Chapter 5

Jessa

If there’s one thing Noah Carter is good at, it’s getting under my skin.

I swear he wakes up every morning plotting new ways to make my life miserable. It doesn’t matter if it’s at home, at school, or in front of half the football team—he knows exactly where to poke, and he does it with this infuriating grin that makes me want to hurl something at his perfect, stupid face.

Today was no different.

Actually, scratch that. Today was worse.

It started in the locker-lined hallway outside the gym. Jackson and I had just finished P.E., and I was already in a foul mood. Nothing like running laps in front of a bunch of guys who only see you as the punchline to some cruel joke. I was sweaty, tired, and all I wanted was to get to my next class without incident.

Of course, incident was practically Noah’s middle name.

He was leaning against the wall with two of his teammates, laughing at something dumb. His jersey hung loose over his broad shoulders, helmet dangling from his fingers like an accessory. He looked every inch the golden boy quarterback. And when his eyes found me, his grin sharpened into something dangerous.

“Hey, Lombardi,” he called out, just loud enough to make people turn their heads. “Careful going through the door. Don’t want your thick thighs getting stuck.”

For a split second, the world tilted sideways.

I froze mid-step, heat crawling up my neck so fast I thought I might combust. His words hit harder than they should’ve, landing right on the softest part of me—the part I try so hard to hide under baggy jeans and hoodies.

The hallway erupted in chuckles. Not everyone, but enough. Enough to make my stomach twist.

I tightened my grip on my books, nails digging into the covers. “Wow,” I said, my voice shaking with that dangerous mix of fury and humiliation. “You must be so proud of yourself.”

Noah smirked, completely unbothered. “Hey, I’m just looking out for school property. Those doors aren’t cheap.”

His friends laughed again, like he was the funniest guy alive.

And me? I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

The thing about Noah is he doesn’t just tease. He knows.

He knows what’ll sting, what’ll leave me awake at night replaying the words over and over. And the worst part is, he doesn’t even flinch when he throws them out. He just watches. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll crack.

And I hate that it works.

Because the truth is, I do hate my thighs. Always have. I hate the way jeans squeeze too tight around them, the way they rub together in the summer, the way every girl in the magazines looks like her legs were carved out of marble while mine look… thick.

So when Noah Carter decides to point it out in front of a hallway full of people, it doesn’t matter if he meant it as a joke. To me, it’s like shining a spotlight on the one thing I can’t stand about myself.

I shoved past him without another word, my cheeks burning, my eyes stinging. Jackson called after me, but I ignored him. No way was I giving Noah the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

I made it to the girls’ bathroom and locked myself in a stall, pressing my forehead against the cool metal. My chest heaved, every breath tight and shaky.

“Thick thighs,” I whispered, the words sour on my tongue.

I hated that I cared. I hated that his stupid voice echoed in my head, that my reflection in the bathroom mirror suddenly looked all wrong.

But most of all, I hated that buried under all that hurt was something else.

Something worse.

Because the truth—the ugly, shameful truth—was that Noah Carter could call me every name in the book and I’d still notice the way his shirt clung to his chest. I’d still remember the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck after practice, damp with sweat. I’d still feel that stupid flutter in my stomach every time he looked at me, even if it was only to smirk.

And I hated myself for it.

By the time I finally left the bathroom, my eyes were dry but my anger was burning hotter than ever. I found him in the cafeteria at lunch, sitting with Jackson and the rest of the team. He didn’t notice me at first, too busy reenacting some play with his hands while the guys hung on every word.

But when his gaze finally landed on me across the room, his grin widened. He nudged Jackson and said something that made them both laugh.

And I knew, knew, it was about me.

So I did the only thing I could. I lifted my chin, walked past his table without a word, and sat down with Mariah at the far end of the room.

But I felt his eyes on me the whole time.

Like he wasn’t done yet.

Like he was just waiting for his next chance to strike.

Later, when I got home, I locked myself in my room and pulled off my jeans. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the legs Noah had decided to make into a joke.

Were they really that bad?

They were strong, sure. Muscles from years of running, biking, carrying more than my fair share of groceries when Mom worked late. They weren’t stick-thin like the girls in magazines, but they weren’t flabby either.

“Thick,” I muttered.

The word clung to me like a second skin.

I sat on the bed, hugging my knees, my chest tight with frustration. Why did he always have this power over me? Why couldn’t I just laugh it off like Jackson did when Noah teased him?

Because it wasn’t the same.

Jackson was Noah’s equal—his best friend, his teammate. Teasing him was just banter.

But me? I was the target. The punchline. The sensitive twin who couldn’t take a joke.

And maybe he liked it that way.

Or maybe—my stomach knotted at the thought—maybe he liked me.

No. Impossible. Noah Carter didn’t like me. If anything, he probably hated me. That had to be it.

So why did it feel like there was more to it?

Why did I catch him staring sometimes when he thought I wasn’t looking? Why did his insults always land in places no one else ever seemed to notice about me?

It was almost like… like he saw me.

And that was the most terrifying thought of all.

I flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

One thing was certain: I wasn’t going to let him win.

If Noah Carter thought he could keep tearing me down with stupid little comments, he had another thing coming.

I’d show him.

I didn’t know how, not yet, but I would.

Because even if my thighs were thick, my skin was about to get thicker.

And the next time he tried to break me?

I’d be ready.