“That was retaliation for my gym bag! I still can’t find my damn shin guards!” I whirl to face him again, chests nearly touching, and the sudden drop in distance makes the air snap with heat.
We’re both yelling now, breathless and red-faced and way too close in a very enclosed space. His chest is heaving. Mine is, too—but from rage.
Mostly rage.
This is what happens when the Rites get out of hand. Every year, the senior guys pick a junior girl to “challenge” in a series of lighthearted, unofficial hazing rituals—pranks, sabotage, public humiliation, the usual misogynistic bullshit wrapped in school spirit.
The coaches pretend not to know. The girls pretend to be good sports about it.
But retaliation is fair game, and no one hits back harder than me. I’ve been Mads Keller’s target since the beginning of September. And if he thinks glitter in his cleats and protein sabotage is the worst of what I will do to him if he doesn’t back off, he seriously underestimates my creativity. And my rage.
Still, I remind myself it could be worse. At other schools, hazing isn’t pranks and glitter—it’s dangerous. Ugly. I’ve heard enough horror stories to know that what happens at Northgate doesn’t even register on the same scale. No hospital visits, no police reports, no lives ruined.
So yeah, I’m grateful for that. I know how lucky we are that the Rites are mostly petty sabotage and public embarrassment.
But that doesn’t mean I’m about to shrug off Mads’ bullshit just because it isn’t technically life-threatening. Annoyance is still annoyance. And the fact that he’s made me his personal project is still enough to make me want to snap his disgustingly perfect jawline in half.
“God, you’re such a child,” I hiss.
“Well, you match my child like wonder,” he says, way too cocky for his own good.
“You started it!”
“You escalated it!”
“You literally put Icy Hot in my sports bra!”
“And I’d do it again!”
There’s a beat of silence.
I lunge for the emergency call button before I commit an actual felony.
A burst of static crackles through the speaker. “Emergency services have been notified. Please remain calm.”
Too late for that.
We stand there—fuming, breathless, too close—for what feels like a hundred years until the faint sound of voices and metal tools scraping against the door frame jolts us both into a calmer silence. Mads moves back just half a step, enough to break the gravitational pull between us. Barely.
Then the doors groan. Something pops. Bright light floods in, blinding after the dim yellow glow of elevator purgatory.
“Hang tight,” someone calls. “We’re prying it the rest of the way.”
The metal gives with a final screech, and then we’re staring into the suited-up faces of the local fire department, one of whom raises an eyebrow likewewere the cause of his interrupted lunch break.
To be fair,one of usprobably was.
I step out first, wiping dust off my pants and trying to look anywhere but at Mads.
He climbs out behind me, just in time for the real horror to set in.
Standing a few feet away, arms crossed and expressions tight with fury, are both our coaches.
Coach Carmichael is already pinching the bridge of his nose, like he’s bracing for a migraine that hasn’t hit yet.
And then there’sDoc. The guys’ coach.
She’s five-foot-two of pure intimidation, with the kind of conventionally attractive face that would absolutely be cast in asportswear ad—if that ad required the model to glare down the camera and make you question your life choices. Her blonde hair is in a tight ponytail, her cheekbones unfairly chiseled, and her skin is annoyingly flawless for someone who spends ninety percent of her life outdoors yelling at a bunch of twenty-something-year-old goofballs.
