The Switch

Chapter 6

Greyson

The stadium lights blaze down, harsh and merciless, and I breathe hard through my nose, adjusting, shifting the momentum before it slips.

Jude's fucking up the plays on purpose.

His timing is off, and it's now clear that his 'mistakes' are meant to fuck with me and me alone.

But the idiot's predictable. He always has been. Whatever satisfaction he's looking for, he won't find here.

My blood runs hot beneath my pads, boiling with anger, not from the game, not even from Jude's bullshit— just from her.

Ivy.

Standing on the sidelines, the maroon and gold skirt of her uniform swaying just enough to steal my attention every time she moves. Her top clings to her like a second skin, outlining every curve.

Every glance, every shift of her body, tugs at the edges of my focus, pulling me dangerously off balance. It's fucking unusual how something so simple can completely dismantle me, but here I am— distracted and off my game as hell.

The game's slipping in and out of focus, and when Jude stumbles into me once more, throwing my timing off just enough to piss me off, I don't flinch. I keep moving, grinding through the fourth quarter, every yard earned through gritted teeth.

And when the final whistle blows, the stadium explodes, a wall of cheers, but even over the sound of my pulse in my ears, I hear her. It's her cheer I hear first, louder and sharper than the rest of her team.

I glance her way, just for a second, catching the way her eyes flash, her lips parted in celebration.

Anger twists tight in my chest as I rip off my helmet, my jaw clenched so hard it feels like my teeth might crack. Ivy flinches, her eyebrows pulling in for just a fraction of a second before her expression hardens and she glares back at me.

She doesn't know what she did— fuck, I don't even know what the fuck she did, but it was enough to throw me off my game. And that pisses me off more than anything Jude Bromwell could do.

But the win is mine, and that's all that fucking matters.

I turn back to the field, scanning the crowd until I spot three familiar faces.

Lincoln's hands are cupped around his mouth as he shouts something I can't make out, and when the old woman sitting beside him cringes at his obnoxiousness, he grins wide. Beside him, Abel sits with a bag of popcorn in his lap, eyes glued to me like he's studying every move I make, and I bet if I ask him the exact second the game shifted in my favor, he'd know. And then there's Ithan, sitting next to Abel, his jaw tight and a frown pulling at his face as his eyes track Jude.

It's strange, the way the sight of them settles something in my chest. Not comfort, exactly— more like a reminder, that they are my people, not the strangers in the crowd. Not my parents. Them.

Shaking out my hair, I turn around, and the sight of Jude's face— twisted with anger and bitter defeat, makes my smirk deepen. He doesn't even try to hide it, and that makes the win all the sweeter.

I slip my fingers through my helmet, pausing just before I pass him on my way to the locker room. "Better luck next time, champ." The words drips with mockery as I pat his back, laughing loudly when he shrugs me off like my touch burns.

His eyes flare, almost like he wants to hit me, but he stays silent.

He knows that this field belongs to me. And if I really wanted to make his life a living hell? So would Ivy.