POV: Jace Collins
There were two constants in my life since second grade: soccer and Ava Carter.
One I loved.
The other made me want to walk into traffic.
Ava and I weren't rivals. Rivals respected each other.
We were enemies.
The kind who competed for the last word, the highest score, the teacher's attention. Who turned science fairs into war zones and spelling bees into battlefields.
She hated the way I smirked. I hated the way she always had to win.
And yet… here we were. Senior year. Stuck on a year-long project together and pretending—pretending—we could coexist like we hadn't spent the last decade sharpening knives behind polite smiles.
So when I saw her storm out of sixth period yesterday, face carved from stone, I knew the war was back on.
Fine. I never liked truces anyway.
---
The rumors hit me first thing Thursday.
"Yo, Collins," Sam called across the locker room. "What did you do to Ava? She looked ready to light the school on fire."
I yanked my hoodie off and slammed my locker shut. "Nothing. She's just Ava."
Which was code for: she probably found a new reason to hate me.
Again.
Except this time, it stung.
Because yeah, I hadn't said anything to Coach Barrett that painted her as lazy. I just mentioned we hadn't been meeting consistently. I didn't think it mattered.
But clearly, it did.
And now half the school thought I threw her under the bus.
Classic Ava. First to strike, last to ask questions.
---
I found her after practice—because I'm a genius, apparently, who enjoys being punched in the ego.
She was camped outside the library, hood up, earbuds in, scribbling furiously in her notebook like she was plotting my demise.
I cleared my throat. "We need to talk."
She didn't even look up. "No, you need to talk. I need you to leave."
"I didn't tell Coach you were slacking."
"Oh, so Madison and Layla just imagined it?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Right. Sounds like something people just randomly make up."
I rolled my eyes. "Madison's idea of a hobby is drama. And Layla heard it third-hand."
Ava finally looked up. Her glare could curdle milk.
"You're unbelievable," she said. "Every time I think you've grown up, you remind me exactly why I hated you to begin with."
I laughed—bitter and tired. "Don't flatter yourself. I've hated you since you stole my seat on the first day of second grade."
She stood, notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. "That seat didn't have your name on it."
"You put gum in my math book for no reason."
"You swapped my name card at the science fair so my volcano exploded early."
"You deserved it!"
"And you started it!"
We were standing toe-to-toe now, voices rising, memories flying like knives.
A couple freshmen passed by and gave us a wide berth.
Good call.
Because I wasn't backing down. Not this time.
"You know what your problem is?" I said, stepping closer. "You never let things go. Every time I breathe near you, it's like I committed a war crime."
She looked like she wanted to slap me. Or cry. Maybe both.
"You always play the victim," she shot back. "You ruin things and then act like I'm the unreasonable one for noticing."
"I didn't ruin anything," I snapped. "You did that all by yourself when you decided to believe a rumor over me."
We stared at each other, chest to chest, like the ground between us might crack open.
And honestly? I wouldn't have minded if it did.
Because being near her was exhausting.
Because she made me want to yell and laugh and fight and feel everything all at once.
Because I didn't want to hate her anymore—but I didn't know how to stop.
She shook her head and stepped back like she was done wasting breath.
"Stay out of my way, Jace."
And then she was gone.
Leaving me with nothing but the sound of her footsteps and the sick feeling that this time, the damage might be permanent
I stood there, watching her disappear around the corner like she hadn't just dropped a bomb and walked away.
My fists clenched. My jaw ached from holding back everything I really wanted to say.
But maybe it was already too late.
I dropped onto the bench she'd been sitting on, her lingering scent—something sharp and sweet—still in the air.
How the hell had we gotten here?
We used to fight for fun. Now it felt like we were fighting for blood.
I stared down at the pavement, where a torn page from her notebook fluttered near my shoe. Must've fallen when she stormed off.
I reached for it before I could think better of it.
Half a sentence glared up at me in her sharp handwriting:
"I don't know why he gets under my skin. I just know he does."
My throat tightened.
Because same, Ava. God, same.
The words blurred a little as I blinked too hard.
I could still turn this around, couldn't I?
Could still fix it if I just… got over myself for five seconds?
I shoved the page in my pocket, stood up like I was chasing something I hadn't named yet.
But her footsteps were long gone, and so was the window.
Still, I couldn't leave.
Not yet.
So I sat back down, elbows on knees, staring at the spot where she'd stood like she might reappear if I waited long enough.
The thing was, I didn't want to fight her anymore.
Didn't want to be the guy she rolled her eyes at across classrooms or whispered about with her friends.
I just wanted—hell, I didn't even know what I wanted.
Maybe just five minutes where we didn't feel like enemies.
Five minutes where I could look at her and not think about every grudge we'd ever stacked between us.
But that was a fantasy. And this? This was reality.
And reality sucked.
Especially when the person who hated you most was the same person you couldn't stop thinking about.