Chapter 10: 9. Two sides of the same coin

Tiago

I always thought football was difficult. Then I thought History was unbearable.

And then I got girl problems, and now the only thing constantly buzzing in my mind is why she's ignoring me after giving me a wristy*.

"Another day, another try, my dude?"

My whole body quivers as a strong grip crashes onto my shoulders. TJ shakes me with harmless encouragement as he passes by, and all I can manage in that moment is to force a smile.

The locker room smells nasty. Although it will forever be engraved in my mind as a space haunted by the scent of weed and fruit, now it stinks like men.

God, men really stink. No deodorant will ever get rid of the strong odor of male sweat.

I try my best to stay cornered and discreet as I take off my hoodie, my eyes darting around as I change into the jersey. It's way too hot in Decatur, and I don't know how much of a challenge Mom's concealer can handle before revealing the huge purple mark Yannik left on me the other day.

Sometimes I think it's better if she never talks to me again. That way, I won't feel weird about her. She won't look at me. Or touch me. Or just be around—pretty and poisonous as she is.

It's been days, and I still can't process how I feel about it. To start with, I don't even feel like it was real. But it was—because I had a hell of an ache in my balls after.

She felt so close to me. She was, in fact, so close to me. My neck still recalls the tickle of her breath, the feel of her lips, and the goosebumps her kiss left behind.

But my mind can't shake the cold, heavy clutch of guilt in my chest. I feel weak because I snapped. I just let it happen—let her get into my head, my skin, my pants.

The worst part? She got into my mind, and now she won't leave.

"Not so fast, Big Boy."

God, not now. Don't mess with my head when I'm about to start my second tryouts.

I try to pass her by, pretend I didn't hear her, but all I do is stop right after leaving the locker room and turn to her. There she is—Yannik Moore, her signature smirk in place and a letterman jacket slung over her shoulders.

A letterman jacket with a "C" on the left side and a faint trace of Cooper's strong cologne mingling with Yannik's tropical scent.

"Nice jacket," I mutter. Yannik glances down at her clothes, as if she's judging them herself, then looks back at me with a simple shrug that says a thousand things.

"Cormac gave it to me. Still smells like him."

Her eyes are fixed on me, and I try my best to act normal.

I want to say I noticed, but instead, my brows knit together in confusion and a flicker of anger. Yannik's ups and downs have my head spinning, and no matter how hard I try to decipher what's going on in her mind, I come up with nothing.

"So we're talking again now?" I sound harsher than I mean to. Yannik raises an eyebrow, unfazed, as if my aggression is just a silly challenge.

"Well, I just figured you'd wanna thank me for getting your miserable ass here."

"Excuse me?" My eyebrow arches. She's so calm it's unnerving, making me think she might actually have a point. My gaze darts away from hers, trying to break free from the trap of her eyes. "Yeah, thank—"

"Just try not to screw up this time, Big Boy," she says, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. "You better lock the fuck in so you won't come to me again, whining like a bitch."

As far as I know, Yannik's not the type to overthink her words before speaking, but today, it's really getting out of hand.

"Whining?" I find myself leaning slightly toward her. Even though I'm taller and the top of her head barely reaches my collarbone, Yannik always looks at me like she's ready to fight. Wearing the protection gear only makes me feel different, because now she looks smaller than ever.

Such a cute face for a tongue like that.

"You fucking sold yourself, dude," she chuckles, her words landing like a slap. "Desperate enough to fuck your way up?"

I take a deep breath, my eyes scanning her face for any clues. I can't tell if her teasing has hit a new level or if she's genuinely picking on me. Whatever it is, it's getting too personal.

"Stop attacking me," I say, lowering my voice as I hear the Wolves start leaving the locker room for the field. "Why are you being so aggressive?"

"I'm telling you the truth, Santiago," she emphasizes my name like it's an insult. And honestly, it feels like one. "What kind of trash QB screws up tryouts?"

"Cut it, Yannik."

The buzzing in my head grows louder, like an annoying mosquito that just won't quit. Every insult I've ever heard about myself comes rushing back like shrapnel from a detonated grenade.

"Why? Truth hurts, doesn't it?" she says, her tone unrelenting. "Then try to be something more than the hopeless little boy you are."

I hear his voice as loud and clear as if he's here. My eyes drop to my fingers for a brief moment, just enough to read the letters engraved in my mind, burned in and scarred on the skin.

Hopeless.

"I bet they kicked you out of West High because they couldn't stand you there."

"Shut the—" I bite my tongue to stop myself.

I take a deep breath, clamping down on my tongue until the pain outweighs her words. When I look at her again, she's still pretty, even though her words are sharper than a machete. My fists clench so tightly I feel my nails digging into my palms.

"Are you done now?" I ask, my voice hollow.

Yannik steps forward, like she's about to leave, but she pauses and gives me a sidelong glance. Her smoky voice chokes me with passive anger.

