Chapter 3: War Games

Not literally. Probably. But the fantasy kept me warm that Monday night as I lay in bed, replaying every smug word, every infuriating smirk, every single moment Shane Whitmore had stolen my composure.

Detention had been a special kind of torture. Two hours in a room with him, the air so thick with tension you could choke on it. He sat there like a statue, not even bothering to look at me, while I burned holes into the side of his head with my stare. Not once did he crack. Not once did he give me the satisfaction of a reaction.

But that was fine. I didn't need his reaction. I needed his humiliation.

Tuesday morning, I put Plan A into motion.

It was simple: I'd arranged for his locker to be jammed shut with a strategically placed piece of metal. I'd seen the janitor do it once by accident. Now it was my turn. Shane arrived at school looking annoyingly fresh, his dark hair still damp from a shower, and walked straight to his locker. I watched from down the hall, pretending to talk to Chloe, my eyes fixed on him.

He spun the combination. Pulled the handle. Nothing.

He tried again. Still nothing.

I saw his jaw tighten, just slightly. Then he stepped back, examined the lock, and did something I didn't expect. He didn't yank or curse or kick it. He just pulled out his phone, made a quick call, and walked away.

Five minutes later, a janitor appeared and fixed it. Shane got his books. I got nothing.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath.

"What's that?" Chloe asked, her eyes wide.

"Nothing. Just... thinking."

Plan B came at lunch.

He always sat at the same table by the windows, surrounded by Jeremy, Corey, and some of the other guys. I waited until he stood up to grab a napkin, then I slipped a small, harmless amount of pepper into his water bottle. Not enough to hurt—just enough to make him cough and sputter in front of everyone.

He came back, took a long drink, and... nothing. He set the bottle down, wiped his mouth, and went back to his conversation.

What the hell?

Had he not tasted it? Did he have no taste buds?

I was so focused on staring at him that I didn't notice Jeremy walking up behind me until he spoke.

"You know, Jules, your crush is showing."

I spun around, cheeks flaming. "I don't have a crush on anyone."

"Sure you don't. That's why you've been staring at Shane like he stole your last brain cell."

"I'm plotting his demise, Jeremy. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh. You and Kol are both idiots. He's been trying to get Shane to fall off his chair all morning."

I glanced over at Kol, who was, in fact, pretending to tie his shoe near Shane's chair. Shane looked down at him, raised an eyebrow, and said something that made Kol's face go red. Kol stood up, muttering, and walked back to our table.

"He's a fucking robot," Kol hissed, sitting down. "I tried to trip him, and he stepped over my foot like it was choreographed. The bastard didn't even flinch."

"You're not subtle, Kol."

"And you are? Pepper in his water? That's cute. He probably knew before he drank."

"Then why did he drink it?"

Kol shrugged. "To mess with you?"

That was the most infuriating part. He knew. He knew I was behind it, and he chose to let me think I'd won, only to take away the victory by not reacting. It was chess, and I was playing checkers.

Wednesday was worse.

I had volleyball practice after school. The gym was hot, I was tired, and I just wanted to hit something. Instead, I walked in to find Shane standing there with the basketball team, talking to Coach Morrison.

"What is he doing here?" I demanded, my voice echoing off the walls.

Coach sighed. "We're sharing the gym this week. Basketball has a tournament coming up. Deal with it."

"Deal with it? He's—"

"Juliette. Deal. With. It."

I gritted my teeth and turned away. Fine. I'd ignore him. I'd focus on my drills and pretend he didn't exist.

That lasted approximately three minutes.

He dribbled past me during a break, and I swear I didn't mean to stick my foot out. But my foot came out, and he stumbled—just barely—catching himself on the bleachers. He turned, eyes narrowing.

"Watch it, princess."

"Watch your own feet," I snapped back.

"My feet are fine. It's your jealousy that's tripping me up."

"Jealous? Of what?"

"Of my grace. My charm. My undeniable good looks."

"You're delusional."

"And you're predictable."

He walked away, and I wanted to throw my water bottle at his head. Instead, I channeled all that rage into my next serve, which hit the back wall so hard the sound echoed.

Coach blew his whistle. "White! Control your temper!"

I forced a smile. "Sorry, Coach."

Thursday, the principal, Mrs. Chen, called us both into her office.

She had a folder on her desk. A thick one.

