CHAPTER 8. DAMIEN

CHAPTER 8. DAMIEN

I am in high spirits.

I am floating on a cloud of adrenaline, caffeine, and the sweet, intoxicating taste of vengeance. It settles in my chest like a warm weight, grounding me, making me feel invincible.

We are relaxed in the heart of our kingdom: the campus Starbucks. But calling it a coffee shop feels like a disservice. This is the most popular branch at Crestwood University, a sprawling glass-and-steel structure that serves as the unofficial throne room for the social elite. It’s where deals are made, reputations are destroyed, and where we, the Devereaux brothers, hold court.

The air is thick with the scent of roasted Arabica, vanilla syrup, and the expensive cologne that wafts off my teammates. The hum of conversation is a low, respectful buzz. Everyone knows we are here. I can feel the eyes on us—not the scrutinizing, judgmental stares that the plebeians get, but looks of adoration, envy, and fear.

The only thing my mind can think of is the peace and comfort of this moment.

I lean back in the plush leather booth, spreading my arms across the backrest, claiming my space. I am surrounded by people that support me, people that are willing to go over the moon to fight for me. They form a protective wall of muscle and loyalty, a barrier against the rest of the world.

Things are finally looking up. After the devastating incident last night—the absolute catastrophe that ruined Lucian's dream debut—I can finally just sit back. I feel a deep, feral satisfaction knowing that the traitor, that little nobody who messed up my brother's big break, has been put back in her place.

The walking stain.

The image of her standing in the parking lot, drenched in coffee, hair matted and eyes wide with shock, replays in my mind like a favorite movie scene. It soothes the jagged edges of my anger. She looked small. She looked pathetic. She looked exactly how she deserves to look.

Our section of the table is surrounded by people that matter. The football team is here, taking up three tables pushed together. A few dedicated fans hover at the periphery, desperate for a nod or a smile. Even the workers at Starbucks seem to move with more urgency when it comes to our orders, bringing extra pastries we didn't pay for, flashing shy smiles as they clear away empty cups.

I take a sip of my iced Americano, watching the scene unfold.

A few of the guys are consoling Lucian.

"Don't worry about it, man," Charles, our defensive lineman, says, clapping Lucian on the back. "It was just a fluke. You're going to get another shot. Record labels don't sleep on talent like yours."

"Yeah, bro," another teammate chimes in. "That girl? She's history. You're still the golden boy. Another opportunity is going to come to take your big break, trust me."

Lucian nods, a tight, practiced smile plastered on his face. He accepts the condolences as though he is not affected by it all, playing the part of the unbothered rockstar perfectly. He laughs at the right moments, shrugs his shoulders, and acts like last night was nothing more than a minor annoyance.

But the truth cannot be denied. I know my twin. I know him better than I know myself.

I look at his hands, resting on the table. They are gripping his coffee cup so hard his knuckles are white.

I am even more enraged by the truth.

Last night broke him. It shattered him in ways I have never seen, and I have seen Lucian through breakups, injuries, and family drama. But this? This was different.

My mind flashes back to the dorm room, hours after the concert. The silence was heavy, suffocating. I found him sitting on the floor, his back against the bedframe, staring at the wall. The guitar—his vintage acoustic that he saved up for two years to buy—lay cracked in the corner.

He was crying.

I have never in my life imagined that Lucian would end up weeping for anything. He is the fire to my ice, the passionate one, but he is never weak. Seeing his shoulders shake, hearing the muffled, ragged breaths... it tore something open inside me.

"It’s gone, Damien," he had whispered, his voice broken. "The scout left. He saw the chaos and he left."

That stupid girl crossed the line.

She didn't just trip. She didn't just make a scene. She took a sledgehammer to his future. And for that, she is going to pay. The coffee shower this morning was just the down payment.

His one chance. His easy opportunity to get out from under our father’s suffocating expectations and chase his lifelong dream. She ruined it in a silly, stupid moment of clumsiness and arrogance. And she didn't even feel guilty about it. She had the guts to rack us up with insults.

I exhale sharply, battling with the rage in my bones. It simmers beneath my skin, hot and demanding. I watch Lucian now, letting himself fall into the consoling arms of a pretty girl from the volleyball team. She’s flirting openly, touching his bicep, showing how much she cares about his loss. It’s a distraction, and I’m glad for it. He needs the ego boost.

My thoughts drift back to the girl.

I don't know if I am ever going to drop it completely. But her reaction by the park has already sent a hidden message. When I looked into her eyes before we drove off, I didn't see fear. I saw hate. Pure, unadulterated hate.

