Page 6 of Broken Rivalry

Shit, does it have to be now?!

Liam strides in, his presence filling the space with a commanding ease. Sweat glistens on his forehead, a testament to his morning run. His breaths are even and controlled like the perfect robot he is. He pulls out his earbuds, the cord dangling against the fabric of his fitted workout shirt.

His eyes, sharp and observant, fall on my drink. The corners of his lips tilt downward, a silent judgment passing between us. He doesn’t have to say a word; his disapproval is as clear as day.

With a graceful stride, Liam moves to the fridge, his movements fluid and assured. He pulls out a bottle filled with a thick green liquid. “Rough night, Ethan?” he inquires, his British accent adding a touch of elegance to the words. The smoothie bottle uncaps with a hushed pop, and he takes a sip, his face unflinching at the undoubtedly awful taste. His concern seems genuine, but there’s a glimmer of amusement dancing in his clear green eyes, a subtle tease that he manages to carry even in the early morning light.

“You can say that,” I mutter, somehow preferring he assumes I spent the night partying than tossing and turning, thinking about an infuriating girl.

I observe as he takes a sip of his smoothie, his throat moving with the motion.

He glances at my can again, his eyebrows knitting together. “You understand that stuff’s like poison, right? Do you even realize what’s in it?” His words are gentle, almost a whisper, yet they carry a weight, a genuine concern masked by the casual tone.

I roll my eyes, the familiar lecture unwelcome in the early morning haze. “Not now, Liam.”

“Bull sperm!” Cole pipes, walking down the stairs with a stupid grin on his face, wearing nothing more than his boxer shorts, his morning wood on full display. One thing is clear with Cole: he carries an unapologetic confidence, unbothered by the world’s gaze, a trait I find both amusing and perplexing.

“There’s no bull sperm, you asshole, and nobody needs to see your fucking dick so early in the morning.”

“That’s not what your girl said.”

I have no girl to call mine, and usually, the jokes don’t bug me. But today, with Poppy’s face flashing in my mind, it’s different. It’s like her image is poking at a sore spot I was not aware of.

Seizing the moment of silence, I clear the uncertainty from my throat, turning toward Liam. “Are you still sleeping with the secretary of the admissions office?”

He takes a sip, eyeing me with speculation. “Occasionally.”

Liam has one rule: he refuses to sleep with students here, which is not something we would complain about. Liam, with his European charm, his glasses, and his rock star attitude, makes girls fawn over him, and Cole and I are more than happy to collect the dejected girls.

I nod and stop fidgeting as I feel Cole’s eyes on me. I clear my throat. “Can you get some info on Poppy Lockwood for me? I think she’s a transfer or something.” I feel like if I get answers to Poppy Lockwood’s mystery, I can finally let it go. But it’s like a whisper in my head, making me doubt if it’s that simple.

Liam’s eyebrow arches, a skeptical grin on his face. “Why the sudden interest?”

Cole snorts. “Remind me again how you’re not obsessed.” His words, filled with mockery, make me want to prove him wrong.

I flip him off, but my eyes stick to Liam.

Liam looks from me to Cole.

“She’s a girl that got our Ethan’s panties in a bunch,” Cole taunts. “Maybe look into her friend too. Evangeline Sinclair.”

It’s my turn to face him and grin. “It’s funny… She never said her name.”

Cole remains placid.

“What the fuck ever.” Liam throws his hands up in surrender. “I’ll get the info, but you girls better get your asses moving and be ready to go in forty-five minutes because this favor will cost you.” He turns and walks to his bedroom.

Facing Cole, our eyes lock in a silent standoff. We don’t have to say it, but we both feel it—we’re tangled up in the same kind of mess, and mine has got Poppy Lockwood written all over it.

Practice isn’t only a physical drain; it’s a soul-sucking, bone-crushing ordeal. The sun, a merciless ball of fire, glares down as we sprint, tackle, and dribble across the field. The scent of fresh-cut grass, usually a pleasant aroma, now seems to mock our agony. The ball feels like a lead weight, and my legs move as if submerged in molasses. I can almost hear my muscles screaming in protest with every stride.

After what feels like an eternity, the whistle’s shrill cry signals the end. I drag myself to the locker room, each step a Herculean effort. My body is drenched in sweat, my lungs gasping for air as if I’ve been submerged underwater. The thought of collapsing under the warm cascade of the shower, letting the water wash away the fatigue, is the only thing propelling me forward.

But the universe, it seems, has other plans.

Coach barrels into the locker room, his compact frame belying a commanding presence. His hair, graying and closely cropped, matches the stern set of his weathered face. Despite his modest height, his voice booms across the room, his words sharp and authoritative. His belly, a pronounced mound, stands as a jovial contrast to his strict demeanor, gently bouncing with each impassioned word he delivers. The sight might have been comical if his critiques weren’t so biting and his expectations so towering.

“What the hell is wrong with you today?!” Coach’s voice, loud and grating, echoes off the locker room walls. I turn, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights to see his face, a ripe tomato in hue, the vein on his neck pulsating like a techno beat.

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