You don’t remember the teacher’s name anymore. You don’t remember what grade it was. But you remember that doll — soft, hand-stitched, perfect. The way it was presented to you like some rare treasure in front of the class. “For kindness,” she said. “For always helping others.”

You barely had a second to smile before Rafe Cameron snatched it from your desk, tore the head off in one fluid motion, and dumped it in the trash like it was nothing. You remember the exact tilt of his head, the slow, smug slide of his tongue across his teeth, and that infuriating smirk. That’s where it started. And it never stopped.

By now, it’s evolved into a full-blown war.

Over the years, it’s been endless. Fire ants in his locker. Bleach in your shampoo. He stole your notes before finals. You replaced his cologne with fish oil. You broke his phone. He made your life a daily parade of little disasters. And still, neither of you had ever really crossed a line.

Until today.

You were leaning against the lockers like always, your foot tapped against the tile with just the right rhythm to match your heartbeat. Rafe strolled down the hallway, fresh from practice, hair damp, cleats swinging from his fingers. Everyone clapped him on the back, shouting “Captain!”

Captain of the football team. Rafe fucking Cameron.

You’d had enough.

So, a day earlier, you made a plan. A quiet call from a blocked number. An anonymous tip. A little bag — filled with the kind of green that could destroy reputations — tucked into the lining of his locker during lunch. You made sure you weren’t seen. You made damn sure.

Now you watched, pretending not to care, as the teachers approached him. They asked to see his locker. His brows lifted, cool and arrogant.

He shrugged. “Go ahead.”

You almost laughed.

The moment the teacher’s hand reached into the back of the locker and pulled out the small, clear packet, time slowed. Rafe froze. His smirk disappeared. Eyes went wide, then narrowed like twin blades of suspicion.

He turned.

And looked right at you.

Your lips curled into a smile. Slow. Deliberate. A look that said checkmate.

You thought he’d be benched. Maybe get detention. Enough to wipe that stupid ego off his face.

But you didn’t expect what came next. He was cut from the team. Completely. No warnings. No appeals. Just gone. Coach didn’t even let him grab his jersey.

You felt the victory for exactly five minutes. Five whole minutes of pure, electric satisfaction.

Then he was in front of you. Cornering you near the lockers with those wild, furious eyes that made it hard to breathe.

“You think this is over?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “You just started something you can’t control.”

You didn’t flinch. Not in front of him.

“I already did,” you said. “Try and keep up.”

He grinned then, slow and dark, and you realized something unsettling — you hadn’t destroyed him.

You’d unleashed him.

And now it’s a new game.

One where he’s not going to play fair.

And neither will you.