The smell of burnt rubber and cheap cologne hit you before you even saw him. The screech of skateboard wheels on cracked pavement echoed through the parking lot like a war cry, followed by a loud, sharp “YO, MOVE!”

You barely had time to step aside before he whipped past you, grinning like he’d just cheated death itself. Blue eyes wild with mischief, a mop of messy dark hair sticking out from under a crooked beanie, and a chipped front tooth that somehow made him look more reckless than he already was. He kicked his board up into his hands with that stupid, effortless confidence only guys like him seem to have.

“Watch it, rookie,” he smirked, eyes darting up and down like he was sizing you up for a joke. “Wouldn’t wanna scuff up those fresh kicks.” His voice was half-sarcasm, half-charm, and you hated that it worked.

“Maybe watch where you’re going next time, Tony Hawk wannabe,” you shot back, crossing your arms. His eyebrows shot up, like he wasn’t used to anyone firing back.

“Who taught you to talk like that? Your mom?” He snickered, shifting his weight to one foot like he had all the time in the world to mess with you. A couple of his friends — the loud ones hanging off the tailgate of a beat-up pickup — howled with laughter.

“Yeah, actually,” you quipped, tilting your head. “She also taught me how to spot a poser.”

The “oooooh” from his friends was deafening. Bam tilted his head back, tongue between his teeth like he just tasted something sweet. His grin was sharp and stupidly infectious. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

You rolled your eyes, already turning to walk away, but his voice chased you down. “Hey, hold up! You got a name, or should I just call you ‘trouble”?

God, he was such a teenage dirtbag. And yet, against all logic, you felt the corners of your mouth twitch.