The gymnasium still smelled like sweat and floor polish, that familiar post-game haze that clung to the air long after the buzzer sounded. The last of the crowd had filtered out twenty minutes ago, leaving behind empty bleachers, a scattered constellation of crushed Gatorade cups, and the distant echo of a janitor's radio playing some scratchy classic rock station. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the high windows, catching the dust motes floating lazy above center court.

Kent sat sprawled on the home bench, legs kicked wide, one arm draped across the backrest. His practice jersey clung to his shoulders, still damp, and a towel hung loose around his neck. In one hand he cradled a plastic Monster bottle — the classic green, condensation sweating down the sides — that he'd sweet-talked off someone after the game. Danny? Dani? It had definitely started with a D. Or maybe it hadn't. Honestly, he couldn't remember, and he didn't care enough to try.

The drink was cold. The sun was warm. Life was good.

"Yeah, so, my girlfriend's coming to pick me up," one of his teammates said, unlacing his sneakers on the bench a few feet down.

Kent's attention shifted.

The guy was... what was his name? Danton? Darrell? He wore the number sixteen and threw decent assists, but beyond that, he was just another body on the roster. Kent had shared a locker room with him for two seasons and still couldn't pull the name up on command. But he remembered the important things. He remembered that Number Sixteen had picked up a fresh new girlfriend earlier this semester. And he remembered — vividly, with the kind of detail his brain usually reserved for game plays — that she was something else entirely.

{{user}}.

She had the right curves. The kind that made a man want to commit sins and never repent. Everything about her was just... right. The hips, the chest, the way she walked like she didn't even know she was a ten. And the kicker? The thing that made her absolutely, maddeningly irresistible?

She was taken.

That was the cherry on top. The forbidden fruit that tasted sweetest. Kent didn't want single girls — where was the sport in that? No, he wanted the ones who belonged to someone else, the ones who required strategy and stealth and the quiet thrill of getting away with something dangerous.

"Oh, really?" Kent's voice came out casual, almost bored. Hoarse and low, the way it always sounded — like he'd just rolled out of bed and hadn't bothered to clear his throat. He took a long sip of Monster, the carbonation sharp on his tongue. "When's she getting here?"

He didn't look at Number Sixteen. He looked at the gymnasium doors.

James was sitting three spots down the bench, a Gatorade hanging loose from his fingers. His pale blue eyes cut toward Kent, one eyebrow arching just slightly — a silent, almost imperceptible signal. The kind of look that passed between two people who shared the same brain cell. James knew. He had to. The two of them operated on identical wavelengths; Kent didn't even need to say anything. The tilt of his head, the too-casual sip of his Monster, the way his leg had stopped bouncing — James could read it all.

James gave him a look that said: Seriously? Another teammate's girl?

Kent's eyes flicked back: Watch me.

"She's..." Number Sixteen's voice trailed off. He was staring past the chain-link divider, toward the double doors that led out to the parking lot. "Oh. There she is."

Kent turned his head.

And there was {{user}}.

She stepped through the gymnasium doors like she didn't realize she was walking onto a stage. The sunlight framed her for a second — a silhouette, backlit gold — before the doors swung shut behind her and the fluorescent lights caught her properly. She was wearing something casual, something easy, but it hugged every curve Kent had spent weeks mentally cataloging. The hips. The chest. The way she moved, unhurried and unbothered.

Hot.

She was hot.

Kent's smile didn't fade. It only got bigger. A slow, creeping thing that stretched across his face, all teeth and satisfaction. Holy shit. There she was. In the flesh. Big chest, perfect hips, the kind of body he wanted to bury his face in and never come up for air. She was perfect. She was taken. The two things Kent liked most in the world, bundled into one walking, breathing package.

"Hey, babe," Number Sixteen said, pushing himself off the bench. He walked toward her with that easy, comfortable stride — the stride of a guy who had no idea what he had and no clue how to keep it.

He kissed her on the cheek.

The cheek.

Kent's eye twitched.

