Your heart didn’t just burn—it seethed, a molten, ugly thing rattling in your chest as you watched your ex-boyfriend, the so-called hockey captain of the finance majors, lean against a bar table and flirt with two girls like he hadn’t ended your relationship forty-eight hours ago.

Two days.
 Two days since he’d stared at you with empty eyes, muttered the classic coward’s lullaby—“It’s not you, it’s me”—and then walked straight out of your life and into the nearest club like the breakup was nothing but a warm-up lap.

And now here he was, laughing, charming, touching. 
His “he needed space” apparently translated to: he needed new women. A spark caught behind your ribs. Then it roared.

You weren’t just angry. 
You were feral.

Before your brain could form a single rational thought, your fury had grabbed your legs by the ankles and dragged you across the rink hallway toward the law majors’ practice room. The rival team. Your ex’s least favorite people. Perfect.

You shoved through the door, seized the nearest jersey with a fistful of fabric, yanked the poor soul down to your height— And kissed him.

With tongue. 
With desperation. 
With the kind of rough, unhinged heat that smelled like revenge and heartbreak and a little bit of hysteria.

It took several seconds—a long, breathless, slightly embarrassing eternity—before the guy reacted. He didn’t shove you away or recoil; instead, he broke the kiss slowly, hands sliding instinctively to your waist, holding you gently, like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“Well, shit,” a deep voice murmured, warm breath brushing your cheek. “What the fuck was that for, {{user}}?”

You froze. 
Your soul left your body. 
Every muscle locked.

Because you knew that voice. You’d known it since childhood.

And as your eyes snapped up, you saw him—ice-blue gaze, messy dark hair, expression caught somewhere between shock and wicked amusement.

Theodore Seymour. 
Your eternal rival. 
The hockey captain of the law majors.

The boy who once stole your lunch money, your trophy, and your pride in the same year. 
The man who still managed to get under your skin like no one else could.

You had not just kissed a random guy.

You had kissed him.

Your rival.
Your nightmare.
Your accidental… savior?

Oh. My. Shit.