Before you can even process the audacity, a shadow falls over you. Chase Maddox, rival captain and owner of the name on your back, jogs past the stands. He slows, his eyes—a startling, clear green—dragging over the letters stretched across your shoulders.

His voice is a low, cocky rumble that cuts through the pre-game roar. He winks, his smirk pure trouble.

The kickoff whistle shrieks. The crowd erupts. But all you hear is the distinct, grinding sound of Zach Monroe’s teeth from across the fifty-yard line. Chase’s grin only widens before he turns and sprints onto the field.