I tugged my hoodie over my damp curls and stepped out into the crisp night air, still high on the adrenaline and rage.
The moment he made his move. Red was all I saw.
Kannon. Freaking. Kavanaugh.
Mr. Golden Boy himself had his damn arm around her shoulders like she was already his.
I froze in my tracks, remembering.
He was laughing. She was smiling. Phones were out. Snaps being posted. And her curls bounced with every step she took beside him.
Mine. She’smine.
I balled my fists.
Kannon was still here with a bunch of groupies hanging out in the parking lot. I couldn’t fight him—Kannon wasn’t just any athlete. He was MLB-bound. Media-loved. Untouchable. Swing at him and I’d tank everything I’d spent years building.
But I could feel the rage clawing under my skin, hot and pulsing.
Xavier stepped up beside me, towel slung around his neck. “Yo, don’t. Just don’t, man.”
“Yeah,” Tristan added. “You’ve already got the girl halfway back with that Jumbotron move. Don’t throw hands over a selfie.”
I didn’t respond.
But I didn’t move. I just stood there, letting the cold sink into my bones, every inch of me screaming.
You can’t fight him with fists.
So you fight with fire.
With the kind of heat she remembers.
I turned to my boys, jaw tight. “Next practice, we go harder. I want the court next week toburn.”
Because if he thought he could steal her?
He hadn’t seenmein battle yet.
And war had just been declared.
McGovern’s was packed.
Every senior who mattered—and a few who didn’t—was crowded inside the coastal diner, steam fogging the windows while the scent of fried onions, bacon grease, and sea air clung to every hoodie in the place.
Old man McGovern waved me in the second I stepped through the door, that crooked grin of his pulling up like I was some long-lost son. He always did that. Never forgot the time I pulled off I-95 and helped him change a tire in the pouring rain like some good Samaritan. He tells it like I saved his life. Truth is, I just didn’t want to see an old dude get flattened by a semi.
He didn’t charge me for the double-patty smashburger and loaded fries—never did. But I dropped three crisp hundreds in the tip jar like I always do when no one’s looking.
I was just peeling the paper off my straw when I felt it.
Eyes on me.
Kannon Kavanaugh.
Baseball prodigy. Golden boy with a cannon for an arm and a face the scouts drool over. I spotted him easy—hat pulled low, fresh sneakers still dusted with gym grit, sitting back like he wasn’t sweating.
But he saw me too. Sat up straighter. His jaw ticked. Good.
