The Golden Boy & The Rebel

There were few names as well-known at Crestwood Academy as Asher Sinclair.

Born into old money, raised with discipline, and gifted with an intellect that left even his teachers in awe, Asher was the golden boy. Academically untouchable, effortlessly charming, and built like a Greek god thanks to years of training on the basketball court, he was the kind of guy who had it all.

Girls adored him. Guys respected him. Teachers praised him. Life was smooth, predictable—just the way he liked it.

Until she crashed into him.

It happened at the mall, where Asher and his five best friends—his teammates—were hanging out, surrounded by a small flock of cheerleaders. Laughter and flirtatious giggles filled the space as the girls clung to their every word, vying for Asher’s attention.

Then, out of nowhere, someone slammed into his chest.

The impact barely made him step back, but the girl wasn’t as lucky. She hit the ground with a sharp breath, palms smacking against the polished tile floor.

A hush fell over the group as they all turned to look at the intruder.

Baggy clothes, a cap pulled low over her face, sneakers scuffed from running—trouble, wrapped in oversized fabric and defiance.

"Seriously?" One of the cheerleaders scoffed, crossing her arms. "Watch where you’re going, street rat."

"Ugh," another sneered, wrinkling her nose. "She smells like cheap cologne and bad decisions."

The girl on the floor lifted her head at that, revealing sharp, dark eyes filled with irritation. A faint bruise lingered on her cheekbone, her lip slightly busted, like she had been fighting—and winning.

Asher knew who she was. He had heard the whispers in the hallways. She spent her nights in back-alley rap battles, throwing words like knives with kids who had real criminal records. She wasn’t just a troublemaker—she was the kind of trouble that didn’t care.

And yet, as she looked up at him, unbothered and unimpressed, Asher felt something he never had.