The Rival I Should Never Love

Enter The Executioner

The crowd’s roar bled through the concrete walls of the tunnel, a hundred decibels of pure, bloodthirsty anticipation. 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 broad, unyielding 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 menacing 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 entirely unbothered. He didn't drop his arm from in front of me. “And I know you talk too much before a game you’re about to lose.”

Ethan’s face twisted into pure, unadulterated venom. 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 shot out like a striking viper. He didn't punch Ethan. He simply seized Ethan’s wrist in an iron grip, twisting it just enough to force the golden boy down onto one knee.

Ethan gasped, pain shooting through his arm as his cleat 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 boomed down the corridor.

Kaiden released Ethan’s wrist like he was dropping dirty trash. Ethan scrambled back up, breathing heavily, shooting me a look of pure promises of retribution before turning and sprinting 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 with cold, deliberate focus.

“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 despite the adrenaline roaring in my ears. I wiped a smudge of rain and smeared lip gloss off my chin. “And I don't need a savior, Black.”

The ghost of a dark smirk touched the corner of Kaiden’s mouth. “Good. Because I’m not a savior, Vale. I’m the guy who’s about to put your ex in a stretcher.”

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

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 soccer match. It was a 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 pulled a flashy crossover, trying to embarrass Kaiden in front of the scouts.

Kaiden didn't bite. He didn't leap. He just waited, his posturing calm, immovable, lethal.

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 pristine white jersey instantly ruined by dark sludge.

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

For the next forty-five minutes, Kaiden systematically dismantled Ethan's entire game. Every pass Ethan tried to make, Kaiden intercepted. Every sprint Ethan attempted, Kaiden shut down with ruthless physical dominance. 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 playing with cold, sadistic precision.

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

A hand-ball penalty inside the box.

One shot to win the championship.

Kaiden stepped up to the spot. The rain was pouring sideways now, plastering his hair to his forehead. Ethan stood on the edge of the box, leaning in close to whisper in Kaiden's ear.

“You’re still a murderer, Black,” Ethan hissed, loud enough for the sideline mics to catch it. “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 visiting stands erupted into madness. Pacific Coast had won.

Ethan stood frozen in the mud, his chest heaving, his dreams of a scout-filled victory utterly obliterated.

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 did something that made my blood run hot.

He raised his gloved hand, tapped his wrist—reminding me of the time I had lost—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 palm.

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

It was a broadcasted live video, recorded from high up in the VIP corridor just ten minutes ago.

The video showed me slapping Ethan. But it was 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, 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 to revoke my credentials.

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