Garrett Bishop. Six-foot-three, brick wall with a lacrosse stick. Legacy. Mean as hell when he felt disrespected.
“Watch it, Holt.”
I smirked. “That wasn’t for you. Ball had better aim than you do.”
He stood up.
The air around us shifted. Conversations dropped. A few girls gasped and clutched their phones like it wasfinallygetting interesting.
“You got something to prove?” Garrett asked, stepping forward.
I didn’t flinch. “You challenging me, Bishop?”
Tristan moved closer, already ready to intervene.
But I wasn’t done.
I took one step closer. “You wanna go head-to-head for top dog of Oakwood Prep? Go ahead. Step up.”
He did.
And I didn’t wait.
Fist, jaw, crack.
One punch.
Garrett went down like a sack of bricks.
Gasps all around. Shuffling. A few phones came up—big mistake.
“Delete it,” X said coldly, scanning the group. “Now.”
Tristan was already grabbing someone’s phone. “We see a single frame of this online, you’ll wish you never applied to this school.”
A heavy silence settled on the beach like ash.
But my eyes were on one person.
Her.
Jade had stood up. Towel slung over her arm. Face blank.
She didn’t look shocked. Or scared.
She lookeddisappointed.
And that hit harder than Garrett ever could.
She turned, started walking. No flinch. No goodbye. Just left.
And I watched her go.
Watched the swing of her hips, the defiance in her back, thejudgmentin every step.
And damn if it didn’t make my pulse spike even more.
I was a storm trying to impress lightning.
