1
STARBOY (KIERAN)
Kings don’t take attendance. But the girl tucked in the corner, refusing to look at me, makes me want to start counting.
The house breathes trouble. A big Victorian ten minutes off campus, built for quiet mornings and now reborn as a frat-party cathedral with sticky floors and oversized furniture. Someone hung a crooked Defenders poster in the hallway, a tribute to my brother with a Sharpie mustache. I leave it. Keeps morale high.
Tonight the entry swells with girls in glitter and expectations stacked low. My teammates orbit the room, loud and starving for distraction. The neighbors complain, then wander in for drinks once the bass gets irresistible. The kitchen reeks of tequila and lime. The living room pulses with sweat and new semester energy. One spark, and the whole place could go up.
I’m home here. Apex predator in familiar territory. I walk through the crowd, and it bends. Hands brush my shoulders, nails graze my arm, lips angle toward my jaw for selfies. Someone yells my name and cheers answerback. I throw my smirk—my bad idea smirk—and the room lights up.
This is my world. Star winger, senior year, O’Connor bloodline, full ride. BU’s golden boy, even if my brother Liam covers the rent my stipend won’t touch. I score goals on Fridays and collect attention on Saturdays. My boys love me for it, hate me for it, and feed off the spillover.
A cherry dress slides into my orbit with two shots. “For your sins, O’Connor.”
I down both and wink. “Guess I’ll need two more.”
She laughs, curls into me, but before I can decide whether to lean in, a word cuts through the noise, silk over steel. “Boring.”
I don’t turn right away. That’s her trick. I let the word slide down my spine before I slowly pivot.
Isabelle Merteuil stands halfway down the stairs, wrapped in black and the kind of confidence that doesn’t need an audience but always gets one. Diamond studs catch the light. Every inch of her is curated danger.
“Bonsoir, mon chéri.” Her smile is sharp. “Still the same show—girls, drinks, the grin that makes them forget you’re ordinary.”
I meet her gaze, unhurried. “And you? Still grading my performance?”
She descends one step. “Someone has to. You’ve gone mechanical. Same rhythm every night.”
“Consistency wins games.”
“But it isn’t art.” Her eyes glitter. “You used to improvise.”
“You offering inspiration?”
She studies me, mouth tilting. “You’ve turned yourself into a brand, Kieran. Predictable. Marketable. Dull.”
I laugh once. “You say that like winning’sa flaw.”
She hums, unimpressed. Her gaze slides toward the back of the room, where fairy lights bleed into the night and the music softens near the open door. “See her?”
I don’t need to ask who she means. My gaze has drifted there all night.
The girl stands half in shadow, holding a plastic cup like she’s bracing against the noise. No glitter. No costume. Just jeans, a thrifted jacket, hair pulled back in a ponytail that refuses to behave. Movement bounces off her, but she doesn’t shrink. She absorbs it. Compensates. Keeps her own internal tempo.
Isabelle’s voice glides through the air. “So plain. So serious. Always studying. Supposedly the best in her class.” She turns back to me, head cocked. “Rattle her, and maybe I’ll let you have what you’ve been auditioning for since freshman year.”
“Is that so?”
Her tone curls low, velvet threaded with steel. “Any way you want,mon petit prince. Wouldn’t you finally like to know what it feels like to have the queen under you?”
She plays for ego, not emotion. I should laugh her off.
But the rhythm of the room shifts: music, voices, footsteps syncing around that still girl by the door. Everyone else moves on fours and eights; she moves on her own measure. She doesn’t fit the pattern, and that draws me more than Isabelle’s bite ever could.
Isabelle leans in, perfume brushing my jaw. “You think you’re irresistible? Prove it.” Her nails graze my sleeve, a taunt aimed at my pride.
Behind me, Reed whoops. “Yeah, O’Connor, make the ice queen fall for you. Or hand the crown to Weston.”
