There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Planning to piss someone off?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Consider it done. I’ll have it at your dorm in forty-five.”
I hang up and head for the shower, stripping off my clothes as I go.
The icy water does its job, shocking my system back to sanity. By the time I step out, my skin is covered in goosebumps, but my mind is clear. Tonight isn’t about Lucien or my fucked-up attraction to him. It’s about sending a message: I don’t belong to him.
I blow-dry my hair into loose waves before throwing it up into a perky cheerleader-esque ponytail and apply my makeup. Bold and daring.
Nicholas delivers right on time, knocking on my door exactly forty-five minutes later. When I open it, he hands me a shopping bag with a smirk.
“One Westfield Wolves jersey, as requested. Had to bribe the equipment manager, but what else is new?”
I peek inside—the silver and black jersey looks pristine. “You’re a miracle worker.”
“I know.” He studies my face, his expression turning serious. “Whatever you’re planning, be careful. Your father would kill me if anything happened to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen, probably. Don’t worry, Nicky. I’m an adult, as my mother reminded me earlier.”
“I’m sure you are,” he says with a slight eye-roll. “Just...don’t do anything that’ll require me to clean up afterward, okay? I’ve got plans tonight.”
“No promises,” I tell him with a wink, already closing the door.
As soon as Nick is gone, I pull the Westfield jersey from the bag, running my fingers over the smooth silver and black fabric.Number 19 emblazoned in bold lettering across the back, with REID spelled out above it. It’s perfect.
I strip off my shirt and slide the jersey over my head. It’s huge on me, hanging down to mid-thigh, but that’s not how I’m going to wear it. I grab a hair tie and knot the fabric at my waist, cinching it tight until it shows a strip of my stomach.
If Lucien wants a show, I’ll give him a fucking show. I shimmy into the tightest pair of blue jeans I own. They’re practically painted on, molding to every curve of my ass and thighs. But the best part? They completely cover my legs.
I dig through my closet for my black thigh-high boots. He made it a point that he wanted to see my legs tonight so now I’m double covering them.
The boots are my secret weapon—sleek leather that hugs my calves and thighs, zipping all the way up to just a few inches below my crotch. They’re hot as fuck, but they show absolutely nothing. I pull them on, admiring how they make my legs look a mile long while still telling Lucien to go fuck himself.
But it’s not enough. I want to go all in.
I grab my makeup bag and find a silver eyeliner. With steady hands, I draw a “19” on my right cheek, making sure it’s big enough to be visible from the court. Then I dig through my drawer until I find a silver ribbon, tying it into a perfect cheerleader bow at the top of my ponytail.
Stepping back to look at myself in the full-length mirror I realize it’s the perfect fuck you. I look like the ultimate basketball girlfriend—just for the wrong fucking team.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lucien:
Satan
Where’s my good little sister? Game starts in 30.
The text makes my blood boil and solidifies my resolve. I grab my phone and open the camera, positioning myself to capture the full effect of my outfit. I pout my lips slightly, making sure the 19 on my cheek is clearly visible, and snap the selfie.
Without hesitation, I post it to CampusCrawl with the caption: “Ready to watch @JacksonReid19 and the @WestfieldWolves destroy the Angels tonight! #WolvesNation #GoWolves”
I tag Jackson Reid and the official Westfield Wolves account, then add a few more basketball hashtags for good measure.
I arrive at the arena right as the buzzer signals the tip-off.
The click of my thigh-high boots against the polished floor echoes with each confident stride as I walk directly toward the courtside seats. I don’t slow down, don’t hesitate, don’t acknowledge the turning heads or the whispers that follow me like a wave.
“Is that...?” “Holy shit, she’s wearing a Wolves jersey...” “Devereux is going to lose his fucking mind...”
