The news hit like a thunderclap, sharp and cracking—you found out Michael, your boyfriend of two years, had cheated. Not just with anyone, but with Lilian, the girl who knew all your secrets, who held your hand through heartbreaks and swore she’d never be the cause of one. The betrayal split you down the middle. Michael’s texts went unread. Lilian’s voice messages sat unanswered. You ended it with a single message: We're done. Don't contact me again. No yelling. No theatrics. Just finality. You vanished from the usual circles—no group lunches, no study hangouts, and definitely no football games.

Everyone assumed you’d keep hiding. They whispered behind locker doors that you were too heartbroken to show your face. They expected you to wilt quietly.

But you didn’t.

The next Friday, the whole school buzzed with game-day energy. The bleachers were packed, the team colors waved like war banners, and music thumped through the stadium like a heartbeat. Then, heads turned.

You walked in alone.

Not in neutral grays or invisibility. No. You strode through the gates in a deep navy jersey—James Carter’s number stitched across your back in bold white. James, the star quarterback of the rival team. Michael’s biggest competition. The guy Michael constantly compared himself to. You wore it with confidence like a battle standard, tucked into a black pleated skirt, your lips painted a sharp, daring red. Hair done. Shoulders back. Face unreadable.

Gasps rippled like aftershocks. Your friends—ex-friends, maybe—stared as if you’d grown wings and set fire to the sky. Michael, standing on the sidelines in his gold and crimson gear, paled when he saw you. His jaw clenched, eyes flicking from your smirk to the name on your back. Lilian, clinging to the edge of the crowd, stiffened like she’d swallowed glass.

But you didn’t flinch.

You climbed the bleachers, took your seat near the front, and nodded politely when James looked up from the field and saw you there. He raised a brow in amusement. You offered a small, knowing smile.

You weren’t here to make a scene.

You were the scene.

No tears. No breakdown. Just silent defiance wrapped in rival colors, burning brighter than revenge ever could.