Jace POV
“Practice isn’t until next week,” I muttered as I pulled off my helmet and tossed it onto the kitchen counter.
My dad didn’t even look up from his tablet. “That’s not an excuse.”
“I’m serious,” I said, still panting from the ride. “Coach literally gave us the week off.”
He finally glanced up, narrowing his eyes. “And? You think champions take time off? You think that’s how you’re going to beat Crescent and Sinclair at Regionals?”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed a bottle of water. “Can I just breathe for a second? I’ve been practicing every day since June. It’s one week.”
Dad stood up. Walked around the kitchen island until he was standing right in front of me. “We have a full-sized court in the backyard. While other players are wasting time, you have everything you need to stay ahead. So no—you don’t get to breathe.”
His voice wasn’t angry. It was sharp. Cold. Like every word had been rehearsed.
“Why are you like this?” I snapped. “Why do you care more about volleyball than me actually—living?”
He didn’t blink. “Because I didn’t work this hard, sacrifice this much, and invest all this money just to raise someone who wants to ride bikes and chase girls. You’re a Reyes. You’re my son. And you’re going to walk into that university next fall on a full scholarship and prove you’re the best. Just like I planned.”
“Your plan,” I muttered, jaw clenched. “Not mine.”
He walked away without responding.
I stared after him, my heart pounding. My chest burning.
I walked upstairs. I’d just come from the racetrack—something I actually loved. Riding gave me freedom. Wind in my ears. Control. No expectations. No whistles. No scoreboard. Just me and the bike.
But I couldn’t talk to him about that. He wouldn’t hear it.
I stripped off my muddy jeans and stepped into the bathroom. The mirror was fogged from my breath. I wiped it and stared at myself. I looked tired. My jaw was clenched so tight I thought I might crack a molar.
I threw on my workout shirt and my black joggers, laced my sneakers, and headed out again.
Where was I going?
I didn’t even lie to myself about it anymore. I was going to the gym. And maybe—maybe—I hoped she’d be there again.
Lola Sinclair.
The girl who was always a statue on court. Sharp as hell. She never broke focus. Never flinched. Never even blinked wrong. She was everything my dad feared—and respected—in an opponent.
But when I saw her a few days ago… she was different.
Not Captain Sinclair.
Just… Lola.
Broken down. Crying. Human.
It stirred something in me. Something I hated.
I told myself I didn’t like it. I didn’t like her. She was still the rival. Still the girl who called my footwork “sloppy” in front of the press last season. Still the one who smirked every time we lost a point.
And yet…
When I stepped into the gym and spotted her by the punching bag—sweat dripping down her temple, fists flying like her life depended on it—my chest tightened.
She was going at it like the bag had cursed her entire bloodline.
I walked over, arms crossed, wearing the kind of cocky grin that always got under her skin.
“Well, if it isn’t the queen of spikes herself,” I said, tilting my head. “Tell me, Sinclair… did that bag commit a crime? Or are you just training for Regionals by attempting murder?”
She stopped mid-punch and turned slowly. Her braid clung to her damp shoulder. Her eyes locked onto mine, sharp and tired all at once.
“Go away, Reyes,” she said, deadpan.
“Can’t,” I replied with a shrug. “I’ve got front-row seats to this emotional breakdown.”
She glared. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.” I stepped closer, just enough to annoy her. “But if you really want to hit something, you could always hit me instead.”
Lola raised an eyebrow. “Careful what you wish for.”
“Oh, I wish for it,” I said, with a grin.
She didn’t hesitate. Her first punch landed lightly against my chest—playful, warning.
The second?
Faster. Sharper.
I took a step back, laughing, hands up. “Alright, alright! Damn, Sinclair!”
Her breathing was ragged. But the rage in her face… it started to melt. She looked calmer. Like for a second, the world wasn’t spinning so fast around her.
I reached out without thinking, gently placing my hands on her shoulders to steady her.
She looked up at me. Her face was close—too close. I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Could smell the coconut from her hair tie. Everything about her screamed stay away.
But she didn’t move. Then she whispered, “We can’t do this.”
My heart stuttered. I cocked an eyebrow. “What—train by punching me?”
She shook her head, barely. “No. Be friends.”
I froze. Then smirked.
“Good,” I whispered back. “Because I’m not interested in friends.”