"Lock in, Santiago. It's blowing up a storm."

I can't help but watch her as she disappears around the corner of the building, clearly heading to the field. Her words echo in my head as I finally step onto the field. Adjusting my gear, I glance around. Having so many eyes on me has never felt strange before, but now I know what they're all thinking.

It's obvious when I see Samuel standing next to me, the pity in his eyes clear before he puts on his helmet.

"Ready?"

I hear a voice beside me. When I turn, Enzo is dropping his sports bag on the ground, starting to put on the rest of his gear. He doesn't look at me, his voice quiet and calm.

"Don't stare at me—Cormac's watching," he mutters. I immediately look away, continuing what I was doing before. "I don't know what you did to piss him off this much, but he wants us to sabotage your tryouts again."

"Sabotage?" I chuckle. What idiot would even try to—

I freeze. My mind spins back to the day of the first tryouts. It doesn't take long to recall how I ended up covered in bruises. The force they used to knock me down was more than intense.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, keeping my voice as low as his.

I glance over my shoulder and find the missing piece of Cooper's jigsaw: Yannik. Her copper hair streams down her shoulders, her eyes locked on Cooper. She's close to him—too close—and still wearing his jacket.

"It feels wrong to mess with you," Enzo struggles to explain, but then chuckles like it's all a joke. "And I'm sick of Cap's shit."

A cold wave hits me as I watch her in his arms. Yannik's hug looks so warm, it feels like a betrayal knowing that just days ago, she was that close to me—her lips on my neck, her hand in my pants, her essence in my mind.

I put in my mouthguard, but my eyes stay fixed on them, seeking any hint of emotion on Yannik's face.

Hopeless.

I hear her voice, clear and loud.

I hear his too.

The whistle blows, and as everyone gets into position, I feel it coursing through me—rushing with my blood, striking my head.

Anger.

Cold, dry anger, spinning in my mind, twisting in my flesh.

She sounded just like him. I thought about her every time he was around—his words, his presence—and now, she sounds just like him.

How dare she sound like him?

I take my position, the ball squeaking in my hands as I grip it too tightly. My body leans forward, tense, my eyes scanning the defenders.

I can feel my cleats tearing into the grass, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I don't even hear the whistle blow, but the defenders move, so I bolt forward.

Clutching the ball like my lifeline, I move faster than them, weaving left, then right, their reactions always a second too slow.

But it's not enough.

The defenders separate, letting the linebacker charge straight toward me. I push my legs harder, trying to dodge, but then—

I'm floored.

Pain explodes through my body as I hit the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of me. It takes every ounce of effort to roll to the side and suck in a shallow breath, blinded by the hit.

"Good, Jones?"

Coach's voice breaks through the haze. I force a thumbs-up before he can intervene.

I push myself to my feet, every part of me trembling, my guts throbbing where the linefront stabbed me with his elbow.

Hopeless.

So hopeless I can't even handle a simple push.

I search for her, even though her voice is still tormenting me. And there she is, perched at the very edge of the stands, sitting in the front row. She rests her head on her hands, looking at me with that stupid grin.

She spots me looking, and for a second, I think she might wave at me like she did at the first tryouts. Instead, she points at me and does this slow, sucking gesture—hand moving along her tongue behind her cheek.

You suck.

I'm dying to flip her off, but I resist the urge, locking my jaw as I focus back on my position. My eyes track the linebacker.

12.

I flick my gaze to Yannik, straining to see the number stitched on the sleeve of her letterman jacket.

12.

The whistle blows again, and I charge at the defenders, my body bracing for the collision. This time, I don't bother weaving around them. My entire focus narrows in on the linebacker.

This fucker.

He's not pissed because I'm a threat to the team. He's pissed because I'm a threat to his ego. I'm the reason he doesn't feel like enough for his girl.

I see him darting toward me, and in that split second, the ball doesn't matter anymore. It's not what's on the line.

I'm not letting him be the reason I'm called hopeless.

As soon as Cooper's within reach, I lunge. My body collides with his, flattening him to the ground with all my weight.

The impact jolts through me, but I roll over quickly, pinning him down. My hands clamp onto his shoulders, forcing him into the grass as he writhes beneath me, desperate to get free.

The urge to punch him is so visceral it burns. I want to smash his face into the ground, do something to let him know I'm not playing games. But the whistle blows before I can move.

"Get off me!" Cooper hisses, his words muffled by his mouthguard.

Instead, I grab his shoulders and shove him back down against the ground.

"Try me again, and I'll break your legs, mate."

The words leave my mouth before I can think. My voice comes out mangled through the mouthguard, but I know he understands. His eyes widen, and he finally stops thrashing.

I shove myself off him, my heart slamming against my ribcage like it's trying to escape.

I shouldn't have said that. Threatening the captain is a fast track to getting benched—especially threatening him with something so real. But the satisfaction lingers, crawling under my skin. For a moment, it feels right.

