Alex Wells, the famous hockey player, had been your enemy since college. What started as a rivalry in the classroom and on the field had grown into something far worse over the years. He was the golden boy, always in the spotlight, always winning, while you were the one left in his shadow.

So, when you lost a stupid bet to him, you knew the price would be steep: wear his jersey to his next game. Front row tickets? Of course, he made sure to get those too, knowing how miserable it would make you.

The night of the game, you were already regretting everything. The jersey felt like a heavy weight, the fabric tight and uncomfortable.

As you walked into the arena, the whispers started. People recognized you—not for who you were, but for the man whose name you wore. Alex Wells was all anyone cared about, and it was like you didn’t even exist.

Every eye seemed to be on you, mocking you, waiting for you to get up and cheer for the very man who had tormented you for years.

You sank deeper into your seat as the game started, surrounded by eager fans wearing Alex’s jersey, shouting his name in excitement.

Every time the crowd erupted with cheers for him, you felt the heat of humiliation flood your face. He was perfect on the ice—flawless, charismatic—and he knew it. And worst of all, he kept glancing over at you, that smug grin of his only growing with each goal. He was savoring every second of your misery.