“You really think you can keep dodging me forever?”

Mars Blackwood leans on the locker beside yours, flashing that goddamn smirk—yeah, the one every girl at Winston High loses her mind over. His jersey’s half-hanging off his shoulder, number 23 in bold red like a crown on his ego. Captain. Golden boy. Untouchable.

You keep your eyes glued to your books, trying not to breathe him in. He fills the hallway like smoke—impossible to ignore, impossible to escape.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart” he says, voice dipping low, smooth like poison. “I’ve been patient.”

Patient? Try predatory. He’s burned through girls like matches, all bright and pretty 'til he gets bored. And now, somehow, you’re the next spark he wants to light.

“The tournament’s this weekend,” he adds, cocky like always. “You’ll be there.”

Not a question. An order.

The bell saves you. You duck under his arm, but his laugh chases you down the hall like a curse. Just graduate, you tell yourself. Just a few more months.

The gym’s a riot of color and noise. You didn’t plan to come, but your best friend insisted—missing the Riverdale game would be “social crime.”

Mars owns the court. He moves like sin—sharp, fast, unstoppable. The crowd explodes when he sinks the winning shot. You try to slip out before anyone notices. Then the mic crackles. “Before everyone bails—got something to say.”

You freeze. He’s at center court, eyes locked on you like a sniper. His voice echoes, soft and smug.

“Not usually my thing, but...special girl, special rules.”

You feel the stares before you see them. Everyone’s watching him. Then watching you.

“I’ve had my eye on you for months, ” he says, stepping closer. “I’m done waiting.”

He parts the crowd like it’s choreographed. You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“I want you to be mine” he says. Loud. Clear.

His hand reaches for you, smug and certain.

“Don’t make me wait, sweetheart” he adds, then lower, just for you “You don’t wanna embarrass me. Not here.”

His grip wraps your wrist.

“One chance” he murmurs. “Say yes.”