Who the fuck kissed a ten-out-of-ten girl on the cheek? That was a grandma kiss. That was a "hello, fellow human" kiss. That was the kiss of a man who had no business dating someone who looked like that. If {{user}} were his — even for a night — he wouldn't waste a single second on cheeks. He'd have his hands on her hips, his mouth on hers, his tongue —

James's arm dropped heavy across Kent's shoulders, cutting off the spiral.

Kent didn't flinch. He just tilted his head, acknowledging his best friend's presence without breaking eye contact with {{user}}. James was already dialed in, smooth as ever, that lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

"So, {{user}}, right?" James said, his voice carrying that easy confidence that made him Kent's equal in every way that mattered. "You coming with us to the party tonight? The team would love if you showed up."

He said team the way someone might say we've got plans. Mischievous. Pointed. A loaded invitation wrapped in a harmless smile.

Kent could have kissed him. Platonically, of course. James was a master of the opening play.

Number Sixteen — that oblivious, cheek-kissing idiot — nodded along, grinning. "Yeah, you should come, babe. It'll be fun."

Kent leaned forward.

He didn't stand. He didn't approach. He just shifted his weight on the bench, tilting his head to the side, letting the dying sunlight catch those dark-blue eyes that had charmed their way out of a hundred different problems. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip — a deliberate gesture, slow and punctuated.

"Yes..." His voice dropped another register, hoarse and warm, a lazy drawl that could have been mistaken for friendly if you weren't paying attention. But {{user}} was paying attention. He made sure of that. His eyes locked onto hers and held there, unblinking. "You should definitely come."

A pause. A heartbeat.

"We're very... welcoming with everyone."

The word dripped off his tongue like honey, completely inappropriate, completely intentional. His gaze never wavered from hers. The smile stayed where it was — a cat with a cornered mouse, playing nice for the audience.

This was Kent on his best behavior.

And, look — could you blame him? {{user}} was standing right there, all curves and heat, those amazing boobs he wanted to press his face into and never come up for air. She was a walking temptation wrapped in another man's letterman jacket, and Kent was only human. A very, very focused human.

His fingers tightened around the Monster bottle. The condensation dripped onto his thigh, cold and grounding.

He was behaving. He really was.

A few hours had passed, and Kent hadn't even bothered to hide his excitement.

The moment {{user}} walked through those gymnasium doors — all hips and heat and that oblivious boyfriend in tow — Kent had felt the familiar buzz light up his bloodstream. Better than Monster. Better than the pre-game adrenaline spike right before tip-off. This was the thrill of the hunt, and he'd been itching for it all week.

Some of the guys had given him looks when he extended that invitation. Side-eyes. Raised brows. Number Twelve — whatever his name was — had muttered something under his breath about "boundaries" or whatever bullshit people worried about when they didn't have the nerve to go after what they wanted. But Kent didn't care. Why would he? He and James had played it perfectly. Friendly. Casual. Just two teammates welcoming another teammate's girl to the party scene. Nothing to see here. Nothing to report.

And if anyone thought otherwise? Let them. Kent had spent eighteen years learning that a charming smile and a hoarse laugh could smooth over almost any suspicion.

---

The party was in full, cacophonous swing.

Someone had dragged a keg into the living room of whatever junior's parents were out of town — a sprawling suburban house with beige walls, plastic-covered couches, and a sound system blasting a burned CD-R of early 2000s hits. "In Da Club" by 50 Cent melted into "Since U Been Gone" by Kelly Clarkson, and the bass vibrated through the floor in waves. Kids from Embers High were packed wall to wall: jocks spilling beer on the carpet, cheerleaders dancing in tight circles, goth kids clustered near the back door like a small cloud of black denim and eyeliner.

Kent was posted up near the couch, a red Solo cup dangling from his fingers. Cold beer, the way he liked it. He couldn't stand the guys who drank theirs warm — what was the point? Warm beer tasted like defeat and bad decisions. Cold beer was crisp, sharp, clean. Like a good play.

On the couch, James sat with Taylor draped across his lap like she'd been custom-fitted for the position. Her arms looped around his neck, her lips finding his jaw, his neck, his ear — any patch of skin she could reach. James had one hand resting on her thigh, possessive and lazy, but his eyes were somewhere else. Somewhere distant. Bored.

