Captain, My Nemesis
I want Hunter on his knees, looking up at me with those infuriating eyes while I ruin that smart mouth of his.
I want to push him until he’s gasping, trembling, pounding his fists against my thighs, desperate and undone.
But we don’t all get our wishes, do we?
Especially such a perverted, fucked up wish.
So I shove it down into the deepest darkest corners of my chest, pretending to hate him.
Wait, it’s not actually pretense, because I DO hate that fucker.
My hatred for him is a visceral thing that rages through my vein, drumming only one tune.
--FUCKING DESTROY HUNTER BEAUMONT.
But the moment I vow to take his stupid team of rich snobby fucks to the cleaners and bring the cup home, Hunter FUCKING Beaumont transfers to my high-school, to play on my team.
MY FUCKING TEAM.
Hunter and I play better as enemies and rivals.
It was the only thing we agree on—winning games and hating the shit out of each other.
Except the winning means, one of us is holding the cup while the other seethes, gritting their teeth in anger.
NOT HOLDING THE FUCKING CUP TOGETHER.
This was supposed to be my year of finally winning and I’d be damned if I do it with that asshole by my side.