The whole scheme was my arch-nemesis’s idea: first, he got dumped by my best friend. Then, he immediately sent his impossibly gorgeous best mate to try and seduce me. Alistair—the mate—had actually snickered when the plan was hatched. “Hooking her will be easier than walking the dog,” he’d said, ice in his voice. Later, of course. A scandalous chat log would leak between the two campus legends: Alistair: Dude, maybe we should just go kneel outside her dorm together? Brooks: Great idea, man. The wounded dog act? They’ll fall for it. The entire student body would follow the drama like it was a premium Netflix series. And I was the unsuspecting lead. 1 Brooks Coleman. The campus icon at Crestwood University. And my arch-nemesis since we were kids. Our entire lives have been a nonstop battle of wits. I’ve practically memorized The Art of War just to keep up with him. But this time, the jerk had truly dug himself into a pit he couldn’t climb out of. Because, the idiot had gone and fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love with my best friend, Harper. Right now, Harper was slumped over, staring miserably at her phone, trying to craft a reply to her pathetic suitor. The contact ID, BrooksCrestwood01, looked perfectly generic. I couldn’t resist leaning over. “Brooks is so damn pretentious. It’s bad enough his handle includes the university name, but ‘01’? What is he, the number one loser?” Harper reached out, twirling a strand of my hair around her finger, then gently pinching my cheek. “Honey, who said that was the year he was born?” I immediately got it. My face flamed a furious red. Just then, Harper’s phone vibrated with a new voice message from Brooks. She tapped play. “Baby, do you want me to bring you an iced green tea? Extra sweet, just the way you like it.” Ugh. I practically gagged. That was Brooks. The guy whose words were usually laced with arsenic, who’d rather choke on his own tongue than say anything nice to me. Now he was using baby talk for Harper? I clung to Harper’s arm, rubbing my cheek against her shoulder. “Promise me you’re not going to fall for this massive tool.” Harper smelled like high-end vanilla body mist, but her tone was cool as ice. “Don’t worry. I’m about to dump him.” She sighed dramatically. “His specs are top-tier, sure. Perfect jawline, legs for days, solid eight-pack, and money to burn. But his software system? Total fail. He’s all looks and zero game.” She paused, swallowing hard, a complicated look crossing her face. “Besides,” she finished with a disgusted wave of her hand, “he was just too... polished. Like he was modeling in a cologne ad instead of kissing me.” I had to suppress a shiver of pure, unadulterated disgust. Harper, seeing my face, cleared her throat and gave a solemn nod. “It’s mostly for you, Ev. I couldn’t possibly consort with him. We’re in this together.” That’s more like it. Harper’s fingers flew across the screen, typing her devastating reply. “Sorry, Brooks. I have a new crush.” The text box at the top of the screen blinked madly: BrooksCrestwood01 is typing... BrooksCrestwood01 is typing... A minute later, a voice message popped up. His voice sounded thin and defeated. “And this… crush… what does he like to drink?” 2 I laughed until my stomach ached. Brooks Coleman, the arrogant bastard, was officially a simp. The next second, I threw my arm around Harper’s neck and kissed her cheek, snapping a quick selfie. Then, I unblocked Brooks from the small prison I’d put him in. I sent him the photo. The caption was short and sweet: “Could you stop harassing my woman?” In less than three seconds, my phone was ringing—a frantic video call from Brooks. I hit accept. “What is Harper to you?” His voice was glacier-level furious. “Literal meaning, my woman. Oh, and for the record, I prefer the peach white tea, less ice.” I could hear his heavy, ragged breathing through the speaker. “Sydney Maxwell! Do you even know who you like? Guys? Girls? Do you have any idea what you want?” I didn’t even get a chance to fire back. His mouth opened, and the insults poured out like a verbal machine gun. “When you were three, you liked that kid Gavin from down the street. He said he didn’t like you, and you gave him two black eyes!” “In elementary school, you crushed on the student council president. His Xbox handle was ‘StormRider,’ so you changed yours to ‘StormChaserBabe.’ Seriously?!” “In middle school, you got obsessed with that quiet guy in the ASL club. You signed your confession like you were casting a spell. He looked confused, and you thought he was shy! You dated for a month until you learned enough sign language to realize he was rejecting you in increasingly creative ways every single day!” “High school, that long-distance gamer jerk—you blew your college fund on his World of Warcraft gear and then had to beg me for lunch money—” That still made my blood boil. “Which you didn’t lend me, by the way!” He let out a short, cold laugh. “Not only did I not lend it to you, I immediately told your mother, too.” My facial muscles were twitching with rage. “Brooks Coleman, you absolute monster! I’m finding out about this now?!” “Hmph. Good.” Game on. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. Harper is my best friend. And I told her to mess with you. She slept with you, found you boring, and decided to dump you.” I took a deep breath, delivering the ultimate knockout blow. “And, by the way? She said you were a disaster in bed.” Brooks’s voice instantly turned tearful, full of genuine, wounded outrage. “She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone! And a few seconds doesn’t count! It was a whole situation!” “...” Amidst my hysterical, victorious cackle, he hung up. Harper looked at me, doubled over in laughter, and offered a shrug. “Well, he admitted it himself. Though, to be fair, later on he was actually—” She caught my death glare and quickly corrected herself. “He was totally average. Completely unremarkable.” 