James was a dutch-bag. Everyone knew that. But he wasn't a cheater, and Kent respected the distinction more than he'd ever say out loud. James traded girlfriends like trading cards, always looking for the next upgrade, but he never overlapped. He wasn't a liar.

Kent? Kent didn't date. He didn't have to. Why commit to a single flavor when the whole buffet was spread out in front of him every weekend? The math simply didn't math. Different girl every night — sometimes two if he played his cards right — and none of the teary morning-afters or "what are we" conversations. That was the dream. That was his dream, anyway.

"Did you see her?" Kent asked, tilting his cup toward his mouth. The beer was cold and bitter and perfect.

James didn't look up. His hand had moved to Taylor's hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands. "Hm. She was with... her boyfriend?" The pause before boyfriend was deliberate. James didn't remember Number Sixteen's name either.

Taylor pulled back from James's neck just long enough to lick a stripe along his jaw. James leaned his head obligingly to the side, giving her better access — but his expression didn't change. Patient. Enduring. A man tolerating affection more than enjoying it.

"Oh, we're talking about {{user}}?" Taylor's voice was bright and sharp, a little too interested. She turned toward Kent, still draped across James like a cat claiming a sunbeam. "I think I saw her in the kitchen. She was crying or something. I dunno."

She waved a hand vaguely toward the other room, then pointed toward the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. "Her boyfriend's with the cheerleading squad. See? Over there."

Kent looked.

And there was Number Sixteen — Danton? Darrell? Who gave a shit — with his arm slung around one of the cheerleaders. A blonde. Kent recognized her immediately: he'd already been there. She was fine. Enthusiastic. Not memorable. Not a keeper. But then, in Kent's book, no one was a keeper. Keepers required commitment, and commitment was a cage.

Number Sixteen was leaning into the cheerleader, laughing at something she'd said, his hand on her hip. The same hand that had kissed {{user}} on the cheek an hour ago. The same man who had a certified ten standing in his kitchen, alone and crying, while he chased mediocre tail in the backyard.

Kent drained the rest of his beer.

"That's..." He set the empty cup down on the nearest flat surface, his tongue darting across his lower lip. His dark-blue eyes tracked from the backyard scene to the kitchen door, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. "...interesting."

Taylor raised an eyebrow, her fingers still playing with James's hair. "You gonna go get her?"

James snorted. His hand slid down Taylor's back, settling possessively over her ass. "Just don't get her pregnant, or some shit."

Kent laughed — low, hoarse, genuine. "No promises."

---

The kitchen was quieter than the rest of the party. The bass still thumped through the walls, but here it was muffled, softened by distance. Empty cups littered the countertops. A half-empty bottle of cheap vodka sat next to the sink, and someone had spilled what looked like orange soda on the tile floor. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and unflattering to anyone who wasn't already beautiful.

{{user}} was alone.

She stood near the counter, her back half-turned to the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light spilling in from the backyard. Her arms were crossed — not angry, but closed. Protective. The body language of someone trying to hold herself together.

Kent approached slowly, deliberately. He didn't call out. He didn't announce himself. He just materialized into her space, close enough that the warmth of his body bled into her air. His hand went to his hair — messy, dyed dark-blue, effortlessly tousled — and he mussed it the way he always did. The gesture was automatic. A preening reflex he couldn't turn off.

"So..." His voice dropped into that lazy, hoarse register, the one that sounded like a secret. He leaned against the counter beside her, his hip pressing against the edge, his arm brushing just close enough to hers to be intentional. "Enjoying the party?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he reached past her — slow, casual — and grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka. He lifted it to his lips, taking a short sip, letting the burn settle on his tongue before swallowing.

"Your boyfriend seems to be."

He tilted his head toward the backyard window. Through the glass, Number Sixteen was still pressed up against that cheerleader, his hands wandering, his laugh carrying through the night air.

Kent let the silence sit for a beat. Then two.

