Chapter Two

So, remember how I said being paired with Marcus Halverin was a nightmare? Well, imagine that nightmare, but add a 4K resolution and a soundtrack of him constantly humming while I’m trying to calculate the structural integrity of a bridge.

For the next week, our "partnership" was basically a cold war. He’d "accidentally" delete my CAD files; I’d "accidentally" switch his protein powder with powdered sugar. It was petty, it was childish, and honestly? It was exhausting.

The breaking point happened on Tuesday.

We were in the campus gym. I was there for the treadmill; he was there because, well, he basically lives there. He was doing some flashy drill with a lacrosse stick—yeah, apparently he’s a dual-athlete, because being the star of one sport wasn't enough for his ego.

He was weaving through cones, looking like a literal glitch in the matrix with how fast he was moving. When he finished, he caught me watching.

"Like the view, Grease Monkey?" he yelled, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. (And no, I did not look at his abs. I’m an engineer. I was looking at the... core stability. For science.)

"I’ve seen faster snails, Marcus," I shouted back.

He jogged over, spinning the stick like a baton. "Big talk for a girl who spends her life behind a screen. I bet you couldn't even catch a pass, let alone score."

"I grew up in a house with four brothers, Marcus. I can play. I just don't feel the need to make it my entire personality."

His eyes lit up. That was my first mistake. Never give a guy like Marcus a challenge. It’s like giving a toddler a drum set.

"Prove it," he said, his voice dropping into that "villain arc" tone. "One-on-one. Right now. First to five goals. If you're so much better than a 'snail,' this should be easy."

I should have walked away. I should have gone back to my dorm and watched N*****x. But then he added the kicker.

"Unless you're scared of breaking a nail."

The disrespect. The audacity.

"Fine," I snapped, stepping onto the turf. "But we’re making this interesting. If I win, you have to wear a skirt—a short, pink, pleated skirt—to every single morning practice for an entire month. No leggings allowed."

The guys on the nearby weight benches started howling. Marcus’s teammates were literally filming this on their phones already.

Marcus didn't even blink. He just leaned in, a wicked glint in his eyes. "And if I win? You shave your head. Right here. Grade zero. You go full GI Jane, Kelsey. Every single hair on that head goes in the trash."

My heart did a backflip. My hair was my security blanket. But my pride? My pride was a skyscraper.

"Deal," I said. We shook on it. His hand was warm, calloused, and way too steady.

The match was... intense. I’m talking John Wick levels of focus. I wasn't an "official" player, sure, but I knew physics. I knew angles. I knew exactly where Marcus’s center of gravity was because I’d spent a week studying it during our project.

I played like a demon. I dodged his checks, I used my smaller frame to duck under his reach, and I scored. One. Two. Three.

Marcus was sweating for real now. He wasn't smirking anymore. He was realizing that the "nerd" was actually a threat.

The score was 4-4. Next goal wins.

Marcus lunged for the ball, his face set in a mask of pure determination. I feinted left, he bit, and I spun right. I let out a shot that screamed past his ear and hit the back of the net with a beautiful thwack.

Silence.

Then, absolute chaos. The gym erupted. People were screaming. Marcus stood there, staring at the net like it had personally betrayed him.

"Pink looks good on you, Halverin," I panted, waving a hand at my very-much-still-attached hair. "I’ll send you a link to a cute one on A****n."

Fast forward to Monday morning.

I showed up to the sidelines of the turf field with a Starbucks in one hand and my phone ready in the other.

The team was already out there. And there he was. Marcus Halverin, the God of the Campus, was doing warm-up laps in a bright pink, pleated tennis skirt. His massive, muscular legs were out for the whole world to see. He looked ridiculous. He looked humiliated.

And yet... he was still the fastest guy on the field.

"Nice legs, Marcus!" I yelled from the fence.

He flipped me off, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. The guy was a lot of things, but he was a man of his word.

But then, everything changed in a heartbeat.

The team started a scrimmage. It was high-speed, high-impact. Marcus was darting toward the goal when a defender from the second string—a guy who clearly had something to prove—went for a brutal slide tackle.

It was messy. There was a sound—a sickening crunch—that echoed across the quiet morning air.

Marcus went down. He didn't get up. He didn't even yell. He just clutched his ankle, his face turning a terrifying shade of white.

The coaches ran out. The trainers were shouting. I felt the smugness drain out of me, replaced by a cold, heavy weight in my stomach. I’d won the bet, sure, but I didn't want this.

Ten minutes later, Marcus was being carried off on a stretcher, the pink skirt fluttering in the wind. It wasn't funny anymore.

I was standing by the equipment shed, feeling like a total jerk, when Coach Miller marched over to me. He looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

"You," he said, pointing a finger at me.

"Coach, I’m so sorry about the bet, I didn't think—"

"Forget the skirt," he barked. "I saw you the other day. In the gym. When you took Marcus down."

I blinked. "Oh. Yeah. That was just... luck?"

"That wasn't luck. That was elite-level spatial awareness and footwork. We’ve got the Rivalry Game against State on Friday. The scouts are coming. If we show up without our star player, the program loses its funding. We’re dead in the water."

"That sucks, Coach, but I’m a Mechanical Engineering student. I have a lab report on—"

"I need you to play," he said.

I actually laughed. "Me? Coach, look at me. I’m a girl. This is a D1 men's team. It’s strictly for the guys. I’d be disqualified before I even touched the turf."

"Not if they don't know," Miller whispered, stepping closer. "In full gear? Padding? A tinted visor on the helmet? You’re the same height as Marcus’s younger brother, who’s on the roster but currently back home for a family emergency. You wear his jersey. You keep the helmet on. You don't speak. You just play."

"You want me to... Mulan this?" I asked, my brain short-circuiting. "That’s illegal. That’s definitely against the student handbook."

"It’s also the only way to save the season. Marcus is out. His career is on the line, too—if the team fails while he’s injured, his draft stock drops. He needs the team to win to stay relevant."

I looked over at the training room where Marcus was being treated. Through the window, I could see him sitting on a bench, head in his hands, looking completely broken. No ego. No smirk. Just a guy watching his future go up in flames.

"How do we even do it?" I asked, my voice trembling. "I don't look like a guy."

Coach Miller reached into a bag and pulled out a jersey. Number 22. "The padding adds bulk. We’ll tape your chest. We’ll tuck your hair into a skull cap. With the visor, you’re just another player in a crowd."

He looked me dead in the eye. "You challenged the king and you won, Kelsey. Now, I’m asking you to save his throne."

I looked at the jersey. I looked at the field.

"Fine," I whispered. "But if I get tackled into the next dimension, I’m suing everyone."

"Deal," Miller said, a grim smile on his face. "Practice starts at midnight. No witnesses."

I walked away, my head spinning. I went from drowning a guy’s shoes to wearing his team's jersey in secret. My life had officially turned into a W*****d story, and I wasn't sure if I was the hero or the person about to get expelled.

But as I walked past the training room one last time, I saw Marcus look up. Our eyes met through the glass. He didn't know the plan yet. He just looked at me with this weird, sad respect.

He thinks I’m just the girl who made him wear a skirt, I thought. He has no idea I’m about to become his secret weapon.

I pulled my phone out and texted my mom.

KELSEY: Hey Mom. I might be a little busy this weekend. Engineering project is getting... complicated.

"Complicated" didn't even cover it. I was about to go undercover in the most hyper-masculine environment on earth.

And I still had to figure out how to hide my ponytail in a helmet.