3 Having thoroughly infuriated Brooks, I was in a fantastic mood. I got back to my dorm room, ready for an evening of uninterrupted bliss, when I saw my roommate, Cara, practically shaking her bed frame with laughter while scrolling through her phone. “What’s so funny?” I asked, intrigued. Cara shoved her screen at me. “Look! Your little frenemy, Brooks Coleman, Crestwood’s star quarterback, got secretly filmed drinking his sorrows away last night. It’s got a million likes already.” I remembered how close our high school scores had been. Both our families, dear old friends, had gathered to discuss college applications. It had been sickeningly harmonious. “Why don’t you both apply to Crestwood? You’ve grown up together, it’d be nice to have someone to look out for each other.” Brooks and I sat on the couch, two perfect, obedient children. Brooks, putting on his best act: “That sounds great, Mrs. Maxwell. I’ll listen to you.” Me, smiling my sweetest: “What a wonderful idea, Mr. Coleman. I was thinking the same thing.” The moment we were alone in his bedroom, we both immediately rolled our eyes, the mutual disdain palpable. We settled it with a vicious game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. He won. Brooks went to Crestwood. I went to Eastwood University. 4 Now, I stared at the phone screen. It was clearly a sneaky, low-angle shot. Brooks was the focus, his face blurry and heartbroken. The man sitting opposite him was only a silhouette. But just looking at the broad shoulders and narrow waist, I knew he was an absolute specimen. The background looked like a dive bar just off campus, the table littered with empty whiskey glasses and beer bottles. Brooks was glassy-eyed, his nose red, giving total broken boi vibes. “I hate her, man. I really do. I despise that woman.” The man across from him idly swirled the liquid in his glass. “Oh? Done with the simping?” Brooks waved a wobbly hand. “I’m not talking about Harper! I’m talking about my enemy! We grew up together. I have never met a worse person in my entire life.” The other man seemed to perk up. “Your childhood friend? What exactly did she do?” Brooks started a theatrical, tearful list of my crimes. “When I was one, she dumped my entire can of powdered formula on the carpet when my mom wasn’t looking.” “When I was three, she convinced a bunch of kids to blow up the toilet in the backyard shed, and I got covered in… stuff!” The man across from him winced. “That’s disgusting. Why didn’t you run away faster?” Brooks took a desperate swig of his drink, eyes blazing. “Because she told me there was treasure in there!” The man’s shoulders started shaking with silent laughter. “And now, she sends her friend to steal my girl and completely tarnish the body I was so proud of…” Brooks got more and more emotional, practically sobbing into his glass. The man across from him picked up a bottle to pour a refill. My eyes, however, were instantly drawn to the hand holding the bottle. It was pale, long, and artistically bony. Strong, but perfectly sculpted. The most incredible part was the faint pink flush on the knuckles. As a certified hand-fetishist, I instantly lost my grip on reality. Unfortunately, the video cut out right there. I glanced at the comments section. “Is the jock trying to sell us something? Take my money!” “A man’s tears are the best kind of emotional lubrication.” “Which queen broke this one?!” “Asking for the cute guy’s Instagram across the table!” “Girl above, the jock is offering you his heart, and you want the spare tire?!” The comment section had officially lost its mind. And so had Harper. “Ev,” she squealed, “Brooks crying is kinda hot. I might have to betray you for a little eye candy.” I was just about to tell her to pull herself together. “I think I found a use for that little leather crop I just bought, hehe.” “...” He took my phone, his long fingers moving quickly to type in his handle. After I sent a friend request, he handed the phone back. “I’ll send you the money back as soon as my phone charges in my room.” “No worries, take your time.” “Thanks.” He gave me a quick wave and walked off, holding his bag of chips. I immediately reported back to Harper. Harper was ecstatic. “Is this what they mean by true, fate-dictated love? I want that kind of highway-robbery romance!” The next second, my phone vibrated. A bank transfer notification. The handsome guy had already paid me back. I quickly sent a message: “Hey there, I’m Sydney.” His reply was instantaneous, short, and powerful: “Alistair.” 5 The night I followed Alistair on instagram, my dreams were the color of bubblegum pink. In the dream, those perfectly sculpted, bony hands were feeding me a ripe strawberry. Just as I leaned in for a bite, the handsome face suddenly morphed into Brooks. He smirked down at me. “Good, Syd? I washed it in the communal sink.” I woke up with a gasp, horrified. Gross. It was a terrible omen. To chase the nightmare away, I sent Alistair a cheerful “Good Morning” emoji right away. Less than two minutes later, Alistair replied with a photo. It was a perfectly plated breakfast: whole-grain toast, a sunny-side-up egg, and a glass of warm milk. The caption: “Morning. Just finished my run. Quick breakfast then off to class.” See? This is what a high-value man looks like. Brooks, that smug jerk, was probably still in bed, drooling on his pillow and grinding his teeth. Just as I was about to reply, Alistair messaged again. “I heard the legendary sandwiches at your North Dining Hall are amazing. I’ve always wanted to try them, but I don’t have a meal card for Eastwood.” Was that subtle? No, that was a straight-up invitation. I practically levitated out of bed, typing furiously. “I have one! I’m heading to North Hall anyway. I’ll treat you!” Alistair instantly replied: “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that. You just paid me back yesterday, and now I’m asking you to buy me breakfast?” “It’s nothing, we’re friends!” “Well, then… meet you at the North Hall entrance?” “See you there!” I threw my phone down and bolted to the bathroom to wash my hair and put on makeup. Harper was woken by the commotion and poked her rooster-head out from her bed curtain. “Syd, are you in heat this early?” I hummed a tune while applying mascara. “You wouldn’t understand. This is the call of love.” Harper rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Be careful it’s not the call of a con artist.” I didn’t care if it was a con. If he was that handsome, I was ready to be played.
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