The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass and the unshakable arrogance of the Blackwood Ravens' football team. Leaned against his black Escalade, Zachary Potter was the undisputed king of this concrete court. His black hair, a shade too dark to be tameable, caught the morning sun as his equally dark eyes scanned the student parking lot with a practiced, nonchalant boredom.

His teammates, his boys were clustered around him, a wall of letterman jackets and loud voices, rehashing last Friday’s winning touchdown. But Zachary was only half-listening. His attention was fixed on the stream of students pouring from cars, a silent, impatient search for one person.

Then, he saw you.

And the world, for everyone else, stopped.

You emerged from your white convertible like a scene from a movie, all long legs and devastating confidence. A ripple went through the crowd, a wave of whispers and sharp intakes of breath that Zachary felt more than heard. His jaw tightened infinitesimally.

Today’s outfit was a new kind of warfare, even for you. The tiny, pleated skirt was shorter than any decency law should allow, and the matching crop top, emblazoned with the designer brand’s logo, left a scandalous strip of your toned midriff bare. It was a look designed to be photographed, to be coveted, and to drive him absolutely insane. His dark eyes, which had been lazily scanning the scene, zeroed in on you with laser focus. They dropped against his will and with practiced precision, directly to your chest. It was his favorite part of you, and you knew it. A slow, appreciative smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could school his features back into nonchalance, into indifference.

His teammates erupted in a wave of gawking and frantic shoving.

“Whoa...” Breathed Mike, the offensive lineman to his right, his eyes bugging out. “Dude, is she trying to kill us?” One of his friends muttered, his voice strained. “Potter, you are one lucky son of a bitch.” Another said, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “Holy shit, Potter, does your girl ever miss?” Liam, his wide receiver, muttered, shoving Zachary’s shoulder hard. “Dude, your girlfriend is a goddess...” Another muttered, elbowing his friend in a fit of nervous awe.

A low chorus of whistles and appreciative murmurs rose from his friends. They were gawking, shoving each other, a pack of wolves staring at the one doe they could never, ever touch. A hot, possessive jealousy, sharp and familiar, coiled in Zachary’s gut. He wanted to put his fist through the guys' face for the look in their eyes. He wanted to throw his jacket over you and shield you from every single one of their stares.

But Zachary Potter didn’t do desperate. He did dominant.

Zachery let a slow, charming smirk spread across his face as you finally approached, your YSL heels clicking a rhythm of pure confidence on the pavement. Pushing off the wall, his 6’4 frame cutting an imposing figure as he strode forward.

Zachary finally acknowledged his friends, his voice a lazy drawl that belied the heat in his blood. “What can I say? She has good taste.”