TROUBLE BREWING
893 Words
MR. RIGHT AND THE CRAZY TOMBOY
CHAPTER THREE –
TACKLES, TEASING & TROUBLE BREWING
The moment Jayda Brooks stepped onto Brooklyn Community College’s cracked concrete campus, it was clear she hadn’t come to blend in. Her gray hoodie hung low over her eyes, a half-bitten pencil clamped between her teeth, earbuds blasting old-school rap that could wake the dead, and her backpack strap barely holding together with safety pins and attitude. The wind tried it—flipping her hoodie—so she growled and yanked it back down like she was about to fight the weather.
Midterms were around the corner, but Jayda’s mind wasn’t on textbooks. Not yet. Not with the memory of that billionaire’s arrogant smirk still living rent-free in her head. Not with the phantom vibration of her phone reminding her that he’d texted again after the video. She hadn’t responded.
She wouldn't.
Right?
“Jayda Bruuuuuuh!” a shrill voice pierced through the crowd of loitering students, just before a swirl of braids and Chanel perfume crashed into her.
“Keisha, can I live?” Jayda wheezed.
Keisha Morgan, her best friend since freshman year and fashion major with zero chill, pulled back and examined Jayda like a project. “You didn’t respond to my texts last night. So you better have been dying or secretly dating Michael B. Jordan.”
Jayda smirked. “Worse. I spilled coffee on a billionaire. Called him Moneybags. May have insulted his soul.”
Keisha’s eyes exploded. “You what? Girl, I leave you alone for one morning—and you’re out here starting beef with tax brackets?”
“I didn’t mean to. He walked into me.”
“Oh my God, you started a class war with a Wall Street daddy.” Keisha gasped. “Was he hot?”
Jayda hesitated.
Keisha grinned. “He was hot. You’re blushing. That’s a blush!”
“It’s windburn.”
“It’s lust.”
Jayda shoved her, but she couldn’t hide the ghost of a grin. “He was a walking ego in Tom Ford. Tall. Cold. Smelled like ambition and lawsuits.”
“I’d lick his wallet.”
“You’d marry a vending machine if it had Gucci slides.”
They walked across campus, dodging flyers and protests, until loud shouting near the football field pulled Jayda’s attention. She spotted Romeo—her childhood best friend, perpetual flirt, and the one person who could get her arrested and inspired in the same day. He stood barefoot on the turf, spinning a football in one hand and calling her name with that smug, too-familiar grin.
“Jay-Bomb! Get over here! We’re short a quarterback!”
Keisha rolled her eyes. “You always let him bait you into this mess.”
“I like chaos,” Jayda shrugged, unzipping her hoodie and tossing it toward Keisha. “Hold this. And my earrings.”
“Lawd. There will be blood.”
Jayda jogged toward the field, knelt, and tightened her laces like a warrior strapping in. Romeo tossed her the ball and grinned. “Two downs. No mercy.”
“Sweetheart,” she growled, “I am mercy.”
The scrimmage ignited. Jayda moved like wildfire—weaving through defenders, dodging tackles, and throwing tight spirals while talking trash with every breath. Her ponytail whipped behind her, her tank top clung to sweat and pride, and she laughed like she hadn’t in weeks. The boys groaned every time she made a pass or called them slow. Romeo caught her final throw and spun like he’d won a championship. Jayda ran up and tackled him just because she could.
“I swear to God,” he coughed beneath her. “You were born to destroy men.”
“Just emotionally. Physically’s a bonus.”
She pushed up and offered him a hand. He took it, eyes lingering too long on hers. They didn’t say it aloud—but there was something old and crackling between them. Something that always threatened to cross the line.
“Get off the field, troublemakers!” the assistant dean barked.
Jayda grabbed her bag from Keisha, still high off adrenaline, and let the noise of campus surround her.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You throw like a professional. And insult like one, too.
Her heart stuttered. She hadn’t blocked him. Why hadn’t she?
Jayda: How do you keep getting these videos?
Alex: Money. Connections. Curiosity.
Jayda: Stalker vibes.
Alex: You fascinate me, Brooklyn.
Jayda chewed her lip. She hated how that made her feel—like someone was paying attention. Really paying attention. Not because of pity or performance, but because they saw her.
Jayda: I’m not part of your world.
Alex: That’s what makes you dangerous.
She was about to reply when she noticed the guy in the black trench coat across the field. Tall. Pale. Clean-shaven. Holding a phone. Watching her too long.
Her stomach twisted.
He wasn’t a student.
“Keisha,” she whispered, nodding toward him. “Do you know that dude?”
Keisha turned and frowned. “Never seen him.”
He turned away slowly. Disappeared into the trees like smoke.
Jayda’s skin prickled.
She glanced at the message again.
That’s what makes you dangerous.
No. Something else was.
Something had shifted.
And she was about to find out just how deep this rabbit hole went.
- Writer
