Broken Rivalry : New-Adult Angsty College Romance (Silverbrook University Book 1)
Broken Rivalry : Chapter 3

Poppy Lockwood…

Fuck! Of all the people, it had to be her. Why now? My heart thuds, a heavy beat of unease.

I toss in the tangled sheets, and with a resigned sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the cold air brushing against my skin.

I run my hands on my face, feeling exhausted and wired up all at once. I groan, looking at the clock. It’s only six thirty. Way too early for my ass to be out of bed.

I barely slept for the past two nights since I saw her walk down the hall. I almost thought I was mistaken when our eyes met. She’s changed; there’s a new hardness in her eyes, a shield that wasn’t there before. The memory of her curves, accentuated by the snug fit of her cheerleading uniform, sends a familiar heat coursing through my veins. The vision morphs, her flowing locks now a cropped bob, her voluptuous frame now a delicate silhouette. She is thinner, almost painfully so, and I wonder if she’s been swept up in some new fashion trend. Poppy had been all about appearance before her father betrayed mine and paid the price for it.

But it’s not only her looks. She stared right at me, ignoring the bait I threw out. Her cold shoulder sends a prickling frustration under my skin, a maddening itch I can’t scratch.

After sending Cole away, I searched everywhere for her, but she was nowhere to be found. It almost felt like it had been nothing more than a hallucination if it had not been for Cole and his grumpy ass muttering things about “Juilliard” every so often.

I exhale, resting my arms on my thighs amid the chaos, seeking a moment’s peace. The tension in my muscles echoes the turmoil within, a silent groan escaping my lips as I yearn for release from this unexpected entanglement. Today was the first day of practice—the day that Coach enjoyed torturing us to show the freshmen what the team is made of.

I curse her as I stand up, feeling far from nineteen right now. I stretch and wince, hoping that a hot shower will help ease my muscles and maybe an energy drink and a protein bar for breakfast.

I rush downstairs. The air, nippy against my bare skin, makes me regret not grabbing a shirt. I’m clad only in gray sweatpants. The kitchen air is crisp, the metallic scent of stainless steel mingling with the faint lemon aroma of cleaning products. Spotless gray and black marble surfaces gleam, reflecting the faint light. High-tech appliances blend seamlessly into the walls, their polished stainless steel adding to the chill elegance. It’s clear a professional team maintains this pristine space, their touch evident in the orderly arrangement of every utensil and gadget. The expansive island stands out with its black marble top, waiting for cooking exploits it will never experience. The only one cooking is Liam, and nobody wants to eat his ultra-healthy, tasteless protein experiments.

I open the smart fridge and grab an extra-large can of energy drink.

The lock turns, a subtle click breaking the silence. I freeze, my hand tightening over the can.

Shit, does it have to be now?!

Liam strides in, his presence filling the space with a commanding ease. Sweat glistens on his forehead, a testament to his morning run. His breaths are even and controlled like the perfect robot he is. He pulls out his earbuds, the cord dangling against the fabric of his fitted workout shirt.

His eyes, sharp and observant, fall on my drink. The corners of his lips tilt downward, a silent judgment passing between us. He doesn’t have to say a word; his disapproval is as clear as day.

With a graceful stride, Liam moves to the fridge, his movements fluid and assured. He pulls out a bottle filled with a thick green liquid. “Rough night, Ethan?” he inquires, his British accent adding a touch of elegance to the words. The smoothie bottle uncaps with a hushed pop, and he takes a sip, his face unflinching at the undoubtedly awful taste. His concern seems genuine, but there’s a glimmer of amusement dancing in his clear green eyes, a subtle tease that he manages to carry even in the early morning light.

“You can say that,” I mutter, somehow preferring he assumes I spent the night partying than tossing and turning, thinking about an infuriating girl.

I observe as he takes a sip of his smoothie, his throat moving with the motion.

