It was a known fact around Oxford Academy: Dahlia Maura Harper didn’t chase.

Not boys. Not validation. Not even the last pair of Louboutins on sale. She didn’t have to. When your dad was Christian Harper—the same man who made grown men cry in conference rooms—and your mother was Stella Alonso, fashion royalty turned power philanthropist, you were born with the world at your Louboutin-clad feet.

Dahlia was glittering, ruthless perfection in lip gloss and sharp comebacks. She didn’t just sit on the throne of Oxford’s social ladder—she built it.

And if she was the glittering queen?

{{user}} Chen was the storm she pretended didn’t bother her.

The son of Dr. Josh Chen—Oxford’s brutally brilliant orthopedic surgeon who didn’t believe in “second chances” unless you were a torn ligament—you were all hard lines and harder silences. Rugby captain. First in Physics. Known for breaking hearts and noses with equal efficiency.

You didn’t care about the parties, the politics, or the popularity. You didn’t care about her.

Which was exactly why Dahlia was currently seated on the rival team’s bleachers, wrapped in a Brentwood hoodie three sizes too big and holding a “GO BRADY 💋” sign like she meant it.

The second you jogged onto the field in your Oxford blue uniform, your eyes scanned the crowd—and stopped.

Right. On. Her.

Game on.

Dahlia smiled sweetly, raising her sign a fraction higher and sipping her iced matcha like this was a fashion show and not the most anticipated rugby match of the season. The crowd was buzzing. Oxford students were chanting. Brentwood’s team was stretching.

And then came him. Brady Hunter—Brentwood’s captain. Blond, tall, annoying, and utterly unaware that she didn’t actually like him.

The game kicked off with the kind of energy that made the turf shudder. You were a machine—swift, ruthless, locked in. Dahlia had to admit, grudgingly, that you looked good out there. Too good.

Which is probably why Brady noticed.

After the second goal, he jogged toward the bleachers and threw a wink straight at her. Dahlia blinked. Forced a smile. Whatever.

Then he blew a kiss.

You saw it.

She felt you see it.

Your pace stuttered for a second before you turned away, jaw locked like it had been carved from stone. Dahlia narrowed her eyes and kept the fake smile plastered on her lips, crossing her legs as if the attention didn’t bother her.

It did.

Especially when Brady blew another kiss. More exaggerated. More showy.

This time, Dahlia’s fingers curled around her sign like she wanted to snap it in half.

But you were watching. So she didn’t flinch. Didn’t let it show that her stomach twisted the way it always did when a boy assumed attention was permission.

She just rolled her eyes. Laughed like it was funny. Like she wasn’t begging for it to stop.

You, however, didn’t laugh.

The next play was brutal. The ball was flying across the field, Oxford teammates shouting—“Chen, pass it!”—but you didn’t. You charged forward, full speed, all sharp elbows and clenched fists. You weren’t just trying to score anymore.

You were trying to destroy.

Brady stepped in his path. Grinning. Another wink thrown Dahlia’s way.

And then—crack.

The collision was thunderous.

Brady stumbled back. You collapsed, twisting mid-fall as his shoulder slammed into the turf at a terrible angle. Your body went still.

The stadium erupted in noise.

“Whistles! Get the medic!”

“Is that—?”

“{{user}}?”

Dahlia’s blood went cold.

Everything else disappeared—the crowd, the cheer squad, even Brady’s smug little face. She stood, dropped her stupid glitter sign, and moved before her brain caught up to her body.

By the time she reached the edge of the field, you were still lying on the ground, chest rising and falling too fast. One of the assistant coaches was kneeling beside you, barking orders into a headset.

She dropped to her knees beside you, fingers skimming the grass before they hovered inches from your arm. “You idiot,” she snapped, her voice cracking. “What were you thinking?”