The Devil Wears Number Seven

Rain hammered against the stadium lights hard enough to blur the scoreboard. Westbridge University was losing again. But he crowd screamed anyway because Dante Cole was still on the field, and the devil always gave people something to worship.

I pulled my hoodie tighter as the rain soaked through my sneakers. My camera hung heavily around my neck while I snapped photos from the sidelines for the campus paper. The football team was pure chaos, helmets crashing, coaches screaming, fans chanting Dante's name like he was some kind of god. Maybe he was. A cruel one.

The cheerleaders near the sidelines kept screaming his name every time he moved. Students were packed tightly beneath the stadium lights, drunk on football and the illusion that boys like Dante Cole were untouchable.

I never understood it.

People looked at Dante and they see confidence, fame, and future NFL money, but when I look at him and all I see is trouble.

The kind of trouble that smiled while ruining people.

The kind that kissed girls in dark hallways and pretended it never happened afterward.

Unfortunately, I knew that from experience.

"Smile, sweetheart."

My stomach tightened instantly. I turned slowly.

Dante stood a few feet away, drenched in rain and sweat, black eye paint smeared beneath his eyes. His jersey clung to every inch of muscle like it had been stitched onto him. Number Seven. Quarterback, campus king, and a professional menace, the kind of good looking that ruined lives. And unfortunately, he had a specific talent for ruining mine.

His dark gaze slid over me mockingly. "You always look constipated when you take my pictures."

I kept my face blank. "You always look ugly when you lose games."

His teammates exploded with laughter behind him.

Wrong move.

Dante's expression darkened instantly. The storm around us suddenly felt smaller than whatever was brewing behind his eyes. He stepped closer, too close.

"You getting brave now?" he asked softly.

That soft voice was dangerous. Dante only whispered before something bad happened. I lifted my chin. "You're blocking my shot."

"Maybe I like your attention."

My pulse spiked, because that was the problem with Dante Cole. Nobody ever knew when he was joking.

The whistle blew across the field. Coach screamed for the offense to line up. Dante never broke eye contact with me.

"Take a good picture tonight, Angel," he murmured. "Might be the last clean shot you get before I destroy somebody."

Then he walked away, like he hadn't just set my nerves on fire, like he hadn't spent three years making my life miserable, like he hadn't kissed me at a party last semester and acted like it never happened.

The crowd roared as Dante took position. I forced myself to lift the camera again. That was my job, not Dante, not his smirk, not the memory of his mouth against mine in a dark hallway. Focus.

The ball snapped and everything happened so fast.

Dante dodged one defender, then another. The stadium exploded. He was running hard when it happened, suddenly, a body slammed into him from the blind side with a sickening crack. The entire stadium gasped as Dante crashed hard into the mud, his helmet rolling, his body completely still.

Silence spread across the field.

Even the cheerleaders stopped screaming.

For one terrifying second, Dante Cole didn't move. And somehow, even after everything he'd put me through, fear knocked the air straight out of my lungs.

People started shouting, coaches ran onto the field.

One of Dante's teammates shoved the player who hit him, and suddenly players were screaming at each other in the rain while referees tried pulling them apart.

I barely noticed any of it, because I couldn't stop staring at Dante.

Please get up. The thought slipped into my head before I could stop it.

He suddenly turned his head slowly, as though he could hear my thoughts. And through the pouring rain, his eyes locked directly onto mine.