Falling for the Scandal

She knows my game

CHAPTER 2

GIDEON

Iris Mercer.

She is the daughter of the Mercer medical equipment empire. Or at least, she used to be, before she gets disowned after a string of high-profile scandals involving men old enough to be her father.

I know her dad spent millions trying to bury the biggest headline: the time she framed Malcom Calverley for molestation. I remember the media storm from a couple of years ago. She is actually confident enough to take it to court. If I don’t know Malcom personally, I might easily believe her act. But Malcom is the golden boy. If she wants him so badly, she shouldn't force herself on him and threaten to cry wolf when he rejects her. Even her own best friend testifies that the whole thing is just one of Iris's psychotic tantrums.

"I see you have met the new girl," Kennedy murmurs, stepping up beside me on the sidelines.

I lock my phone screen, cutting off the article I am reading. Across the court, the rest of our teammates are running drills.

"Yeah, I met her," I mutter, my shoulder still tight from where she shoved past me. "She decides to make a scene in the middle of the cafeteria."

Kennedy chuckles, furrowing his brows. "Seriously? Does she have any idea who your old man is?"

I shake my head. "That won't phase her. She is a Mercer. She grew up surrounded by that kind of power."

"Yeah, but her dad cut her off ages ago."

"Which means she is probably one of Mr. Calvin’s sugar babies now," I reply, staring out at the court.

"Calvin doesn't do sugar babies," Kennedy scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. "The guy has a massive political reputation to uphold. Plus, he is her dad’s best friend."

"So, did Mr. Mercer, until Iris ruined it. How else do you think she's maintaining her lifestyle?"

Kennedy stops, looking at me slowly as if I am a dummy. "People actually have skills that earn them money, Gideon. Especially on the internet."

Why is Kennedy defending Iris so much? The realization hits me like a physical blow. I hope I am wrong.

"Don’t turn her into an obsession of yours."

"She is not an obsession. I literally just met the girl, slow down." His expression changes as he smirks. He might not be obsessed now, but he is slowly heading down that road.

"You said that about Tracy. And Mel. And where are they now?" I lift an eyebrow.

He breaks into a laugh when I glare at him. "Maybe this time it's different."

He gives me a quick wink and jogs out onto the court to join the team. It is his classic way of dodging a serious conversation. But if Kennedy is already finding her fascinating enough to play these games, all I can do is pity her. Because when Kennedy gets obsessed, things always end badly.

~**~

"You will most likely never throw it into the net that way."

A familiar, irritating voice echoes through the empty stadium, causing me to snap my neck toward the bleachers. A light-skinned girl with wavy white hair on black root stands up from the stairs. Why the hell is Iris here?

"What?" I shout, my grip tightening on the ball.

Iris doesn't flinch. She just walks down the concrete steps until she steps onto the hardwood court with me. As she gets closer, her hazel eyes lock onto mine, and she looks at me like I am a particularly dull child.

She repeats herself, slow and loud, "I said you won't get it that way. Your angle and jump are completely off."

"And you know this how, miss know it all?" I shoot back, crossing my arms. She rolls her eyes.

"A basketball follows a parabolic trajectory," she says, her voice dripping with academic superiority. "Given your release height, speed, distance from the hoop, and angle, the equation predicts that the ball's path will fall below the rim every single time. So, unless you change one of the variables, you are never going to make that shot."

I blink at her, completely annoyed by the sudden lecture. "Translation, please. I speak English, not textbooks."

She lets out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes. "You are throwing it like you want the ball to travel in a straight line. It doesn't. The ball goes up, gravity pulls it down, and right now, your timing makes it come down too early. Basically, physics hates you."

"If you are so brilliant, then show me," I challenge, stepping back. I expect her to back down, but she doesn't.

She drops her bags onto the hardwood with a loud thud. She steps right into my personal space, snatches the ball out of my hands, and takes two paces back.

"Watch." She points two fingers at her eyes, then points them at me.

She glances at the hoop, measuring the distance, entirely unimpressed by me or the court. "You keep throwing it too flat. Think of it like this—you aren't trying to throw the ball at the basket. You are trying to send it high enough that gravity brings it down through the hoop."

She raises the ball, adjusts her stance slightly, and releases it. The ball climbs in a high, flawless arc before dropping cleanly through the net. Swish.

She turns back toward me, throwing her hands up in a sarcastic, picture-perfect pose. "See? Same distance. Same hoop. Just a better angle."

I stare from the net back to her, genuinely stunned. "Is this your first time shooting?"

"Yes," she says, a smug, proud smile breaking across her face.

"You actually calculated a basketball shot in your head? How is that even possible?" I know she is intelligent, but she can’t that smart.

"Why are you so surprised? It is basic mathematics and physics, something you basically lack." She scoffs, picking her bags back up from the floor. She turns on her heel and begins to walk away, completely dismissing me.

She disappears down the tunnel, leaving me standing alone on the court. This is exactly why I hate advanced mathematics.

Annoyed, I pick up the ball and mimic her exact stance. I adjust the angle, release, and watch the ball arc high. It hits the inner rim, rolls around the metal, and falls back out. s**t. That was close. Why does she have to be good at it, and I suck?

"You almost got it," a voice startles me.

I turn to see Coach stepping out from the sidelines. I nod, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“Who is that girl? Is she a basketballer?" Coach asks, pointing toward the exit tunnel. His eyes are wide.

"Trouble," I say, grabbing the ball again. "And no, she isn't a basketball player. She claims she just calculated the velocity and trajectory. Basically, she used physics to figure out how to make the shot."

Coach’s jaw practically drops to the floor. He stares at the empty tunnel like he just sees a ghost. "Is that so...?" he murmurs to himself, his mind clearly spinning with ideas.

I see the look on his face, and instant dread settles in my stomach. I know exactly what he is thinking. He wants to bring an academic nerd into our locker room to optimize our plays.

"Don't," I command, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Coach, don't even think about it. Do not bring her anywhere near this team. She belongs in a lab, not on my court."

Coach doesn't answer, his eyes still fixed on the exit.