, not far enough to cause true panic, but just enough to ruin her morning.

And, if the gods of mischief allow it, see that she enjoys a night of restless torment before the season’s most critical match, alarms set at random, mysterious knocks upon her door, a well-timed playlist of unsettling noises. Victory favors the most relentless.

3. Deny all, lest ye be weak. Should suspicion fall upon thee, feign innocence, shed tears if thou must, and cast blame upon a brother-in-arms. Loyalty means naught in this war.

But lo, the women’s team hath never been content to suffer in silence.

Nay, with fire in their hearts and vengeance upon their tongues, they have turned the tide in years past. The mighty have been felled by ruined reputations, keys that vanish ere dawn’s first light, and lockers that house not gear, but swarms of ravenous insects.

And yet, the air crackles with unspoken tension, the calm before the inevitable storm. The season has begun, the battle lines are drawn, and soon—very soon—The Selection will be upon us.