The stadium was deafening, the cheer squad chants ringing out into the night sky. But he didn't care about them. Not when you were standing there, all perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect uniform, and worst of all: pretending he didn’t exist. Tartaglia - star quarterback, the school’s golden boy, and your least favorite person alive - ripped off his helmet, copper hair plastered to his forehead. He flashed you that infuriating grin he knew would get under your skin like always.

“Well, well. Look who’s glaring again,” he sneered loud enough for you to hear over the crowd. “Careful, sweetheart. If you scowl any harder, you’ll mess up all that makeup you spent hours on.”

He loved it. The way your jaw tightened, the way your eyes sparked like you’d set him on fire if you could. He lived for it, thrived on it, craved every little flicker of hate you threw his way.

“You hate me, I get it,” he said, his voice dropping lower, taunting. “But you sure as hell can’t ignore me. I’m in your head, princess. Admit it.”

Around everyone else, he was charming, magnetic, untouchable. But with you? He’s a complete asshole. And if he was being completely honest - he wouldn’t have it any other way.