Page 28 of F*ckboys

"Of course you can," I assure her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're strong, smart, and dedicated. You'll do an amazing job."

But, while my belief in Fallon's abilities is genuine, it won't protect her from the destruction that follows, orchestrated by my own hands.

Secretly, I enroll myself in the election race. I then get to work, developing a vicious smear campaign against her. "Felony Dempsey," the posters slapped across hundreds of lockers proudly declare, alluding to her family's ties to criminal activity and alleging some type of promiscuous behavior that gets tongues wagging in the school's corridors but doesn't meet the threshold for libel.

It begins with whispers in the hallways—hints of incompetence, rumors of scandalous behavior—all designed to weaken her standing among our peers. Before I know it, the campaign has taken on a life of its own, with other jealous classmates embellishing and adding to the already cruel picture I've painted. The guilt gnaws at me, a constant reminder of the damage I've done.

"Did you hear what they're saying about Fallon?" one student mutters to another as we pass by, their eyes filled with judgment.

"Unbelievable," the other replies, shaking their head. And just like that, Fallon's reputation crumbles before my eyes.

Sure enough, I sail through to a clear win. I never even wanted to be class president. I just wanted to show off to her, to be better than her. To show her I could beat her at this along with everything else. It's a drive within me that I can't quiteexplain, a reaction to the amount of time I spend thinking about her, dreaming about her.

My cruel nickname for her sticks and I know she hates it. Our senior yearbook reads Felony Dempsey and deems her most likely to be a criminal once she graduates from high school. She's mortified when she reads it, and I feel a little surge of schadenfreude as I see her rip the page from her own yearbook, running out of the lunchroom in tears. Her puppy dog friend, Michelle or whoever, runs after her to provide comfort, and I scoff at her weakness.

As I watch Fallon's world unravel, I can't help but feel responsible for her pain. I was blinded by my own need for validation and power, unable to see the impact of my actions until it was too late. As she spirals further into darkness, my regret grows heavier, suffocating me beneath the weight of my past mistakes.

By the time junior year is nearly over, my thoughts are in turmoil, battling between the urge to draw her close and the need to keep her at arm's length. It's a war I'm losing with every stolen glance and heated exchange.

"Christ, Aksel," Jace mutters one afternoon as we stand on the football field, watching Fallon's lithe form sprint past us during track practice. "You've got it bad for her, don't you?"

"Shut up," I hiss, anger flaring at the all-too-accurate accusation. "It's just a game."

"Whatever you say, man," he says, shaking his head. But I can see the concern etched into his features, and I know he's right. This is no longer just a game—it's an obsession, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

One night, after another bitter standoff with Fallon at a party, I return home to my empty house, the weight of my emotions bearing down on me like a crushing tidal wave. In thedarkness of my room, I allow myself a moment of weakness, the tears spilling hot and unchecked down my face.

"Fuck," I whisper, the word choked and broken. "What the hell am I doing?"

But even as the question haunts me, I know there's no turning back. The lines have been drawn, the ante raised with every passing day. I'm pretty sure she hates me now. The girl I obsessed over has become my nemesis. The obsession has continued but in a different form. And though part of me longs for surrender, for the sweet relief of honesty and vulnerability, I know that I can never allow myself that luxury. Not when there's so much more at stake.

"Fallon," I whisper into the night, her name both an invocation and a curse. "One day, you'll understand."

Chapter 14

Aksel

The fluorescent bulbs above cast an unforgiving light on the sweat-slicked equipment, illuminating the room with a cold, clinical glare. The hum of machinery and my labored breathing fill the air, drowning out the memories that threaten to swallow me whole. My playlist blares through the speakers, each bass note reverberating in my chest as I push through another rep, muscles straining against the relentless force of gravity. I don't know what I would do without my home gym, the place I retreat to for respite from the outside world, the pressures of my work and the dark thoughts that consume my mind.

The air around me crackles with tension, each breath infused with the bitter sting of regret. My fists clench at my sides as I stare at the row of weights that have become my confessional,their cold metal surfaces reflecting the storm of emotions brewing within me.

"Fuck," I hiss under my breath, the metallic clink of weights crashing onto the floor and echoing in the cavernous space. A fleeting shadow dances across the wall as a car goes by on the street below, taunting me like the ghosts of my past. I can't outrun them, not even in this sanctuary, where iron and sweat are my confidants.

"Damn it, Aksel," I mutter to myself, hands gripping a barbell as if it's the one thing keeping me grounded. "Get your shit together."

But it's easier said than done. In this dimly lit corner of my home gym, away from the prying eyes of the world, I'm confronted by the stark reality of my feelings for Fallon—feelings I never truly acknowledged, let alone understood, until now.

"God, I was so fucking blind," I say, the words barely audible over the thud of my heart and the grind of gears. I reflect on the flashbacks from the previous night that, for the first time, helped me to see my own behavior and emotional rollercoaster in more detail. The self-loathing is palpable, a bitter taste at the back of my throat. How could I have been so oblivious to my own emotions? It was such a build-up over time that I didn't even realize. And those years don't even accumulate to anything close to how I treated her in our senior year.

"Obsession," I spit out, the word tasting like venom. "That's what it was, right? That's what you'd call it?"

"Who are you talking to?" a voice interrupts, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Shit," I curse, spinning around to find my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored wall. "Just myself, apparently." I shake my head, pushing away the memories that threaten to consume me.

"Focus," I command myself, hands returning to the barbell. "Just a few more reps." But as much as I try to drown out the past with physical exertion, it seeps back in like a stain, creeping into the corners of my mind and refusing to be ignored.

"Fallon," I whisper, feeling the heat of my unspoken love for her burn through me like wildfire. I didn't know how to say it then, and I don't know if I can say it now. "What did I do to us?"

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