The bleachers were buzzing—packed with students, glittered in school colors, the roar of excitement vibrating through every plank beneath my feet.

I shouldn't have come.

But Sera had dragged me out, practically throwing popcorn at me until I caved. And Brayden—sweet, ridiculous Brayden—had handed me his extra jersey earlier with that stupid crooked grin, saying "You better wear this or I’ll sulk all night."

So now, here I was—wearing number 27. Brayden’s number. Not Liam’s.

And I could already feel the firestorm brewing.

“Girl,” Sera drawled, eyeing me over her giant soda, “you know that jersey is gonna make someone combust.”

I rolled my eyes and tugged it lower over my thighs. “It’s not like that. He’s my best friend.”

“Tell that to the guy down there looking like he wants to throw someone through a wall.”

I didn’t have to ask who.

My eyes had already found Liam.

He stood near the sideline, helmet off, his black eye paint smudged like war paint, jaw ticking so hard I could see it from up here. He scanned the crowd once—twice—and then locked onto me.

And froze.

His eyes dropped to the jersey. Number 27. Brayden’s number.

And I felt it.

The heat. The fury.

The muscle in his cheek twitched once, and then his expression turned to stone. Controlled rage.

“Shit,” Sera hissed beside me. “You just became ground zero.”

The whistle blew.

And then it happened.

Liam exploded across the field like a loaded weapon—aggressive, focused, brutal. Every snap of the ball, every tackle, was like he was trying to take someone’s head off.

Unfortunately, that someone was usually Brayden.

By halftime, Bray had been knocked on his ass four times and nearly clotheslined once. I winced every time, fingers digging into my seat.

“Are we sure this isn’t, like, a territorial pissing contest?” Sera muttered, “Because Liam looks ready to commit war crimes.”

“He’s just intense,” I said, though my voice cracked around the lie. Liam wasn’t just intense. He was angry. Possessive. Dangerous when jealous.

And right now, he looked like he wanted to burn down the whole field.

Final quarter. Score tied.

Everyone was on their feet, screaming. I stayed seated.

And then, in a blur, Liam tore through the defense like something out of a nightmare—fast, vicious, unstoppable.

Touchdown.

The stadium erupted.

But Liam didn’t bask. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even high-five anyone.

He turned—helmet under his arm, chest rising and falling—and locked eyes with me again.

And I knew.

He’d just won the game.

Lara’s POV

Scene: After the match — in the locker room hallway outside the showers

The hallway outside the boy’s locker room was mostly empty, the roar of post-game chaos still echoing from the field.

I’d only meant to drop off Brayden’s water bottle—he left it on the bleachers, and Sera had dared me to bring it down. Dumb. I should’ve said no.

Because the second I turned the corner, I walked straight into him.

Liam.

Still in his gear, jersey peeled halfway down, sweat glistening off his chest like warpaint. His hair was soaked, jaw tight, chest heaving like he hadn’t cooled down from the game—or the rage.

His eyes landed on me and darkened instantly.

Before I could even blink, his hand shot out, gripping my arm like steel.

“Liam—what the hell are you—?”

He yanked open the locker room door and pulled me in.

Hard.

The door slammed shut behind us, echoing like thunder through the tiled space.

“Are you insane?” I hissed, yanking at his hand. “Let me go!”

But he didn’t.

He dragged me farther, past the lockers, into the back corridor where the showers steamed and echoed. I stumbled over my words, nerves short-circuiting.

“Liam, stop—”

He did.

Right in front of the far shower stall, he whirled on me.

His chest rose and fell, his eyes wild with something untamed. Anger. Jealousy. Something that bordered on dangerous.

“What the fuck were you doing wearing his jersey?” he spat.

I froze. “Brayden’s my best friend. It’s not—”

“Not what?” he cut in. “Not like that? You think that makes it better?”

“You don’t own me,” I snapped.

The next second, my back hit the cold tile wall with a thud as he boxed me in. Not touching me—yet—but caging me with his arms.

“You wore his number,” he growled. “You cheered for him.”

“It was a jersey, Liam.”

He stepped closer.

“It was mine. That cheer? That look on your face while I bled for that game? That was supposed to be mine.”

I swallowed hard, throat tight. “You were brutal out there. You almost snapped Brayden’s collarbone.”

His jaw ticked. “He was in my way.”

“You’re being a possessive jerk.”

“Because you’re mine.” The words were a low growl, ripped from somewhere primal. “You can be mad. You can ignore me. You can lie to yourself all you want—but don’t stand out there, in his jersey, and act like I don’t exist.”

I shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge.

“You said I was yours last night,” I bit out, “and the next second you’re acting like nothing happened. Ignoring me. Playing games.”

“I wasn’t playing anything,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was trying not to lose my shit.”

“Congratulations,” I snapped. “You failed.”

His hand darted out, cupping my jaw—not soft, not hard, just enough to steal my breath.

“What else was I supposed to think?” he asked, voice lower now, cracking around the edges. “I come out looking for you, and there you are. In his clothes. Laughing with him. Smiling like nothing between us ever happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” I shot back. “Just a mistake. One kiss.”

“You think that was a mistake?” he whispered, furious.

He leaned in closer, breath brushing my lips. I felt the heat between us coil like fire.

“Did he kiss these lips too?” His thumb dragged across my mouth, slow. Tormenting.

I turned my face away, heart pounding. “Let me go, Liam.”

He grabs the collar of Brayden’s sweater in both fists and rips it with a furious, almost animalistic roar.

The material is thick and doesn’t break apart completely in one rip so he pulls again a second, then a third time, hacking at it with raw fury until he’s torn it off me.

I bring up my arms to try to cover myself, but he bends me over the sink and turns the tap on.

I scream when cold water hits my bare back.

“What are you doing?” I shriek, trying to stand up straight.

He places a hand between my shoulder blades, forcing me back down and holding me firm under the water as he grabs the hand soap and opens it with his teeth.

I hear him spit out the cap before I feel the viscous liquid drop on my upper back.

“Stop! What are you–”

“Just the thought of his smell on you makes me sick to my stomach.” He snarls, as he starts washing me. He’s not gentle, his hands rough and careless on my curves. “And you think I’d ever share you with anyone else?”

He reaches into the cupboard blindly and brings out a shower brush. Pouring more soap onto it, he uses it to scrub me raw, moving from my shoulders to my arms, and my upper back down to my lower back.

He gets water everywhere, spilling it onto the counter and marble floors and down my skirt as he refuses to stop.

My eyes are stinging with tears from the rough treatment but my body is singing and ready for him.

I’m still covered in soapy water as he slams the tap off and pulls me by my hair to place me face down on the wet counter next to the sink.

He bends and lays the top half of his body over mine as his hand cups my jaw from behind and he forces me to watch us in the mirror.

My pulse beats excitedly as I see the carnal look in his gaze.

“I’ve had enough.” He hisses into my ear, making eye contact with me through the mirror. “Enough of you saying other men’s names when you won’t say mine, enough of you running away, enough of your little games.” He bites my neck, making me scream loudly. He follows it up with equally powerful bites down the entire column of my throat, to my shoulders and wherever he can sink his teeth into. He pauses momentarily to meet my eyes again in the mirror as he delivers an ominous order. “I want you to watch me own you now.”