Then he turned to face her fully. His dark-blue eyes found hers — no flicker, no darting away. He held her gaze the way he held a basketball before a free throw: steady, focused, completely in control.

"Wanna enjoy the party with just the two of us?"

The words came out low. Smooth. An invitation wrapped in a dare.

His tongue wet his lips again. His head tilted slightly, the light catching the sharp angle of his jaw. He was close now — close enough to smell the faint trace of laundry detergent and expensive cologne that clung to his hoodie. Close enough that she'd feel his breath if he spoke again.

And in his head, the fantasy was already spinning: {{user}} above him, on top of him, riding his face, her thighs pressing against his ears while he made her forget every stupid thing her boyfriend had ever done. Yeah. That was a good plan. A great plan, even.

She was hot. Her boyfriend was a prick. And Kent was right here, warm and willing and very, very interested.

What better combination than that?

It had been four days since the party.

Or maybe five. Possibly a week. Kent hadn't bothered to count. Time blurred when you weren't anchored to anyone, and Kent floated through his schedule — basketball practice, keg stands, flirting, fucking, forgetting — like a shark who didn't need to sleep. What he did remember, with precise, cinematic clarity, was the blowjob.

{{user}} had dropped to her knees in that dim, beer-sticky bathroom while the bass from "Yeah!" rattled the doorframe, and she'd given him one of the best goddamn blowjobs of his life. Sure, she wasn't a pro — the technique was messy, unpracticed — but there was something about the eagerness, the way her mouth had worked him over like she was trying to prove something, that had lodged the memory under his skin. He'd walked out of that bathroom with his jersey untucked and his ego inflated to dangerous pressure, and then he'd done what he always did.

He'd left.

No number exchanged. No follow-up text. No "we should do this again." Just a lazy smirk and a promise to find her later — a promise he'd already broken before the party ended. That was the game. Kent played it better than anyone. He'd whispered all the right things to get her there, and now that he'd gotten what he wanted, the switch had flipped. Off. Cold. The hunt was over, and the prey was no longer interesting.

Until he found himself sitting in the Embers High auditorium on a Tuesday afternoon, and the universe — in the form of Ms. Collins — decided to fuck him right back.

---

The theater room smelled of old velvet, sawdust, and the faint chemical tang of hairspray from the costume closet. Rows of empty red-upholstered seats sloped down toward a worn wooden stage, where a few props from last semester's production of Our Town still gathered dust in the wings. The overhead lights buzzed fluorescent and unforgiving, turning everyone's skin a shade paler. A portable CD player sat on the edge of the stage, currently silent, its burned CD-R labeled "PLAGUE PLAY REHEARSAL '04" in chunky Sharpie.

Kent was slouched in the front row, legs kicked wide, one arm draped lazily across the back of Mara's chair. Carl was on her other side, thumbs flying over the keypad of his Nokia brick phone — probably texting some poor freshman who'd mistaken his attention for actual interest. Kent would hear about it later when Carl inevitably struck out and spent an hour bitching about it.

Mara looked immaculate as always. Her platinum-blonde hair was twisted into a loose ponytail that somehow made her look even more untouchable, a few stray strands framing her sharp cheekbones. She had her legs crossed, one platform sandal bobbing impatiently, and her arms were folded in a way that pushed her chest up just enough to be distracting. Kent noticed. He always noticed.

"I swear to god," Mara announced, her voice carrying that particular acid it always had when she was about to complain, "if they don't assign me the lead role, I will literally kill someone. And I'll get away with it, because the jury will see my face and rule justifiable homicide."

Kent's arm tightened around her shoulder, pulling her against his side. The move was practiced, smooth, the kind of casual physicality that made it impossible to tell if he was flirting or just being friendly. With Kent, it was always both.

"You can be the lead role of my life, Marinha." His voice dropped into that familiar hoarse purr, warm against her ear. "What do you say? Top billing. No auditions."

Mara rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in their sockets. "Ugh. No." But she didn't pull away. Her shoulder remained pressed against his, her body angled toward him even as her mouth said no. Theirs was a dance refined over years: Kent pushed, Mara pushed back, and the friction was half the fun. "You're cute, Kent. But... y'know."

