The Rival I Should Never Love.

CHAPTER 2: ENTER THE EXECUTIONER

The crowd’s roar shook the concrete walls of the tunnel. Forty thousand people were waiting for the championship to begin.

But between Kaiden Black and Ethan Cole, the air went completely dead.

Ethan’s eyes flicked from my shattered camera on the floor up to Kaiden's chest. His jaw twitched, the red handprint from my slap still burning bright against his skin.

“You think you’re a hero, Black?” Ethan spat, taking a step forward. “She’s a clout-chaser. She uses people to build her media page, and the second things get rough, she runs. You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

“I know she hits hard,” Kaiden said, his low voice completely unbothered. “And I know you talk too much before a game you’re about to lose.”

Ethan’s face twisted into pure anger. He reached past Kaiden, grabbing for my wrist. “Seraphine, get over here. We have a press conference after the match, and you’re going to tell them that stream was a technical glitch, or so help me—”

CRACK.

Kaiden’s hand moved as fast as a striking viper. He didn't punch Ethan. He just grabbed Ethan’s wrist with an iron grip, twisting it a little bit to force the golden boy down onto one knee.

Ethan gasped, pain shooting through his arm as his shoe slipped on the wet concrete.

“Touch her again,” Kaiden whispered, leaning down until his shadow completely swallowed Ethan, “and I won't wait for the whistle to break you.”

“Black! Cole! Get your asses out onto the field NOW!” the head official’s voice thundered down the tunnel.

Kaiden released Ethan’s wrist like he was dropping dirty trash. Ethan scrambled back up, breathing heavily, shooting me a look of pure fury. He was going to make me pay for humiliating him, then he turned and sprinted toward the bright stadium lights of the home team entrance.

Kaiden didn't look at Ethan as he walked away. He turned back to me, his green eyes scanning my face and my camera.

“Your camera is broken,” he noted, looking down at the shattered glass near his boots.

“I have a backup unit in the media booth,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I wiped the rain from my chin and straightened. “And I don't need a savior, Black.”

For the first time, something almost resembling a smile touched his mouth. “Good. Because I’m not a savior, Vale. I’m the guy who’s about to put your ex on a stretcher.”

He didn't wait for my response. He turned and marched out onto the rain-soaked pitch of the Empire State University stadium.

I should have been offended. Instead, I found myself watching him disappear beneath the stadium lights.

I rushed up the stairs to the media box, throwing open my secondary equipment case. Below me, forty thousand fans were screaming, completely unaware that the real war had already started in the shadows.

When the whistle blew, it wasn't a football match. It was an execution.

Ethan played like a maniac driven by wounded pride. He took the ball at midfield, driving hard toward Pacific Coast's defensive line, desperate to score early and regain his dominance. He needed an early victory. He needed the scouts watching from the VIP section to forget what had happened in the tunnel.

Most of all, he needed to prove Kaiden Black couldn't touch him.

Then Ethan tried to do something stupid. He received the ball near midfield and turned directly toward Kaiden. The crowd rose.

Ethan smiled. He was going to humiliate him. He performed a quick crossover and tried to push the ball past Kaiden's left side.

Kaiden didn't bite. He didn't leap. He just waited, his posture calm and control.

The second Ethan tried to push the ball past his left side, Kaiden moved.

BOOM.

A clean, terrifyingly powerful shoulder check sent Ethan flying sideways into the mud, the ball trapped effortlessly under Kaiden’s boot. The stadium let out a collective gasp. Ethan hit the turf hard, gasping for air; his white jersey was ruined right away by dark, dirty mud.

“Get up, Captain,” Kaiden grunted over him, tossing the ball smoothly to his winger without even looking down. “We are just getting started.”

I lowered my camera for half a second.

Kaiden wasn't playing like someone trying to win a championship. He was playing like someone settling a personal score.

For the next forty-five minutes, Ethan's game slowly fell apart.

Kaiden intercepted his passes. Blocked his runs. Beat him to loose balls. Every time Ethan tried to accelerate, Kaiden was already there. Ethan grew frustrated. Then angry. Then reckless. Ethan was unraveling in real time on live television, throwing wild elbows, screaming at the referees, and receiving a yellow card for a desperate, dirty tackle from behind.

Through my telephoto lens, I watched Kaiden absorb every dirty trick without breaking a sweat. He wasn't playing for the crowd. He wasn't playing for the scouts. He was doing it with cold, ruthless precision.

With less than thirty seconds remaining on the clock and the game tied 0-0, the stadium went dead silent.

A handball penalty inside the box. Pacific Coast had one shot to win the championship.

Kaiden walked up to the spot. The rain was blowing hard sideways now, sticking his hair to his forehead. Ethan stood on the edge of the penalty area, leaning in close to whisper in Kaiden's ear.

“You’re still a murderer, Black,” Ethan hissed. “You belong in a cell, not on my field. Miss this, and everyone remembers what you really are.”

Kaiden didn't answer. He didn't even look at Ethan. He set the ball down. Took three measured steps back.

TWEEEEET!

The whistle blew.

Kaiden struck the ball with the force of a cannon shot. The goalie dived left, but the ball went right, tearing into the top corner of the net with an explosive RIPP of the mesh.

GOAL!

The PSU stands erupted into madness. Players rushed onto the field. Pacific Coast had won the championship.

Ethan stood frozen in the mud, breathing heavily, knowing his dreams of winning in front of sports scouts were destroyed.

Kaiden didn't celebrate. He didn't slide on his knees or do a backflip. He turned his back on the screaming crowd and walked straight toward the media barrier below my box.

He stopped right beneath my camera, tilting his head up through the rain. Through the lens, our eyes locked. A heavy, silent, electric current passed between us across the stadium.

Then he raised his hand, tapped his wrist—indicating she was wasting time—and pointed a single, commanding finger toward the dark tunnel behind the locker rooms.

Meet me.

Before I could even process the demand, my phone vibrated in my hand.

An alert popped up on the university’s main athletic forum. A notification that made my stomach drop into a bottomless pit.

A video had just been uploaded… recorded from high up in the VIP corridor just fifteen minutes ago.

The video showed me slapping Ethan. But it was heavily edited. Cut down to make it look like I had attacked Ethan out of nowhere, while a voiceover claimed I was sabotaging his career because he dumped me for clout.

And the caption pinned at the top, SERAPHINE VALE: THE FAKE VICTIM EXPOSED, posted directly from Nora Carpenter’s verified account, read:

“The fake victim reveals her true colors. Expel Seraphine Vale from Empire State Media.”

I looked down at the pitch. The security guards were already moving toward the media booth.

My credentials were about to be revoked. My scholarship could be gone next.

I locked my phone, grabbed my gear, and ran straight into the dark tunnel where Kaiden was waiting.