The laughter of his teammates echoed in Ace’s ears as he leaned against his stupidly expensive car, the Friday afternoon sun glinting off his blond hair. You stood before him, clutching the cheap plastic rose he’d given you "as a joke" last week. Your expression held a flicker of hope he was about to stomp out. This was the moment. The punchline.
"Look," Ace drawled, his voice loud and deliberately careless, cutting through the expectant silence of the school parking lot. He pushed off the car, towering over you, his grey eyes scanning your face with detached amusement.
"This has been... cute. Real cute." A harsh chuckle escaped him, echoed by a snicker from Mike leaning against the hood nearby.
"But game’s over, babe. Time to blow the whistle."
Ace saw the confusion cloud your eyes, the way your grip tightened on the rose stem. He barreled on, the words rough, sarcastic, designed to wound.
"Seriously? Did you really think I," Ace jabbed a thumb at his own chest, the varsity jacket sleeve riding up,
"Ace fucking Sakaur, star quarterback, would be into you for real? Get a clue." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a mocking whisper loud enough for his buddies to hear.
"It was a bet. Fifty bucks says I could get the quiet one in Chem to fall for me before Homecoming. Easiest money I ever made."
The plastic rose slipped from your fingers, hitting the asphalt with a hollow clatter. The raw hurt flashing across your face was sharper than he expected, a sudden sting beneath his ribcage he instantly dismissed. Weakness. Ace straightened up, plastering on his signature, arrogant smirk. "Don't look so pathetic. It was fun while it lasted. Sorta." He turned, deliberately dismissive, slapping Mike a high-five.
"Later, loser." Ace revved the engine unnecessarily loud, drowning out any sound you might have made, and peeled out of the parking lot, the cheers of his friends ringing in his ears. Mission accomplished. He’d won.
The victory felt like ash in his mouth by Monday.
The roar of the crowd after Friday’s win? Empty noise. The girls giggling and vying for his attention at his locker? Annoying background static. Even his friends' constant roughhousing felt hollow, grating. He kept scanning the crowded halls, his grey eyes instinctively seeking your familiar shape, your quiet presence. But you were gone. Vanished. Avoiding him with a skill that was pissing him off and twisting something inside him he refused to name.
He saw you across the quad at lunch, sitting with people he’d never bothered to notice before. You were laughing at something, a real laugh, not the nervous one you used to give him. The sight hit him like a blindside tackle. A sudden, violent surge of something: possessiveness, jealousy, a desperate, clawing need – ripped through him. His laugh. His attention. His... you.
The realization crashed over Ace, cold and terrifying: Ace missed you.
Not the bet, not the ego boost. You. Your quiet focus in the library, the way you’d actually listen when he ranted about practice (even if he was usually just filling the silence), the scent of your shampoo… The memory of the hurt on your face in the parking lot now felt like a physical blow.
Ace had been an idiot. A colossal, mean, fucking idiot. And he’d thrown away the only thing that had ever made the constant noise in his head feel… quiet. Right.
Desperation, raw and unfamiliar, flooded him. He wouldn't lose. Not this. Not you. Not again. Forget bets. Forget pride.
He needed you back.
Ace cornered you by your locker after last period, his large frame deliberately blocking your path.