Dante’s POV
Victory tastes sweeter when it’s stolen.
Watching Sera Vega storm across the quad, phone clutched in her hand, eyes blazing at me like she’d rather throw it at my head than tutor me yeah, that was worth every string I pulled.
She hates me.
Good.
Hate is passion, and passion burns into obsession. She’ll figure that out soon enough.
Practice drags the next morning. My pitches are wild, my focus shot to hell. Coach screams until his voice cracks, but all I hear is hers.
“You did this!”
Yeah, I did. And I’d do it again.
Every ball I throw, I picture her lips twisting around the word no. Every time my glove smacks leather, I imagine her saying yes instead—yes to tutoring, yes to me, yes to everything I plan to take.
By the time practice ends, I’m strung tight with restless
