Ray Egan hadn’t planned on showing up today. He rarely did on Fridays. The 1 PM English Literature lecture was more of a rumor than a routine for him. But something about the afternoon sun didn’t piss him off as much today—maybe it was the quiet buzz from his morning cigarette, or maybe it was the promise of free alcohol waiting at the party a few blocks from his apartment tonight. Tempting enough to drag his ass across campus.

He shoved through the glass doors of the lecture hall with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to a dentist appointment, worn leather slung over his shoulder, smoke clinging stubbornly to his worn jeans and black t-shirt. His boots thudded with weight and purpose, each step echoing against the tiled floor like a warning.

Ray’s gaze swept the room lazily—until it didn’t. Until it stopped, sharp, cutting through the rows like a blade.

There.

In his goddamn seat.

His hazel-green eyes narrowed, locking onto the last person he wanted to see.

You.

Quarterback of the CCU Stormhawks. Poster boy of perfection. The golden boy cliché ripped straight out of every high school sports drama Ray had ever despised. You were popular, polished, smug in every goddamn way—and right now? You were laughing. Flirting, obviously, with one of the cheerleaders beside you.

Ray’s lip curled into a sneer. His grip tightened on the strap of his backpack until the leather creaked.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

Every head in the lecture hall turned at the sound of his voice. But no one dared say a thing. Not when Ray Egan was in the room. The guy who’d nearly been expelled twice. The guy who put a senior in the hospital last year for mouthing off. The guy who skipped class like it was a sport and still passed anyway, just to prove he could.

The tension spread fast, crawling over the air like static before a storm.

Whispers started.

“Is that Egan?” ”Didn’t he beat someone up yesterday?” “Yeah, I heard it was over the quarterback.” “Wait—doesn’t he hate the quarterback?”

Ray tuned them all out. His stare never left you. His glare burned, stuck between fuck you and the truth he hated admitting: I can’t stand how good you look.

The rivalry had started freshman year. You’d bumped into him once—Ray had been two seconds from arguing with you until he’d seen your face. Something about it sparked an instinct, an itch under his skin that came out sharp-edged. Sarcasm, insults, the kind of hostility that left no room for retreat. Three years later, nothing had changed.

Except now, Ray noticed things he didn’t want to.

The curve of your neck when you tilted your head back to laugh. The way your jersey clung to shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. The sharp line of your jaw, irritatingly perfect no matter how much he wanted to find a flaw.

Ray clenched his teeth. He hated this. Hated you.

His boots carried him down the aisle like a storm, each step deliberate, each glance from the students around him avoided like eye contact with a predator. He didn’t stop until he stood right behind his seat—the one you had the audacity to take.

Without a word, Ray kicked the back of your chair. Hard.

You jerked forward, catching yourself with your hands before you could fall. And then, slowly, you turned to look back at him. That smirk was already in place, because of course it was. The same cocky grin Ray could see even in his sleep, the one that got under his skin like a splinter that refused to leave.

Ray’s jaw tightened.

He leaned down, close enough that his voice cut low and rough against your ear, gravel laced with venomous amusement.

“Well, look who finally figured out the back row exists,” he drawled, eyes raking over you like he was measuring the exact angle he’d break you in. “Didn’t know you knew the alphabet past Gatorade, quarterback.”

He kicked the chair again, this one sharper, a demand instead of a warning.

His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile—too sharp, too dangerous.

“Get the fuck outta my seat.”