I should’ve known. Dating the ex of someone like Sofia — the most two-faced cheerleader in our squad — was never going to end quietly. Rafe Cameron and she broke up over a year ago. Toxic, manipulative, gold-digging—he had every reason to walk away. And now? I’m the one at his side, and for almost three months, we’ve been inseparable.

But Sofia? She never truly let go.

At first, it was just the looks. Tight, fake smiles that never reached her eyes. That passive-aggressive tone. Compliments laced with venom. Sarcasm so sharp it could slice. I saw through all of it—but I never gave her the satisfaction of a reaction. I’m not here to play petty games.

Today, it’s game day. The whole school is out on the field. We’re lined up, pom-poms ready, energy high. The sun is blazing, the bleachers are packed, and every eye is on the team. On him. Rafe. Number 7. Our quarterback and my heart.

Every time he looked my way, flashing that grin only I really understood, I felt lighter. Like I was floating. He winked after the first touchdown, and I swear I could’ve flown straight off the field.

Then came the stunt sequence. We’d practiced it all week: a back handspring, followed by a scorpion arabesque, and finally a twisting cradle dismount — high level, complicated, but we nailed it every time. Four bases were meant to catch me. Sofia was one of them.

The flip was perfect. I twisted in the air, spotted the ground, and braced for the familiar arms to break my fall. But something was off. One side dipped. My left foot slammed the turf with no support.

Pain exploded up my leg — blinding, hot, instant.

I collapsed.

Flat on my back, tears streamed down my face as I clutched it with both hands, trying to hide the sound of me crying. My ankle pulsed with a deep, stabbing ache. I could feel it swelling already — too fast, too bad. The field felt silent and far away.

Some of the girls rushed over. The nice ones. Genuine concern in their eyes, they crouched around me, whispering, “Don’t move,” “It’s turning purple,” “Oh my god…” while gently brushing my hair back and trying to check my ankle.

But not Sofia.

She stood at a distance, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Or maybe satisfied.

Then I heard it. A voice slicing through the noise. “Move!”

Rafe.

He sprinted across the field, helmet already off, eyes only on me. He dropped to his knees, out of breath but focused, pushing past the girls.

“Baby, hey, I’m here, I got you,” he said softly, peeling my hands away from my face.

His fingers brushed away my tears, his jaw tight as he looked at my ankle. His expression darkened.

“Who dropped her?” he demanded.

No one answered. But everyone glanced at Sofia.

“It was an accident,” she said flatly, not even pretending to sound convincing.

Rafe didn’t reply. He just leaned in, scooped me gently into his arms, cradling me against his chest.

The embarrassment still burned, the pain even worse, but as I clung to him, one truth settled in:

Sofia made her move. But this time, she did it in front of everyone.

And Rafe saw everything.