SOPHIA
Everything hurt. My ribs, my back, my ego. Especially my ego. That part was practically in a full-body cast. The ache in my muscles was bad, but the shame? Oh, that had teeth.
How. Did. I. Lose?
I lay on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling like maybe the answer was carved into the paint. It wasn’t. Just a crack that looked suspiciously like a middle finger. Fitting.
I’d had her. For the majority of the match, I was in control. She stumbled, I struck. She paused, I pounced. I was faster, stronger, sharper. That was the truth. So how did she win? How did Ivy, hopeless-Ivy, weak-Ivy, girl-who-couldn’t-fight-off-a-butterfly Ivy, manage to beat me?
“She must’ve cheated,” I muttered.
But even as the words left my mouth, they felt thin. Ivy didn’t cheat. If anything, she looked
