16. Willow
16
WILLOW
I wake up still riding the high of last night. My lips feel bruised from Vincent’s kiss, my skin still tingling from the way his fingers brushed mine when he said goodnight. It’s like a dream I don’t want to wake up from, but reality wastes no time pulling me back down to earth.
The contract. The rules. The fact that this is all still part of some larger game I barely understand.
I throw on an oversized white sweater, letting it hang off one shoulder, the soft fabric brushing against my collarbone. Paired with a denim tennis skirt and my white cowboy boots, I feel like myself again—comfortable, a little playful, and nothing like the girl who spent last night unraveling under Vincent’s intense gaze.
When I step outside, his sleek black car is already parked at the curb, gleaming in the soft morning light. He’s leaning casually against the passenger door, a picture of effortless charm in a perfectly tailored black blazer and a crisp white shirt. His sunglasses catch the sunlight, and his smirk—crooked and devastating—is a weapon all on its own.
In his hands are a travel mug and a cinnamon raisin bagel slathered with almond honey cream cheese. My favorite.
“Good morning, Willow,” he says smoothly, his voice warm and teasing as he steps forward and opens the door for me.
I glance inside, spotting my backpack neatly waiting on the seat. The thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my chest tighten, and I slide the bag onto the floor before settling in.
“Thank you,” I murmur, ducking my head as heat rises to my cheeks. My fingers tighten slightly around the bagel, the simple yet perfect offering making it impossible to hide the shy smile tugging at my lips. I inhale the scent of the coffee, and fuck me because the coffee is french vanilla -- how does he always know?
The car ride is quiet besides the sounds of me eating and some smooth music in the background, but the ride is not awkward at all. There’s something electric about it, like neither of us knows what to say after last night but we’re both too stubborn to bring it up. His presence fills the space, his cologne wrapping around me like a second skin.
When we pull up to campus, Vincent turns to me, pulling something from the seat beside him—a sleek black garment bag with gold detailing.
“What’s that?” I ask warily, eyeing it like it might explode.
“Your outfit for Damien’s game tonight.” His tone is casual, but there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes as he hands it to me. “Take a look at it later. You’ll wear it tonight.”
I grip the bag like it’s radioactive. “Do I get a say in this?”
He smiles, slow and devastating. “No. But I’m sure you’ll look stunning. Don’t be late.”
Before I can argue, he’s stepping out of the car, walking around to open my door. As I step out, his hand brushes my lower back, sending a jolt through me that I’m sure he notices.
I swallow hard, clutching the garment bag as I head into the building, my boots clicking against the pavement. I don’t dare open it yet. Whatever Vincent picked out for me can wait.
When my last class finally lets out, I find myself in the bathroom, staring at the bag like it’s a wild animal about to pounce. The gold zipper gleams under the fluorescent lights, daring me to open it.
With a deep breath, I pull it down.
The first thing I see is red and black—Damien’s colors. It’s a cropped jersey with “D. Sterling” printed across the back in bold letters, the hem frayed just enough to look deliberate. Beneath it, a pair of low-rise jeans, the kind that cling to every curve and threaten to reveal too much. But it’s the last piece that makes my stomach drop: a black thong with “Sterling” spelled out in rhinestones along the strings.
My face flames.
This has to be a joke. There’s no way I’m wearing this.
I pull out my phone, frantically texting Cast and Vincent.
Me: What. The. Hell? Damien hates me! This will only make it worse!
Cast: One word. Contract.
Me: I’m not parading around in this! It’s humiliating!
Vincent: You’ll look good. Stop overthinking. Damien’s got thick skin.
I stare at the outfit, my reflection in the mirror looking pale and panicked. My pulse pounds in my ears as I run my fingers over the jersey.
Me: I don’t though. Also other people are going to see me.
Vincent: Don’t remind me.
Cast: And they’ll know who you belong to.
“This is insane,” I whisper to myself, but deep down, I know I have no choice.