"I've been getting complaints," she said, her voice flat. "From multiple teachers. About disruptions, arguments, and—according to Mr. Harrison—a 'hostile learning environment' created by the two of you."

Shane and I sat in the two chairs opposite her, not looking at each other.

"I don't know what's going on between you," she continued, "and I don't care. But it ends. Now. If I get one more report, there will be consequences. Detention. Suspension. Whatever it takes. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Chen," we both said, in unison.

She looked between us, her eyes narrowed. "Good. You're dismissed."

We stood and walked out, and the moment the door clicked shut, I turned on him.

"This is your fault."

"My fault? You're the one who started this whole thing."

"You moved here."

"I didn't move here to piss you off, Juliette. That was just a bonus."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're obsessed."

"I am not obsessed."

"Then stop staring at me."

"I'm not—" I stopped. I was staring. "Shut up."

He smiled, and that smile made me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure, which only made me angrier.

"Whatever," I said, and walked away.

Friday came with a tentative truce. We didn't speak. We didn't look at each other. I focused on my classes and practice, and he did the same. But the tension was still there, coiled like a snake, waiting to strike.

It struck at the country club on Saturday.

I was there with Jeremy, Kol, and Corey, playing a casual doubles match. The afternoon sun was warm, the court was perfect, and I was almost relaxed—until I saw him.

Shane walked onto the court with Lucas, both of them carrying rackets. He was wearing a white polo and shorts, and he looked annoyingly good. I hated him even more for it.

"Great," I muttered.

"Come on, Jules," Jeremy said. "It's just a game. Don't let him get to you."

"He's already gotten to me."

"Then get back at him on the court."

That I could do.

The match was scheduled as doubles: me and Jeremy versus Shane and Lucas. It started off civil. We exchanged serves, volleyed politely, won and lost points without incident. But by the third game, the gloves came off.

Shane served hard. I returned harder. He volleyed to my left, and I dove, barely getting it back. He slammed it down the line, right where I couldn't reach.

"Fifteen-love," he said, not even looking at me.

I got up, brushed off my knee, and walked to the baseline. My blood was boiling.

Next point, I served right at his body. He barely got it back, and I charged the net, putting the ball away with a fierce overhead smash.

"Fifteen-all," I said.

He looked at me then. Really looked. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "Nice shot."

"Thanks. I learned from the best."

"Yourself?"

"Obviously."

The game went on like that, point for point, neither of us willing to give an inch. Jeremy and Lucas mostly stayed out of our way, trading knowing glances. By the end, we were tied at four games each.

On the deciding point, I served hard, and he returned with a wicked slice that skidded low. I charged forward, got my racket on it, but it popped up—a sitter. He was at the net in a flash, and he could have put it away easily. Instead, he hit it softly, right over my head, landing just inside the baseline.

Game. Set. Match.

I stared at him, breathing hard. "You did that on purpose."

"Did what?"

"You could have smashed it. You chose to lob."

"I chose to win."

"You're such an ass"

"And you're a sore loser."

I threw my racket onto the court. "Fuck you, Shane."

He picked up my racket and handed it to me. "Calm down, mamacita. It's just a game."

"Nothing is just a game with you."

"You're right. It's more. It's a lot more."

He held my gaze, and for a moment, the world went quiet. Then Jeremy coughed, and the spell broke.

I snatched the racket from his hand and walked off the court, my heart pounding. I could feel his eyes on my back the whole way.

At the clubhouse, I sat down on a bench and put my head in my hands. My hands were shaking. Not from anger—no, that was a lie. It was from something else. Something I didn't want to name.

Kol sat down next to me, handing me a bottle of water. "You okay?"

"No."

"He's an arrogant son of a."

"I know."

"But you kind of like it, don't you?"

I looked up at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You hate him because he doesn't cave. And you love that too."

"I don't love anything about him."

"Sure you don't." Kol grinned. "That's why you can't stop thinking about him."

I didn't answer. Because he was right. And that was the scariest part of all.

The weekend stretched ahead, empty and full of possibilities. I knew I'd see him again. The town was small enough and luck is never on my side

All I knew was that the war wasn't over. It was just the beginning

And somewhere deep down, in a place I'd never admit to, I was looking forward to the next battle.

Because i know im gonna end up beating that arrogant stupidly good-looking bastard