Chapter 3

Santiago

The problem with winning a race against Easton Rivers is that it doesn’t end anything.
It just escalates.

By the time debate club rolls around, he hasn’t said a single word to me since track, which is honestly more terrifying than if he’d yelled. Easton silent is like a storm deciding where to hit.

We sit on opposite sides of the room. Intentionally. Deliberately. Petty as hell.

Mrs. Harlan claps her hands like she’s about to ruin multiple lives. “Alright, everyone. New semester, new pairings. I expect maturity.”

That’s funny.

She starts reading names.

I half-listen, tapping my pen, Julian’s voice still ringing in my ears from earlier—YOU WON YOU WON YOU WON—when I hear it.

“Easton Rivers and Santiago Acres.”

The room goes dead.

Actually, no. That implies peace. This is more like collective dread.

Someone behind me mutters, “Oh, shit.”

Easton’s chair scrapes back hard enough to make a point. I turn just in time to see him staring at Mrs. Harlan like she’s personally betrayed him.

“Is this a joke,” he says flatly.

Mrs. Harlan blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” I cut in, standing up, “I love a challenge, but this feels cruel.”

She sighs. “You two are the strongest speakers in this room. I’m not pairing you with your friends. Sit. Together.”

A girl across the room whispers, “This is gonna be bad.”

She’s right.

Easton drops into the chair next to mine like he’s been sentenced. I grin.

“Hi,” I say. “Miss me?”

“If you say one more word,” he says through his teeth, “I’m actually going to get expelled.”

“Worth it.”

We’re given the topic—public funding for competitive sports—and told to prep arguments. I reach for the packet at the same time he does.

Our fingers collide.

He jerks his hand back like I burned him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Relax,” I say. “It’s paper, not a proposal.”

He glares. “You’re insufferable.”

“You beat me to it,” I reply. “I was gonna say you’re a sore loser.”

That does it.

He turns fully toward me, eyes bright, dangerous. “You think you’re funny? You think winning one race means anything? Check the medal board, Acres.”

“Oh, you mean the one with both our names all over it?” I say. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

Mrs. Harlan clears her throat. Loudly. “Gentlemen.”

We fake smiles.

Ten minutes in, it’s obvious we’re not debating the topic. We’re debating each other.

“You’re missing the economic impact,” Easton snaps.

“You’re ignoring accessibility,” I shoot back.

“You’re talking in circles.”

“You’re allergic to fun.”

“Sports aren’t about fun.”

I stare at him. “Jesus Christ, you actually believe that.”

Someone across the table raises a hand. “Are they… flirting?”

“No,” Easton and I say at the same time.

We pause.

I smirk. He looks like he might throw the table.

Mrs. Harlan pinches the bridge of her nose. “You two clearly have… chemistry. Use it productively.”

Easton laughs. A sharp, humourless sound. “That’s one word for it.”

When the bell finally rings, the room exhales. Chairs scrape back, people scatter like survivors.

Easton stands first. “We’re not partners.”

I grab my bag. “Too late. Fate’s cruel.”

He leans in, voice low. “Stay the fuck out of my way.”

I grin back. “You first.”

He storms out.

Everyone watches him go.

Then they look at me.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” someone asks.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, still buzzing, still smiling.

“History,” I say. “And some pretty unresolved beef.”

Outside, I catch sight of Easton at the end of the hall, shoulders tense, moving fast. For a second—just one—I wonder if pairing us was a mistake.

Then he glances back, blue eyes blazing, and I feel that familiar spark kick in.

Fuck.

This is gonna be fun.