Elliot Westerwood

Elliot Westerwood didn’t believe in love.

He believed in instincts. In brief sparks of desire. In the way a stranger’s hot breath ghosted over his skin—but never in feelings. Last night was no different. The girl beneath him, whose name he hadn’t even bothered to remember, moaned for him, clung to the sheets like she actually thought she could keep him. Like he was something that could be kept.

And now, with the morning light casting soft shadows on her face, with her breathing slow and steady beside him, he felt only one thing—boredom.

Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling of the expensive hotel room he booked out of habit. He never—never—brought women home. His house was the only place where he didn’t have to play pretend. Where there were no lingering perfumes, no foreign voices, no hands trying to leave marks on his skin—or worse, on his life.

He never stayed long.

His fingers clenched around the sheets for a moment before he let go, sat up, and pulled his shirt on. The girl shifted, mumbling something in her sleep. He didn’t even glance at her as he walked out the door.

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An hour later, he was sitting at a booth in a diner with Joe, Xaden, and Noah.

Joe, as always, was quiet. He scrolled through his phone absentmindedly, only glancing up every now and then. Xaden, on the other hand, was practically yelling—going on about some girl he met last night, throwing his hands around like he was the king of the damn world. He was always like that—loud, cocky, a certified screw-up, but with just enough charm to keep himself out of trouble.

Noah just sat there, nodding occasionally, his mind clearly somewhere else. Elliot knew exactly what—or who—he was thinking about.

The girl who had been making him lose his mind for the past few days. The one he made that stupid bet with—who falls first. The one whose eyes he was already drowning in, but wouldn’t admit it, because then… then he’d lose.

Elliot understood. He hated losing too.

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The noise was deafening.

The crowd roared, the bleachers vibrated, music blasted from somewhere in the background. Elliot walked through the entrance of the gym, catching the sharp scents of sweat, rubber, and something else—maybe victory.

Cheerleaders moved in sync with the music, their skirts flashing as they twirled, and Xaden’s gaze lingered on one of them.

The air buzzed with energy.

Loud cheers. Shouts from the stands. The sharp whistle of the referee. Elliot ran a hand over the back of his head, feeling the familiar rush. He didn’t live for love—but this? This was different. The adrenaline, the game, the win—this was what he did.

The gym pulsed with tension so thick it could be felt in the bones. Bright neon signs advertising Nike, Gatorade, and Red Bull flickered along the walls. Overhead screens played slow-motion highlights of past matches—close-ups of players, fiery shots, the wild cheers of fans. Cameras glided smoothly, catching every moment and flashing them onto the massive screen hanging in the center of the arena.

The crowd was electric.

The cheerleaders wrapped up their performance, leaving only two teams on the court. Elliot stood in the center with Noah, Xaiden, and Joe, their jerseys clinging to sweat-slicked skin, hair damp under the blinding lights. His pulse thrummed with anticipation.

And across from them—them.

The opponents. Pathetic. Ugly. One guy had arms so freakishly long he looked like he got stretched out as a kid. Another had a face like he’d been dropped on asphalt as a baby. The third was a walking ad for acne and bad life choices, and the last? He had that fake confidence in his eyes—like a puppy dumb enough to bark at a wolf.

Hilarious. Disgusting. Pathetic.

Elliot clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the ball. This wasn’t a challenge. This was a show. He already knew how this was gonna end—knew how they’d beg for mercy when he tore through them one by one.

Noah clapped him on the shoulder, his gaze steady, focused.

You ready?

He didn’t say it, but Elliot heard the question in his eyes.

Ready?

Always.

The whistle blew.

The crowd exploded. Elliot bolted forward, Xaden flanking him, Joe falling back just slightly. An opponent lunged, trying to steal the ball—Elliot didn’t even acknowledge him. One effortless move, and the guy was left reaching at air like a useless puppet.

The stands erupted. Banners flashed their names, fans screamed, waving signs with their nicknames scribbled across them.

But Elliot saw only the hoop.

One more step, a pivot, a push. The ball left his fingertips, soaring.

Perfect arc.

Perfect shot.

The net snapped as the ball dropped through, the scoreboard flickered, and the gym roared.

Elliot just smirked.

The game had only begun.

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Halftime.

Sweat dripped down his spine, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Elliot clenched his jaw, staring at the scoreboard.

48-49.

They were losing. By one point. Even that was unacceptable.

The team made their way to the bench. The stands buzzed with conversation, bright ads flashing across the overhead screens. Xaden collapsed onto the seat beside him, dragging a hand down his face.

“Fuck, these assholes are quick today,” he muttered, grabbing a water bottle.

Noah said nothing, just sat there, lost in thought, like there was something way more important than this game. Elliot ran his tongue over his teeth. Losing wasn’t an option.

And then, suddenly, the lights dimmed just slightly.

The massive screen flickered.

And across it, in bright pink letters—

KISS CAM.

The crowd cheered. The camera bounced around, zooming in on couples, broadcasting them for the entire gym to see. A guy and a girl off to the side blushed and kissed, earning loud applause. The screen shifted, landing on another couple.

And then—

Her.

Elliot froze.

He knew her. Had seen her around campus. Remembered her. Marked her. Thought, maybe, one day, she’d end up in his bed. Smart eyes. Lips he’d imagined under his own more than once.

But now, the kiss cam had her sitting next to him.

A nobody.

Some pathetic, pasty loser who probably still had his mom ironing his shirts. And the idiot was looking at her—hoping. Like he actually thought he had a chance.

Elliot’s fists clenched.

The crowd cheered. People clapped, urging them on. The camera stayed locked on them, waiting.

She laughed, shaking her head, waving it off. But the guy still leaned in.

Something inside him snapped.

Elliot turned away sharply, grabbing his water and taking a long gulp, but it didn’t do shit to cool him down.

This wasn’t jealousy. He didn’t care. He didn’t. He just hated when people touched things he’d already decided were his.

He didn’t even realize he was moving.

It wasn’t a decision. It was instinct—like driving for the hoop, leaving defenders in the dust. Like releasing the ball, knowing it would sink.

The crowd erupted. The screen still glowed with that same scene—her and that pale little bitch leaning toward her, thinking she’d let him.

Thinking he could have her.

Elliot wasn’t about to let that happen.

His body moved before his brain could catch up. Ignoring Noah’s voice calling after him. Ignoring Xaden’s knowing smirk.

He pushed through the crowd, fast, strong, weaving toward the stands. People turned, called his name, patted his shoulder—he didn’t acknowledge them.

His focus was set.

She was right there.

Close enough to smell—something fresh, light, but warm enough to linger. Her eyes widened as she saw him step in front of her. The guy beside her stiffened, his face twisting in confusion.

Elliot didn’t even look at him.

He just stood there. Blocking the view. Blocking him.

The camera locked on them.

The crowd went wild.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Elliot snapped, slamming his fist against the advertisement board.