Me: You two are ridiculous.
Cast: Stop pouting and follow instructions.
I let out a frustrated cry, throwing my phone onto the bathroom counter as the texts from Cast and Vincent glare back at me.
"I can’t wear this," I mutter, staring down at the outfit like it’s some sort of punishment designed to humiliate me. My reflection doesn’t help; my pale, panicked face looks like it belongs to someone about to walk into an execution.
But deep down, I know I don’t have a choice. The contract is clear. I either play by their rules or... well, I don’t even want to think about the consequences, because I can’t afford it anyway.
Taking a shaky breath, I peel off my oversized sweater and denim skirt, slipping into the low-rise jeans first. They fit like a second skin, clinging to me in ways that leave little to the imagination. The rhinestone-studded thong feels like the cherry on top of a very mortifying sundae.Finally, I pull the cropped jersey over my head, the frayed hem brushing against my ribs. I glance at myself in the mirror, smoothing my hands down the jersey. My cheeks are flushed, my dark curls already starting to slip from their clip.
“You can do this,” I whisper, trying to convince myself. “It’s just one night.”
When I finally leave the bathroom, my heart is racing. I can hear the crowd before I even step into the arena, the roar of voices and the unmistakable sound of skates cutting across ice.
Damien is already on the ice, his movements sharp and commanding as he passes the puck to a teammate. The crowd surges with energy, and I feel the stares before I see them. Whispers ripple through the stands like wildfire, people nudging each other and pointing in my direction.
I bite my lip, ready to turn and bolt, when an arm slips around my shoulders.
“Relax,” Vincent’s deep voice rumbles in my ear. He’s standing beside me, dressed in his usual tailored perfection, exuding a calm confidence that I desperately wish I could borrow. “They’ll get over it.”
I glance up at him, my pulse hammering. “What if Damien hates this?”
Vincent’s smirk is infuriatingly casual. “He won’t. Trust me.”
Cast appears on my other side, grinning as if he’s enjoying my discomfort. “When Damien makes a shot, you’d better cheer loud enough for the whole arena to hear.”
I glare at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Cast replies, his tone teasing but firm.
The game continues, and I stand stiffly between them, hyper aware of every glance thrown my way. Then Damien takes possession of the puck. He weaves around defenders with a grace that makes the crowd roar.
“Cheer, Carina!” Cast nudges me.
I take a deep breath and cup my hands around my mouth. “Go, Damien!”
My voice rings out, louder than I intended. Heads turn, and I feel my face burn, but I keep cheering. “You’ve got this!”
Damien winds up and takes the shot, the puck soaring into the net. The arena erupts, and I clap, my voice blending into the cacophony.
“Good,” Cast says, grinning. “Now, turn around.”
I hesitate, my stomach twisting, but I do as he says.
Damien’s grey eyes lock onto mine from across the ice. His expression is unreadable at first, his gaze flicking to the jersey, the rhinestones on the thong’s strings peeking over the edge of my jeans. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to skate away.
The sharp sound of a whistle cuts through the roaring arena, and my stomach drops.
“Damn, Damien, where’d you find her? And can I borrow her after the game?” One of his teammates yells, his voice carrying easily over the noise.
I freeze, my cheeks burning as laughter ripples through the bench. My fingers tighten around the hem of Damien’s jersey, wishing I could sink into the floor.
“Who the hell was that?” I whisper, my eyes darting to Vincent and Cast, who both look far too entertained.
Before they can answer, Damien spins on the ice, his skates screeching against the surface. He strides straight toward the offending player, his jaw clenched and his eyes blazing.
“Say that again,” Damien growls, his voice low and deadly.
The guy, still grinning, raises his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, man. Just saying your girl looks good—real good. No harm in that.”
“Don’t.” Damien's knuckles collide with the man's helmet, causing the visor to crack before he can even finish his sentence.
Gasps ripple through the crowd as the guy stumbles back, blood trickling from his nose. But he recovers quickly, lunging at Damien, and the two of them collide in a flurry of fists and skates.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, my eyes wide.
