جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 30

The air is thick with tension and late-summer heat as I sit on the concrete bleachers that overlook Crimson Lions Stadium. The turf gleams under the noon sun, a crisp stretch of green painted with clean white lines. Aspirants gather in clumps across the field, stretching, adjusting cleats, doing their best to look like they belong here.But there’s only one person I’m watching.Oliver.He jogs lightly on the far side of the field, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back with a headband. He looks nothing like the boy I’ve grown used to seeing under stage lights and black-box ceilings. There’s no script in his hand, no audience to charm with a monologue.But he still commands the space like it’s a spotlight made just for him.Zane stands beside Coach Hall near the sideline, clipboard in hand, arms crossed. He hasn't even looked in my direction, but I can feel the tension rolling off him like steam. He’s all business today—short, sharp commands and tight, calculated smiles. But I know Zane. An

By morning, the whispers have grown teeth.The halls feel smaller. The air heavier.People stare.Some with amusement. Others with awe.And then there are those who look at me like I’m a character in a drama I didn’t sign up for.The rumors aren’t just about Oliver’s pre-selection heroics anymore.They’re about us.Us, and the fight.Us, and the way Zane looked like he was about to break something that wasn't a bone.I wanted to keep us quiet.But secrets don’t stand a chance against football victories and locker room gossip.Worse, the version that’s spreading isn’t just that Oliver and I are together.It’s that Oliver and Zane are fighting over me.And they’re not wrong.I duck into the library during lunch, desperate for quiet. But before I can even sit down, someone’s already at my side.Lea.She’s holding something small in her palm. A velvet box.“I’m not here to argue,” she says. “I’m not picking sides.”I eye the box. “Then what is that?”“A gift,” she says. “From Zane. He sai

I freeze.The knock still echoes in the air, heavier now, like it carries weight Oliver doesn’t want to name out loud.Then his voice—calm but clipped. A little too careful.“Hey Jude. I know you’re here. Please, open the door.”My pulse spikes.Zane doesn't move.I whirl on him, wide-eyed, and whisper sharply, “Under the bed. Now.”He raises both eyebrows. “Seriously?”“Yes! Go!”But he just stands there, arms crossed like we’re in the middle of a casual argument—not a situation that could shatter everything if Oliver walks in and finds him here.He tilts his head. “You really think he’s the jealous type?”“Zane,” I hiss, panicked, “if he sees you here, it won’t be jealousy. It’ll be war.”He smirks like the idea doesn’t bother him one bit. In fact, he looks like he wants to be caught. Like some part of him is hoping Oliver will walk in and see him here, smug and unbothered, draped in implication.“Zane—please.”Finally, he sighs. “Fine. But only because you asked.”He drops to the f

The BCE Stadium is a roaring coliseum of noise and light. It's not just an arena.This is a full-sized American football stadium—converted for the night into a battleground of hardwood and pride. Giant screens loom above the end zones, flashing player stats and roaring flame graphics. Floodlights bathe the court in white heat. The air hums with anticipation, music blasting through speakers the size of cars. Every seat is taken. The stands stretch high into the night sky, packed with thousands of students, alumni, fans—each one screaming for blood.Popcorn and body paint. Banners and thundersticks. This isn’t just a season opener. It’s a spectacle.And a home defeat? It’s not just unthinkable—it’s unforgivable.We are the Crimson Lions. Champions. Icons. The name that echoes across campuses from coast to coast. And Zane? Zane is the heartbeat. The headline. The one the crowd came to see.I’m in the lower tier, third row, surrounded by a sea of red and gold. My heart pounds in sync wit

You’d think home would be safer.But lately, Oliver flinches at every sound.The doorbell. The microwave beep. Even the rustle of leaves against the windowpane feels too loud in our quiet.He doesn’t talk much here either. Not even with his mother. He mostly lingers on the couch, hood up, sleeves tugged over his hands like armor he never takes off. The TV plays muted reruns of games he once loved. Now, he won’t even look at the screen.I try not to hover.But I’m always near enough that he knows I’m there.One evening, I’m helping myself to a glass of water in the kitchen when I hear the soft tread of footsteps behind me. It’s not Oliver.It’s Isabella.She doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside me at the counter, watching the light settle in soft streaks over the polished surface. Then:“Jude,” she says quietly, “can we talk?”I nod.We sit at the kitchen table—just the two of us, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the room.“I know,” she says, after a long pause. “About y