Chapter 6

Rowan Hale woke up the morning after the party with the kind of headache that had nothing to do with alcohol.

Her phone lay face-down on the nightstand like it was accusing her. She didn’t touch it. She stared at the ceiling instead, jaw tight, replaying moments she hadn’t meant to catalog: the way Lila Moreno had laughed too loudly on purpose, the way she’d leaned into people she clearly didn’t care about, the way Rowan herself had let some random guy stand too close just to prove a point she hadn’t admitted she was making.

Stupid.

That was the word Rowan landed on eventually. Not the night. Not the party. Herself.

She rolled out of bed and pulled on practice clothes, movements sharp and efficient. Control came back easiest when she stayed busy. When she didn’t think. When she didn’t remember Lila’s eyes flicking toward her like she was daring Rowan to react.

Rowan never reacted. That was her thing.

Except last night, apparently.

Practice was brutal in the way Rowan preferred—cold air in her lungs, grass damp beneath her cleats, Coach’s voice cutting clean through the fog in her head. She ran harder than necessary, chased every ball like it had personally wronged her, slid into tackles she didn’t need to make.

Her vice-captain noticed.

“You’re pushing,” she said during a water break.

Rowan wiped sweat from her face. “We all should be.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Rowan capped her bottle. “I’m fine.”

It was the same answer she always gave. It usually worked.

But when practice ended and Rowan jogged toward the building, she saw the cheer squad already outside. Stretching, laughing, music low but constant, and the tightness returned immediately.

Lila stood at the center, posture perfect even while relaxed. Her hair was pulled back, no makeup, no performance smile. She looked real in a way Rowan hadn’t been prepared for.

Lila glanced up.

Their eyes met.

Something electric snapped between them—resentment, recognition, unfinished business.

Rowan broke the stare first and kept walking.

Coward, a voice in her head said.

She ignored it.

They didn’t talk all day.

That should have been easy. Rowan was good at compartmentalizing, at pretending things didn’t exist if she didn’t engage with them. She’d done it with injuries, with pressure, with expectations that sat heavy on her shoulders.

This felt different.

Every hallway felt narrower. Every laugh sounded sharper. Rowan caught fragments of conversation that made her jaw clench.

“They hate each other, right?”

“I heard it’s more intense than that.”

“Moreno was mad last night.”

Rowan slammed her locker shut harder than necessary.

By last period, her patience had thinned to a wire.

So when she turned a corner and nearly collided with Lila outside the auditorium, she didn’t step back.

Neither did Lila.

They stood there, too close, the air tight and charged.

“You’re avoiding me,” Lila said, not bothering with pleasantries.

Rowan scoffed. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Lila crossed her arms. “I don’t do subtle.”

“No,” Rowan said flatly. “You do spectacle.”

Lila’s eyes flashed. “And you do what? Pretend you’re above it?”

Rowan leaned in before she could stop herself. “I don’t pretend.”

Their voices were low, controlled, but the tension between them crackled. Students passed by without noticing, or maybe noticing and pretending not to.

“You had fun last night,” Lila said, tone casual, eyes anything but.

Rowan stiffened. “It was a party.”

“With a guy.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “That your business now?”

Lila smiled, sharp and defensive. “Just making an observation.”

Rowan exhaled slowly. “You were doing plenty of observing yourself.”

Silence dropped heavy between them.

Lila’s smile faded. “Why do you care?”

The question landed harder than Rowan expected.

“I don’t,” she said too quickly.

Lila studied her like she didn’t believe a word of it. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Rowan straightened. “And you’re not as unaffected as you want people to think.”

That hit.

Lila’s posture shifted, control snapping back into place like armor. “Careful, Hale.”

“Or what?” Rowan challenged.

Lila stepped closer, voice low and steady. “Or you might realize this isn’t just a rivalry.”

Rowan’s heart kicked hard against her ribs.

She hated that Lila could do that—say things that made the ground tilt under her feet without raising her voice.

“This conversation’s over,” Rowan said, even as she didn’t move away.

Lila held her gaze for a beat longer. Then she stepped back first.

“Good,” Lila said. “Because I don’t lose.”

She walked away.

Rowan stood there longer than she should have, pulse loud in her ears.

That night, Rowan tried to distract herself with homework, with game footage, with anything that didn’t involve replaying Lila’s voice in her head.

It didn’t work.

She found herself thinking about the moment outside the auditorium—not the words, but the proximity. The way Lila hadn’t looked angry so much as… exposed. Like she’d said something true by accident.

Rowan hated that she understood that feeling.

She grabbed her phone, thumb hovering over Lila’s contact—saved during some fundraiser coordination she pretended meant nothing.

She didn’t text.

She didn’t delete the contact either.

The game on Friday should have been enough to clear her head.

It wasn’t.

The crowd was loud, the lights unforgiving, the pressure familiar and grounding. Rowan played well—aggressive, precise, dominant. Every successful pass felt like proof she still knew who she was.

But between plays, her eyes kept drifting to the track.

Lila was there, of course, leading the cheer squad with flawless timing. She didn’t look at Rowan once.

That shouldn’t have bothered her.

It did.

Rowan scored in the second half, the crowd erupting around her. She raised her arms automatically, adrenaline rushing through her veins.

For a split second, she looked for Lila.

She found her.

Lila was watching now—expression unreadable, clapping with the rest of the crowd, face carefully neutral.

It felt worse than anger.

After the game, Rowan cut through the locker room fast, ignoring congratulations, ignoring questions. She needed air. Space. Distance.

She didn’t get it.

Lila was waiting near the exit, arms folded, cheer jacket slung over one shoulder.

“You played well,” Lila said.

Rowan stopped short. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything’s normal.”

Lila’s mouth tightened. “You’re the one pretending this doesn’t matter.”

Rowan stepped closer despite herself. “You don’t get to decide what matters to me.”

Lila’s voice dropped. “Then stop acting like it doesn’t.”

They stood there, the night humming around them, the stadium lights buzzing overhead.

Rowan swallowed. “This is a bad idea.”

Lila’s gaze didn’t waver. “So was last night.”

Rowan laughed quietly, sharp and humorless. “You don’t back down, do you?”

“No,” Lila said. “Neither do you.”

Something shifted then—not soft, not gentle. Just honest.

Rowan exhaled. “I don’t like you.”

Lila smiled faintly. “I don’t believe you.”

Rowan hated that smile.

She hated that Lila was right.

As Rowan walked away, the truth followed her, heavy and undeniable:

Enemies weren’t supposed to feel like this.

And whatever this was, it was already out of her control.