Vincent bursts out laughing, his shoulders shaking as he leans against the railing. “Classic. Damien’s a territorial bastard.”
“He’s been waiting for an excuse to deck someone,” Vincent adds, grinning ear to ear.
“What does this have to do with me?” I demand, my voice rising in panic.
Vincent smirks, glancing at me. “Everything, sweetheart.”
“Why are you two enjoying this?!” I hiss, looking back at the ice. The refs are pulling Damien and his teammate apart, both of them still snarling like feral animals.
“Because,” Cast says, “this is hilarious. And honestly, long overdue.”
One of the refs skates over to the benches and gestures toward the penalty box. “Impromptu timeout for number 12,” he announces, his tone annoyed.
“Impromptu timeout?” I echo, looking between Cast and Vincent.
“Don’t worry about it, Princess. You can go check on him after the game,” Vincent laughs, kissing my cheek.
I barely have time to register Vincent’s kiss on my cheek before he’s whistling loudly, drawing attention from the nearby fans. It’s almost like he’s enjoying the chaos unfolding on the ice a little too much.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, glancing back toward Damien in the penalty box, the fire still burning in his eyes. But despite the chaos of the game, I can’t help but feel a sense of nervous excitement swirling in my stomach. The crowd's energy is infectious, and a part of me is almost starting to enjoy this twisted game they’re playing.
Suddenly, the stadium’s lights dim, and the big screen overhead flashes to life, cutting away from the game to the audience. The crowd goes wild when they see the familiar kiss cam graphic. I freeze, feeling my heart leap into my throat.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, suddenly wishing for the ground to swallow me whole.
Vincent seems to read the panic in my eyes and laughs softly. "Relax, sweetheart. Just play along."
Before I can protest, he pulls me into his side, wrapping his arm around my shoulders possessively. Cast, ever the instigator, elbows him and grins at me. “We’ve got this.”
The kiss cam zooms in on us, and the crowd erupts into cheers. But then, to my utter surprise, Vincent stands up suddenly, making an exaggerated bow before me.
“Willow, my darling,” he announces, loud enough for the entire stadium to hear. “Will you go to prom with me?”
I blink, stunned, my heart racing as I stare at him. Cast, not missing a beat, pulls out a single rose from behind his back, handing it to me as he dramatically drops to one knee.
“We’ve got the limo, the tux, and all the flair you could ever want,” Cast says with a wink. “What do you say?”
The crowd is practically vibrating with excitement, shouting, laughing, and egging me on. Vincent grins like the devil himself, eyes alight with amusement. It’s all too much to process at once, and my mind scrambles for words.
“Are you serious?” I ask, laughing in disbelief but with a fluttering feeling in my chest.
Vincent’s smirk only deepens, and he leans closer to me. “I wouldn’t joke about this, sweetheart.”
I swallow hard, feeling my heart race. How the hell did I get pulled into this whirlwind? My thoughts barely have time to process before the entire stadium starts chanting my name, urging me to answer.
“Yes,” I breathe, feeling like I’m dreaming. “Yes, I’ll go to prom with you.”
Vincent’s smile is triumphant as he pulls me into a kiss, right there in front of the whole stadium. The crowd roars, and my head spins. The kiss is brief but intense, a spark of something electric igniting between us.
When we finally pull away, my heart is hammering in my chest.
“I knew you’d say yes,” Vincent whispers against my lips, his hand gently cradling my face. “You’ve always belonged to me.”
I don’t know what to think about that, but for now, all I can do is smile, trying to steady my breathing while the crowd continues to cheer.
____________________
After the game, the crowd slowly starts to dissipate, I stand up from my seat, still reeling from the chaotic kiss cam stunt. The stadium lights flicker back to full brightness, and the announcer’s voice fills the air. Cast gives me a quick nod, his expression a mix of mischief and approval.