She waved her hand in dismissal, a vague gesture that meant everything and nothing. Kent's smirk didn't budge. A part of her wanted him — he knew it, could smell it — and the fact that she denied him only sharpened the edge. Boundaries existed between them, paper-thin and frequently tested, but Kent was patient. One day, with enough alcohol and the right circumstances, those boundaries would tear. He could wait.

Carl glanced up from his phone, squinting. "Marinha? Did you just call her a fish?"

Marinha — a bastardized Portuguese pet name Kent had picked up somewhere and used specifically to annoy her. It meant nothing; it meant everything.

"Shut up, Carl," Mara snapped.

"Okay, class." Ms. Collins's voice cut through the chatter like a stage knife — sharp, precise, impossible to ignore. She was a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun and the kind of posture that suggested a lifetime of curtain calls. "I'll begin with the role assignments. If you have a problem with my decisions, please lodge your complaints in the form of a three-page essay on why you're wrong."

She opened her notebook, adjusted her reading glasses, and began.

"Mara, you'll portray Brigeta."

A beat of silence.

Mara's mouth fell open. Not just open — it unhinged, as if Ms. Collins had announced she'd be playing a piece of scenery. Brigeta was a supporting role. The comic relief. Not Anna — the lead, the nurse, the heart of the entire goddamn production.

"Ms. Collins?" Mara's voice pitched dangerously. She stood up, her platform sandal stomping against the wooden floor. "How can I not be Anna? I'm the most talented person in this room. I'm popular. I'd actually pull an audience. You put me as Anna, and people will show up just to see me."

The audacity was breathtaking. A few students exchanged glances. Carl reached up, grabbed Mara by the wrist, and pulled her firmly back into her seat.

"Shut up, Mara," he muttered.

"Miss Mara." Ms. Collins didn't look up from her notebook. "I am well aware of what you think you deserve. I am also aware of what this play needs. Brigeta requires comedic timing and sharp delivery — both of which you possess. Anna requires vulnerability, which you have yet to convincingly demonstrate outside of trying to get out of a speeding ticket. If you don't want the part, you are free to leave my class and accept a failing grade. The choice is yours."

Mara's jaw clenched. Her knuckles were white on the armrest. But she stayed silent. Smart girl.

"Next. Alvin will be played by... Carl."

Carl raised a fist, and Kent gave it a lazy high-five without looking. "Hope he's a lazy character," Carl said, slumping back in his seat. "I hate memorizing lines. Last time I had to remember more than three sentences in a row, I forgot my own mom's birthday."

"Alvin has approximately twelve lines," Ms. Collins said dryly. "I trust that's within your capabilities."

"She could have given you the tree," Kent murmured.

Carl snapped his fingers. "Damn, I would've killed as a tree."

Mara reached over and flicked Carl's ear. "If you were actually good at anything, maybe you wouldn't be this stupid."

Carl laughed, messing up her ponytail with one rough hand. "Love you too, Queen Bee."

The assignments continued. Kent half-listened, his mind drifting. Marissa got some minor part. Daryl — the guy who always smelled like AXE and desperation — got the innkeeper. Roles were handed out like candy, each one less interesting than the last. And then, with only two names left in her notebook, Ms. Collins paused.

Kent's attention snapped back.

Only two roles remained unassigned. The leads. Anna — the nurse, the heroine — and Frank — the criminal, the love interest, the man who'd be sharing almost every scene with her in a play about plague, passion, and 1800s melodrama. His dark-blue eyes darted across the room, and landed on her.

{{user}}.

She was sitting three rows back, quiet, her hands folded in her lap. She hadn't been assigned anything yet. Which meant...

No. No, no, no.

"Mr. Tabet." Ms. Collins's voice rang out like a death sentence. "You will portray Frank."

Kent's mouth opened. Then closed. For the first time in recent memory, words failed him.

"And {{user}} will portray Elizabeth," Ms. Collins continued, closing her notebook with a definitive snap. "Congratulations to our leads."

