GET THAT PUCK

Rules and Exceptions

She points her fry at him like it's a weapon she's been waiting to use—cool, deliberate, dangerous in a way only Liora can pull off.
"If you're asking if we want to go to the game, then yeah. Sure. Why not?"

Kane actually blinks. The guy looks like someone unplugged him.
"Really?"

She nods, smile sharpening into something wicked and playful. "Sure. It's not like I have anything better to do. Plus, I want to see if your team's as good as you keep bragging."

I shoot her a look that could ignite concrete.
Because two hours ago, she declared herself a football girl and roasted me about hockey with the passionate hatred of someone who's been personally victimized by a puck. I open my mouth, ready to drag her for the hypocrisy—

But I don't even get the first syllable out.

She plucks a fry, shoves it between my lips, and presses a finger to my mouth like she's silencing a misbehaving pet. My jaw snaps shut on instinct, and I almost choke as I glare up at her.

"Don't talk," she murmurs, face close, eyes glinting with smug delight. "Just eat."

Kane's eyes go wide like he's witnessing a live-action dominance display.
Meanwhile, I chew in humiliated silence, cheeks burning so hot they might cook the rest of the fries.

Liora leans back in her chair, satisfied, her smirk curling into something even more sinful.

"Good," she says lightly. "You're learning."

And just like that, she's back to scrolling through her phone—cool, composed, bored out of her mind—as if she didn't just publicly own me in front of Kane. She's in control. Always. It's honestly sickening how natural it is for her.

Cassie finally peels away toward her psych lecture, giving me a lazy wave that hints at zero actual interest. She mouths something at Liora that looks dangerously close to text me later about Kane.

Cassie. Liora's best friend, campus-famous for looking like a Bella Hadid wannabe and somehow pulling it off in her own chaotic way. She's tall and slim, with those runway-model legs that make even sweatpants look expensive. Her hair is always pin-straight, glassy-shiny, the kind of shine that screams silk pillowcases and a strict hair-oil routine. Her cheekbones? Sharp enough to do damage. And her whole vibe is Venom.

Liora rolls her eyes so dramatically I'm shocked they don't perform a full exorcism. Then she adjusts the strap of her sleek Prada bag—the one that probably costs more than my car—and heads toward the business building.

I fall into step beside her. Don't ask me why. Gravity, maybe. Or maybe I'm just pathetic.

She notices instantly. Of course she does. Her jaw tightens, and she flicks her gaze at me like I'm some raccoon that wandered onto her designer lawn. hands shoved in my hoodie like it's armor. "We've got business law together."

Her head whips toward me, brown eyes narrowing into lethal slits.
"No. No way."

Her tone says over my dead body.
Her glare says I will commit a crime to make this stop.

"Way," I say silkily, tugging open the classroom door like I'm the gatekeeper to hell itself. "After you, Princess."

I chuckle, sticking close—because, obviously, I'm not letting her out of my sight. Her Converse scuff the pavement, her bag swings like a pendulum at her side, and she's walking high and mighty, probably hoping ignoring me will make me vanish. Spoiler: It won't. As long as she's in my line of sight, I'm not leaving hers.

The lecture hall isn't massive, but it's that kind of tiered setup where everyone can see everyone. Which is exactly why, when she hisses, "Don't sit with me," I drop into the empty seat right next to her. Thigh to thigh. Because why not?