To prove to him.

To prove to her.

To prove to myself.

I'm not hopeless. I can fight. I can do this better than anyone else.

I can get to the top.

So I prove it. Over and over, through the pain, through the groans. Every hit I take feeds the anger twisting in my chest. My body aches, but it's my heart that hurts more.

The scars start bleeding again. I feel them itching beneath the skin, mirroring every memory, every word he spat at me. Spreading across the butterflies tracing my forearms.

Hopeless. So hopeless I don't make sense. So hopeless I'm a waste.

Fuck him. Fuck them all.

Watch me bleed so I can prove you wrong.

"Alright, y'all! Enough for today!"

The whistle cuts through the pounding in my head. My breathing is sharp and shallow as I yank off the helmet, my fingers too numb to grip it. I let it fall to the ground.

I'm so sick of being a screw-up. Sick of everyone looking at me like I'm just a disaster waiting to happen.

And the thing that boils my blood?

I don't have the guts to face it.

Yannik stands, clapping slowly, her lips pulling into a lopsided grin.

I don't even realize I'm moving until I'm halfway across the field, striding toward her with heavy, deliberate steps.

"Come here, you little cunt!"

The words burn my tongue, every syllable laced with venom. I savor them the way she savors my name, and the anger becomes unbearable as I close the distance between us.

How easy it is for her. How superior she feels, twisting her games into my head, looking at me like I'm prey.

"Wanna talk, huh? Let's fucking talk! What other ratshit do you have to say?"

I stop in front of her, so close I'm sure I'm cornering her. For a brief moment, guilt flickers through me. But then she speaks, her voice a dagger laced with honey.

"That you're hot when you swear."

I freeze. The words hit me like a slap, and I stand there, dumbfounded. Her eyes don't hold fear or guilt—just that same reckless defiance. The devils that own her mind are dancing there, mocking me.

"You—" I stammer, my thoughts crashing into each other. "You did it on purpose."

Of course she did. Of course this girl is always one step ahead of me.

She always is.

She nods, biting her lip to stifle the larger smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Why the hell would you do that?" My voice cracks as I finally snap, the strain evident.

"Why?" She raises an eyebrow, her eyes scanning me slowly, deliberately, from head to toe. "Because we're alike."

I clench my jaw so hard it aches, the pressure mounting with each second she stands there—fearless, defiant, like she's got me wrapped in an invisible leash.

"I know myself," she says, her voice low and smooth, "and that means I know you. What you like, what you hate, what makes you sad, what turns you on—"

Her gaze drops lower than my stomach, and my face burns as the memory flashes vividly in my mind—her licking her fingers so shamelessly.

"What makes you furious."

"I'm nothing like you," I snap back, but even I can hear the waver in my voice.

Yannik shakes her head, the faintest trace of pity in her eyes. It makes my stomach turn because I know—deep down—she's right.

"Oh, but you are," she whispers, her gaze lingering on me like she's studying a mirror. "Same fire, same fury. You're just...better at hiding it. For now."

No matter how hard I try to see myself as better than her, the evidence is right here.

Swaying in the air alongside the threat I spat at Cooper without a second thought.

"We're two sides of the same coin, Tiago," she says, her voice softer now, more assured. "The sooner you accept it, the sooner you'll rise to the top—because I'm already there. And I'm willing to bring you with me."

Her words hang in the air, suffocating and impossible to ignore. I take a deep breath, trying to shake off this growing sense of disbelief.

I can't accept it.

That Yannik—this Yannik Moore, reckless and seductive—is the same as me.

I'm a fuckup.

She is, too.

But we're not the same. We can't be.

We're two completely different types of fuckups.

"You did great out there, mate," she says suddenly, her tone light, casual, like this is just a friendly chat. She slaps my shoulder in the same way a teammate might as she walks past. "Cute hickey, by the way."

The side of my neck burns like fire, and I instinctively slap my hand over it. My eyes follow her as she strides away, that stupid jacket with Cooper's number still draped over her shoulders, still smelling like him.

I stand there, glued to the ground, my breath shaky and shallow. I take a deep, long inhale, hoping it'll calm the storm inside me. But it doesn't.

Instead, her voice loops in my head.

Her words.

Her looks.

I hate her.

I hate the way she crawls under my skin and drags out the parts of me I've fought so hard to bury.

I hate that she can see through me like I'm made of glass, like she already knows every step I'm going to take before I do.

I hate how she lives in my head, possessing my thoughts like some kind of ghost.

She poisons everything she touches. Burns it to the ground with the fire she carries inside her.

And the worst part? I can't put it out.

I hate her because I hate the idea that she might be right.

That she's chaos.

That I'm chaos, too.

But most of all, I hate her because I can't stop being drawn to her chaos.

I want it.

I want her.

More than I want to admit.