Page 15 of Broken Rivalry

“Yep!” Once we exit the building, I watch her go in the direction of her car, and I take a left down toward the Lions stadium, already dreading my next action.

Realizing Ethan has been looking into me, I start digging for information on him. It’s surprisingly easy to get what I need. Girls are always eager to chat about varsity players, and I’ve secured the soccer team’s training schedule, so I know the best times to wander the campus without bumping into him.

The soccer ground is bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun as I arrive, the players on the field moving in perfect synchronicity as the cheerleaders are working on their routine at the other end of the field.

I linger on the sideline, observing them for a few stolen moments. They move in a sea of bright-blue uniforms, high ponytails dancing joyfully with each coordinated movement, sharply juxtaposed with the turmoil brewing within me. I once again almost subconsciously reach for my own ponytail that is no longer there. I cut my hair short about six months after my family’s downfall. I went from expensive treatments, oil, and bimonthly hairdresser appointments to having to wash my hair with cheap shampoo. Which caused my beautiful, lustrous hair to become a tangle of unruly waves. I cut it short, and it was much easier to maintain. It is all I see now… practicality. With a sigh, I turn back toward the soccer practice and the screaming coach, trying to find Ethan. Finally, I see him in the middle of the field; his movements are fluid and graceful, a ballet of power and precision, and even with how much I dislike him, I can’t help but admit he has a real gift.

Finally, Cole enters the field, stopping the practice as the coach turns all his frustration toward him, and he takes it with complete ease.

Ethan shakes his head, and as he turns toward the bleachers, he spots me, his eyes lighting up as he jogs over, a grin on his face.

“My cheerleader,” he teases, his tone light and playful. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“You wanted to talk? Let’s talk,” I say, cutting to the chase. “But one condition: you keep your rapey friend away from my friend,” I add, jerking my head toward Cole, who is now on the grass doing push-ups as a punishment.

His smile falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Cole is not rapey,” he defends, but I cut him off. “I don’t care. I’ll answer two questions.”

He groans quietly, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Fine, Cole will stay away. Why are you starting university now?” I meet his gaze, my expression steely.

“Because your family took everything from me, and I’m poor.”

He narrows his eyes, his nostrils flaring with frustration. “That’s a bit vague.”

I shrug. “It’s my answer. Next question.”

He pauses, thinking for a second, detailing my face in a way that makes me quite uncomfortable.

“Why change your name?”

“Because being the daughter of Alan Lockwood, the man forever branded as an embezzler and who met his end in a prison cell”—I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat—“is a cross too heavy to bear,” I admit. Bitterness seeps into each word, an anomaly to my usual composed demeanor.

His eyes widen with surprise. The coach calls his name, but he ignores it.

“I think you’re needed back on the field. Are we good?”

He hesitates before asking, “Why did you vanish from social media? You have not posted since the day before the incident.”

“Incident.” I laugh bitterly. “What a nice way to put it. You asked your two questions, I answered.”

“Hawthorne! Come play soccer and leave your girlfriend!”

“I’m neither his girlfriend nor his friend,” I retort sharply, my words edged with a coldness meant to distance myself from the insinuation.

The coach lets out a hearty laugh, a sound that carries across the field. “At least there’s one girl with a brain in the bunch. Good on ya, lass.”

Ethan looks at me, his eyes filled with emotions I can’t quite decipher.

“Can we call a truce?” he asks quietly. I consider his words, the sincerity in his gaze.

I nod. “Yes, I offered that before. Let’s pretend we’ve never met and go on our merry way.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he protests. “I don’t want to pretend I don’t know you, Poppy.”

Somehow, hearing him calling me Poppy instead of Pauper strikes a chord I hate.

“I think—“

I raise my hand to cut him off. “I don’t associate with athletes.”

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