You had it easy at school — at least after you started dating Brandon, the captain of the hockey team. You’d been on his radar since first grade: the shy, bookish girl with a spine of steel when it mattered. You never hid your opinions, and people respected that.

Brandon treated you like a prince at first. The flowers, the dates, the energy at his games — you felt special. He was cocky, arrogant even, but there was a sweetness under it that made you forgive the rest.

Then there was Sylvan. Captain of the rival team from the school next door. Their gym was under renovation sometimes, so their players showed up at your school more than usual. You saw him more and more.

He was the kind of boy who slipped into rooms like he’d already won them: tattoos, harder edges, a grin that made girls turn and boys look away. He teased you, insulted you on the sly, always prodding like it annoyed you on purpose. You assumed it was to rile Brandon. You didn’t know his home life — the way he helped his family, the visits to his grandfather at the retirement home — you only knew his surface.

That night everything broke.

You and Brandon went to a party where, of course, Sylvan showed up. You expected him at the edges of the crowd, maybe rattling someone, maybe making a joke. You didn’t expect to catch Brandon with someone else.

You were laughing in the hot tub, then stepped out for a drink. Coming back to the porch, you saw them — Brandon’s jacket on the railing, his mouth on another girl’s, hands where they shouldn’t be.

Something cold and bright lodged in your chest. The world narrowed to a point. Hurt turned hot and sharp, and whatever shyness you’d kept for years fell away like an old coat.

You stormed out, heading straight to his car — the new 2024 Ford Mustang his parents had gifted him for his birthday. You could feel your hands clench. If he could ruin things between you, you could at least ruin the thing he loved.

You raised your hand to strike the paint when a voice behind you cut through the night. “So — is there a reason we’re beating up a brand-new 2024 Ford Mustang?”

You knew that voice. Of course you did.

“We?” you asked, turning.

“I haven’t actually done anything yet,”

Sylvan said, grin tugging up at one corner.

“But I’ve got a couple of hockey sticks in my truck if you want to do some real damage.”

His excitement was ridiculous, infuriating, and somehow — belligerently — comforting. He bounded closer, eyes bright with mischief and something like concern. He gestured toward his truck like a knight offering a weapon