“Go wait outside the locker room for Damien, Willow,” Cast says, his voice smooth but commanding. “We need to make sure Damien stays on track after all the drama.”
I nod, still processing everything that just happened, and make my way down the narrow hallway toward the locker rooms, my boots clicking against the floor in rhythm with my thoughts. The adrenaline from the game, the chaos, the kiss—it's all crashing down around me in a dizzying rush. My mind is spinning, unsure of what to focus on next.
As I walk toward the entrance, I hear voices ahead of me. Damien’s voice, low and angry, followed by the sharp, clipped tone of Isabel.
“Why is she wearing that?” Isabel demands, her words cutting through the silence.
I freeze in place, heart suddenly thumping in my chest. I stay hidden around the corner, hoping they don’t see me, but I can’t help but strain my ears to listen.
“Your name,” Isabel sneers. “The thong. Why is she wearing that, Damien? You’re not even together, and you’ve made your feelings clear.”
Damien sighs, his voice tight with frustration. “I already told you. She’s?—”
“You’re a liar.” Isabel interrupts, her voice rising in anger. “Don’t lie to me, Damien! I know you’re not with me, not really. But why does she have to wear that—why does she have to be the one you show off like this?”
I take a slow, shaky breath, not knowing what to make of their argument, but before I can pull away, I hear the unmistakable sound of Damien’s voice, sharper and full of frustration.
“Because I don’t care what anyone thinks about her, Isabel!” His voice cracks, raw and full of emotion. “I’m done pretending. I’m not going to keep lying about how I feel.”
Isabel’s gasp is audible, and I can almost picture her wide-eyed expression. There’s a long, painful silence before she speaks again, her voice a mere whisper. “You’re really breaking up with me?”
“Yeah,” Damien says, his words curt and final. “I am.”
There’s the sound of footsteps, and I press myself closer to the wall, not wanting to be seen, not sure if I should move or stay hidden. My heart pounds in my chest as I feel the weight of the tension building between them. I don’t want to eavesdrop on something this personal, but I can’t tear myself away.
Isabel’s voice cracks as she pleads, “Damien, please... don’t do this.”
But Damien doesn’t respond. Instead, there’s a moment of heavy silence before the door to the locker rooms swings open and slams shut with a harsh clang.
I turn around, panic rising in my chest as I realize I’ve been caught. Damien steps out of the locker room, his face a mask of frustration and barely contained anger. His eyes land on me, and for a moment, there’s an uneasy pause between us. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze locks onto mine like a magnet, pulling me in.
“Damien,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice tight, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You’ve been playing a game, Willow. Wearing that outfit... letting everyone see you like that. What do you think it means?” His words are sharp, pointed.
“I didn’t—” I begin again, but my voice falters, uncertainty clawing at my insides.
“No.” His voice cracks slightly, the tension in his posture growing. “You don’t get it, Willow. It’s not just the outfit—it’s you. I don’t want to feel like this. But I’m angry. At myself. At you. At everything. I don’t want to be the guy who’s so caught up in this mess that I don’t even know what I feel anymore.”
I open my mouth to respond, to say something—anything—but the words die in my throat when Damien steps toward me, his lips crashing against mine in a kiss that’s fierce and unrelenting.
His hands grip my face, pulling me closer to him, and for a brief moment, all the noise, the confusion, the tension between us disappears. It’s just us—our lips, our breath, the heat between us that I can’t explain. His kiss is full of anger, but there’s something else there too—desperation.
As quickly as it began, the kiss ends. Damien pulls back, his chest heaving with frustration. His eyes are dark with emotion, his face tense. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice barely audible. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I stand there, breathless, my heart racing, unable to speak for a moment. I’ve never felt something so intense. The kiss, the chaos—it’s all too much to process.
“I need to go,” Damien says abruptly, his voice cold now. “Just... stay away from me, Willow.”
And with that, he walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway, breathless and lost. My fingers brush against my lips, still tingling from the kiss, and my mind reels.