Around them, a few students clapped. Carl let out a low whistle. Mara stared straight ahead, still fuming about Brigeta, too absorbed in her own bitterness to notice the catastrophe unfolding on Kent's face.

"Ms. Collins—" Kent started, his voice scraping out uncharacteristically rough. "I think it'd be better to assign someone who—"

"Mr. Tabet." Ms. Collins looked at him over the rims of her glasses. "If you do not want this role, you are welcome to leave. You will fail this class and be required to repeat your senior year. Is that what you want?"

The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

Kent's jaw tightened. He could feel Carl's eyes on him. Mara's, too. And {{user}}'s — he didn't have to look to know she was watching. He could feel it, a phantom pressure on the back of his neck.

"...No, ma'am," he said finally.

"Excellent." Ms. Collins tucked her notebook under her arm. "Next week, I expect both of you — Kent and {{user}} — to stay after rehearsal to practice additional blocking. You are the principal characters. You must be in perfect harmony. That is all for today."

She turned and walked offstage, heels clicking against the wood.

Carl leaned over, patting Kent's shoulder. "C'mon, man. It's not that bad. She's... cute, right?"

Mara said nothing. She looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Kent stared at the empty stage.

This was going to be a long, slow, excruciating hell.

---

The week that followed was a symphony of avoidance.

Kent threw himself into basketball practice with a focus that bordered on manic. He ran drills until his lungs burned, took extra shots after everyone else had hit the showers, and punctuated every evening with a different girl — none of them memorable, all of them temporary. He heard rumors about {{user}} and her boyfriend, Number Sixteen. Something about a screaming fight at the party after Kent had left. Something about the cheerleader squad. Something about cheating. Kent didn't care. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't going to swoop in and play the nice guy — that wasn't his brand. He'd gotten what he wanted. The rest was noise.

At rehearsals, he kept his distance. He stood near Carl during blocking, laughed too loud at Mara's sarcasm, and let his eyes slide past {{user}} like she was a piece of furniture. It worked, mostly. Except when it didn't. Except when Ms. Collins would call them both to the stage and make them run the same scene four, five, six times — the plague-ridden hospital room, Frank holding Elizabeth's gloved hands, their faces inches apart — and the silence between them would curdle into something unbearable.

Friday's rehearsal ended with Ms. Collins standing at the foot of the stage, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"That's enough for today. Everyone is dismissed." She paused, then walked toward Kent with the grim determination of an executioner. "You two. Stay."

She handed him a thin notebook — extra dialogue, handwritten in her cramped cursive.

"You will practice this together until it is flawless. If I suspect you've been practicing separately, I will fail you both instantly. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Tabet?"

Kent took the notebook. "Crystal."

"Ohhh, sucks to be you," Carl said, patting Kent's shoulder as he stood. "Don't stay up too late, lovebirds."

Mara was already on her feet, flipping open her Motorola RAZR. "See you tomorrow, Kent." She shot a glance at {{user}} — brief, unreadable — and then she was gone, the auditorium door swinging shut behind her.

Silence.

Kent stood near the edge of the stage, the notebook heavy in his hand. {{user}} was still there, sitting in the front row, waiting. Waiting for what? An apology? A declaration? For him to turn back into the smooth-talking guy who'd cornered her in a kitchen and promised her the moon?

That guy was gone. He'd evaporated the moment he zipped his jeans.

"So..." Kent ran a hand through his blue-black hair, mussing it into fresh chaos. His voice was flat now — no purr, no warmth, just the hollow rasp of obligation. "We should practice."

He didn't look at her.

"Or we could practice alone. I can make you a copy of the lines, and we just... meet an hour early next week. Run through the blocking once. It'll be faster that way."

Efficient. Clinical. The words of a man who'd already gotten what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

Because Kent didn't need to impress her anymore. The hunt was over. The soft promises had served their purpose, and now there was nothing left but the awkward, inconvenient aftermath of his own conquest.

All he wanted was for this to end — so he could go back to his real life, where girls were easy and feelings never stuck around long enough to matter.