ALEXANDER POV
Ciera Smith has always been a problem.
Not the kind of problem you ignore, or laugh off, or swat away like a summer bug. No—she's the kind of problem that sticks. Sharp, loud, stubborn. Ever since we were kids, she's been there—chasing me, taunting me, always trying to prove something that didn't need proving.
And now she's my damn seatmate.
I kicked my feet up on the empty desk in front of me and leaned back, ignoring the weight of her presence beside me. She'd made a whole show of slamming her notebook down like it was going to scare me. It didn't. Nothing she did ever did. But she still got under my skin, and that's what pissed me off.
She smelled like strawberries this morning—fake and sweet, the kind that clings to you long after she's gone. I hated it. I hated that I noticed.
When we were kids, our families used to hang out all the time. Backyard parties, charity galas, boardroom meetings with our parents while the rest of us were forced into the same room like stuffed toys on a shelf. That's when it started. The competition.
It was little things at first. Who could run faster, jump higher, answer the questions quicker. She always wanted to beat me. Needed to. Even when she didn't say it, I saw it in her eyes—the fire. It never dimmed. Not once.
And I always won. That's what drove her crazy. That's what drove her obsessed with beating me now.
I caught a flicker of her in my peripheral vision—eyes narrowed, lips tight, that "I'm-not-here-for-you" face she's mastered since middle school. Same Ciera. Same impossible energy. She was louder than most girls, bolder than all of them, and completely unbothered by the fact that I hated attention even when it came on the court.
Speaking of which…
Practice couldn't come fast enough. The team were due to hit the Court after lunch, and I needed it. Nothing cleared my head like running drills and burying three-pointers from the corners. Asher would probably be late—he always was—but Marcus and Luke would show up ready. We were sharp this year. Hungry. Unbeaten.
The only thing that threatened to unbalance me was currently sitting six inches to my right, scribbling something with way too much energy. Her pen made this annoying scratch every time she underlined a word. On purpose. I swear.
I adjusted the hood of my jacket and yawned, then let my eyes close for a second.
"Sleeping in class again?" I heard her mutter.
I cracked an eye open. " Talking to yourself again"
She didn't answer. Just rolled her eyes.
Typical.
That's how it's always been—snide comments and sharp glances.
The Wolves might be my team, but Ciera is a rival I never asked for and can't ignore. Even off the court, she acts like she's in a game.