Most people crumble when the Devereaux brothers turn on them. They cry, they beg, they transfer schools. But she stood there, shaking with fury, scratching at her hand like a maniac, glaring at us until the very end.

We have gotten her back to where she belongs, down in the dirt, and I don't think she might ever show her face again. Socially, she’s dead. The video of the coffee incident is already circulating on Crestwood Confessions. The comments are brutal. She’s been branded.

God, if she does show her face again, I am damn well gonna be amazed. It would take a level of stupidity—or bravery—that I don't think she possesses.

But she is of the past now. She is yesterday's trash. I will be doing myself a lot of favors if I can stop thinking about her and focus on what actually matters.

"Earth to Damien," Charles snaps his fingers in front of my face.

I blink, snapping back to reality. "What?"

"We're talking about the game, man. You with us?"

The guys are talking about the big game coming up tonight at the Crestwood National Stadium. It’s the season opener against our rivals, fierce and highly anticipated. The entire campus will be there. Scouts will be there.

"I'm with you," I say, leaning forward. "I am well packed for it. Ready to defeat all odds and maintain my standard as the school's leading quarterback."

"That's what I like to hear," Charles grins. "We need you sharp, D. Their defense is heavy this year."

"They can be as heavy as they want," I scoff. "They can't catch me."

I feel the familiar thrill of competition rising. Football is my domain. Lucian has music; I have the field. Tonight, under the floodlights, I’m going to remind everyone why the name Devereaux demands respect. I’m going to run until my lungs burn, dropping touchdowns upon touchdowns until the scoreboard breaks, and wash away the bad taste of the last twenty-four hours with sweat and victory.

I relax back into the booth, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.

Just then, movement catches my eye.

A good-looking waitress—or maybe she’s a barista, I haven't seen her before—walks over to our table. She’s carrying a tray of napkins, but her eyes are locked firmly on me.

She offers a court smile, polite but loaded with intent. Her lipstick is bright red, a shade that screams confidence. It’s fresh, pristine, an evident sign she just applied it recently and probably specifically to get my attention.

Well, getting my attention she had succeeded, because she is the most sexiest thing I have ever seen in this establishment.

She’s wearing the standard green apron, but she makes it look like high fashion. Her uniform is fitted, perhaps a size too small, accentuating curves that demand to be noticed.

I am thinking to myself as my eyes trail down. To her visibly exposed cleavage, hinted at just above the apron line.

Damn.

It looks soft and supple. My imagination runs wild for a split second, wondering how her skin would feel against mine, wondering how those red lips would taste. I wonder how it would taste in my lips.

I look up at her, catching her gaze. I hold it for a second too long, letting the silence stretch, letting the tension build.

Then, I wink.

It’s effortless. A reflex.

The reaction is immediate. The moment she blushes, a deep crimson spreading across her cheeks that clashes beautifully with her lipstick, I know I have hit the jackpot.

She bites her lip, lowering her eyes shyly, but she lingers. She doesn't walk away.

I gesture to the empty spot on the leather bench beside me. "Why don't you take a break?" I ask, my voice low and smooth. "You look like you've been working hard."

She hesitates, glancing at her manager behind the counter, then back at me. She takes a step forward.

But before she can sit, a loud voice booms from the other side of the table.

"Damien! For God's sake!"

It’s Jax, another teammate of mine. He throws a balled-up napkin at my head.

"Keep your head intact and return your dick back into your pants!" he shouts, laughing. "We need you to focus squarely on tonight's game, not on the staff!"

This causes them all to burst out laughing. The entire table erupts, jeering and hooting. Even Lucian cracks a genuine smile, shaking his head at me.

The waitress turns bright red, giggles nervously, and scampers away back to the safety of the counter.

I chuckle, deflecting the napkin with a wave of my hand. "Relax, guys," I say, grinning. "There is no harm in having a little fun before the big game. It helps with the nerves. Keeps the blood flowing."

"Yeah, flowing to the wrong head," Charles jokes.

I laugh with them, feeling the camaraderie wash over me. I feel good. I feel powerful. I have my brother back, my team is ready, and the girl who caused us trouble has been neutralized.

I am relaxed and assured. I lean back, closing my eyes for a brief moment, visualizing the touchdowns I’m going to score tonight. The roar of the crowd. The lights. The glory.

Everything is perfect.

If only my mind had prepared me for what I was going to experience tonight.

If only.