Page 2 of King of Violence

Valmont College Champion: Julian Greco

I smile. This team could never last without me.

Practice ends with a triumphant roar from the team, the sound echoing across the field. Sweat drips from my brow, but I’m grinning like the cocky bastard I am. Coach claps me on the back as I pass, shouting something about my game-saving pass during the scrimmage. It’s nothing new. I’m used to being the best.

I yank off my helmet and shake out my damp hair, letting the cool breeze hit my face. My teammates are already heading to the locker room, but I take my time walking off the field, basking in the glow of being Valmont College’s golden boy.

And then I see him.

A serious-looking guy sitting on the bleachers with two studious-looking girls.

The guy has his arms crossed as he leans his tall frame back on the bench like he’s bored out of his fucking mind. He’s not dressed like someone who belongs here—no school colors or casual athletic gear. Instead, he’s in a tailored navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, dark slacks that cling to lean legs, and polished loafers. His face is sharp, all high cheekbones and a strong jaw framed by thick black hair swept away from his forehead. He’s got a pair of glasses perched on his nose, giving him a look that screamsI have a stick up my ass.

But it’s his expression that catches my attention.

Where most people would be looking at me with admiration—or, let’s face it, jealousy—this guy’s dark eyes are hard and assessing, like he’s trying to figure out the exact kind of trouble I am.

A smirk tugs at my lips.

I jog over, wiping my face with the hem of my jersey. The girls are talking excitedly as they see me turn in their direction, but they hurry away as if scared to speak to me.

The guy rolls his eyes and stands to pack up his belongings.

“Hey,” I call out, flashing my signature grin. “You lost or something? This isn’t the library.”

Tall, dark, and handsome barely reacts. His eyes flick to me, then back to the field like I’m not worth his time.

“Not lost,” he says flatly. His voice is low and calm, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like a blade hidden under silk.

Damn. I’m intrigued.

I hook my helmet under one arm and lean casually on the fence separating us. “You’ve got that whole ‘too cool for this’ vibe going on, but you’re watching us practice. That tells me you’re at least a little impressed.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies, his tone icy. “My peers wanted to study here today.”

Most people can’t resist my charm, but this guy isn’t biting. That only makes me more determined.

“And yet you still tagged along,” I point out.

He doesn’t reply.

“You got a name?” I ask.

He glances down at me with a look of distaste. “Felix Caruso.”

Caruso. The name sounds familiar, but I don’t dwell on it.

I stick out my hand. “Julian Greco—star quarterback, campus legend, all-around amazing guy.”

Felix looks at my hand like it’s a dead, rotten fish, then reluctantly shakes it. His grip is firm, but he lets go quickly, as if he doesn’t want to be contaminated. He turns on his heel and begins walking toward the stadium exit. I trail along the fence and easily keep up with his rushed pace.

“Let me guess,” I say, tilting my head. “You’re a law student, right? You’ve got that ‘future prosecutor’ vibe. Veryby the book.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “And you’ve got that ‘entitled athlete’ vibe. Veryabove the law.”

I laugh, genuinely amused. “Touché. But come on, you don’t have to be so serious. You’re at Valmont, not some Ivy League boot camp.”

Felix crosses his arms again, his gaze steady on the exit in front of him. “Some of us are here to learn and work, not just play games and party.”

---