He glances at my can again, his eyebrows knitting together. “You understand that stuff’s like poison, right? Do you even realize what’s in it?” His words are gentle, almost a whisper, yet they carry a weight, a genuine concern masked by the casual tone.

I roll my eyes, the familiar lecture unwelcome in the early morning haze. “Not now, Liam.”

“Bull sperm!” Cole pipes, walking down the stairs with a stupid grin on his face, wearing nothing more than his boxer shorts, his morning wood on full display. One thing is clear with Cole: he carries an unapologetic confidence, unbothered by the world’s gaze, a trait I replace both amusing and perplexing.

“There’s no bull sperm, you asshole, and nobody needs to see your fucking dick so early in the morning.”

“That’s not what your girl said.”

I have no girl to call mine, and usually, the jokes don’t bug me. But today, with Poppy’s face flashing in my mind, it’s different. It’s like her image is poking at a sore spot I was not aware of.

Seizing the moment of silence, I clear the uncertainty from my throat, turning toward Liam. “Are you still sleeping with the secretary of the admissions office?”

He takes a sip, eyeing me with speculation. “Occasionally.”

Liam has one rule: he refuses to sleep with students here, which is not something we would complain about. Liam, with his European charm, his glasses, and his rock star attitude, makes girls fawn over him, and Cole and I are more than happy to collect the dejected girls.

I nod and stop fidgeting as I feel Cole’s eyes on me. I clear my throat. “Can you get some info on Poppy Lockwood for me? I think she’s a transfer or something.” I feel like if I get answers to Poppy Lockwood’s mystery, I can finally let it go. But it’s like a whisper in my head, making me doubt if it’s that simple.

Liam’s eyebrow arches, a skeptical grin on his face. “Why the sudden interest?”

Cole snorts. “Remind me again how you’re not obsessed.” His words, filled with mockery, make me want to prove him wrong.

I flip him off, but my eyes stick to Liam.

Liam looks from me to Cole.

“She’s a girl that got our Ethan’s panties in a bunch,” Cole taunts. “Maybe look into her friend too. Evangeline Sinclair.”

It’s my turn to face him and grin. “It’s funny… She never said her name.”

Cole remains placid.

“What the fuck ever.” Liam throws his hands up in surrender. “I’ll get the info, but you girls better get your asses moving and be ready to go in forty-five minutes because this favor will cost you.” He turns and walks to his bedroom.

Facing Cole, our eyes lock in a silent standoff. We don’t have to say it, but we both feel it—we’re tangled up in the same kind of mess, and mine has got Poppy Lockwood written all over it.

Practice isn’t only a physical drain; it’s a soul-sucking, bone-crushing ordeal. The sun, a merciless ball of fire, glares down as we sprint, tackle, and dribble across the field. The scent of fresh-cut grass, usually a pleasant aroma, now seems to mock our agony. The ball feels like a lead weight, and my legs move as if submerged in molasses. I can almost hear my muscles screaming in protest with every stride.

After what feels like an eternity, the whistle’s shrill cry signals the end. I drag myself to the locker room, each step a Herculean effort. My body is drenched in sweat, my lungs gasping for air as if I’ve been submerged underwater. The thought of collapsing under the warm cascade of the shower, letting the water wash away the fatigue, is the only thing propelling me forward.

But the universe, it seems, has other plans.

Coach barrels into the locker room, his compact frame belying a commanding presence. His hair, graying and closely cropped, matches the stern set of his weathered face. Despite his modest height, his voice booms across the room, his words sharp and authoritative. His belly, a pronounced mound, stands as a jovial contrast to his strict demeanor, gently bouncing with each impassioned word he delivers. The sight might have been comical if his critiques weren’t so biting and his expectations so towering.

“What the hell is wrong with you today?!” Coach’s voice, loud and grating, echoes off the locker room walls. I turn, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights to see his face, a ripe tomato in hue, the vein on his neck pulsating like a techno beat.

I slump onto the wooden bench, the cool metal of the locker a slight relief against my back. His tirade continues. A verbal assault that matches the physical one we’ve just endured on the field. His finger jabs in my direction. “Hawthorne! Did you lose your coordination ability? You were probably the worst midfield I’ve ever seen.”

I bite back a retort, my lips pressing into a thin line. Even on my worst day, my skills on the field are unmatched, and he knows it. The exaggeration is another tactic in his motivational arsenal.

Peters shakes his head, and I wince, already knowing that the poor freshman will regret this.

“Have something to say, Peters?” Coach turns toward him, his hands on his hips, making his belly even more predominant. “You didn’t tell me you were from Europe; if I’d known, I would have reconsidered your place as starting fullback.”

Peters frowns, clearly not catching Coach’s sarcasm. “I’m from Kansas City.”

“Are you sure? Because that defense was like fucking Edam cheese! Holes everywhere.”

Peters opens his mouth for whatever stupid reply is about to come out, but the tension is broken by Cole’s snort of amusement.

“I think you mean Emmentaler, Coach. Way more holes in that.” Cole steps in as the masochist savior he is.

Coach’s head whips around, his eyes narrowing on the culprit. “You replace that funny, Westbrook, huh?”

Cole, never one to back down from a challenge, meets Coach’s gaze head-on. “Oh, come on, Coach, take a breather. It’s only the first practice. Give us time.”

The locker room plunges into silence, the air thick with anticipation. We stare, a collective holding of breath, as Coach’s face transitions through various shades of the color spectrum, settling on a vibrant purple.

“Time? Is that what you want, Westbrook?” He advances on Cole, his stance aggressive, his finger now a weapon aimed at Cole’s chest. “Do you think you understand what gets a team to the top because daddy dearest owns Arsenal?”

He gestures dramatically to the framed photos on the wall, a testament to past victories. “This team was state champion five years running, and it’s not by giving anyone time.”

His glare shifts to Liam, the weight of his disappointment now bestowed on our captain. “You’re the captain. Control your own team!”

Liam’s eyes meet mine, a silent message transmitted. I’m in for it, and not only from Coach.

As Coach storms out, the tension dissipates, replaced by a mixture of relief and residual anxiety. Cole, undeterred by the confrontation, grins, his humor a balm to our frayed nerves. “Well, that went well, don’t you think?”

A chorus of laughter erupts, the sound echoing off the metal lockers, a cathartic release after the storm. I can’t help but join in. The absurdity of the situation overshadowing the exhaustion and the looming punishment.

Liam, though, remains stoic, his expression unreadable as he addresses the team. “Alright, let’s not give Coach any more reasons to have an aneurysm. We hit the field again in twenty for some extra drills. Let’s show him what we’re made of.”

Groans fill the room, but they are tinged with a renewed determination. We are a team, united in victory and defeat, in grueling practices, and Coach’s colorful outbursts. Together, we’ll face the challenges, push our limits, and prove our worth, not just to Coach but to ourselves.

And as I finally step under the warm stream of the shower, the water cascading over my aching body, I can’t help but smile. Despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the looming extra practice, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As I exit the shower, toweling off, Liam approaches, his expression serious. “Ethan,” he says, his British accent making even the sternest reprimand sound sophisticated, “get your head out of your ass. I don’t care if you need to get your crappy energy drink directly intravenously. You are the best midfield we have, and this was fucking crap! I don’t care what’s happening in your life. The rule is clear: you leave your problems at the door when you step onto this field, and you do not let anything, most of all girl drama, affect your game. If you want that information about Poppy Lockwood, you need to be on your game. No more distractions. Got it?”

I purse my lips, annoyed at being reprimanded as a naughty kid, but fuck, he’s right, and I know it.

I nod, clenching my fist, the image of Poppy seared in my mind. The field is calling, and I’m ready to answer, leaving no room for distractions.