Chapter 174
Summer's POV
I felt Mia stiffen beside me, heard her inhale sharply like she was about to say something cutting, but I spoke first, my voice steady despite the way my pulse was racing. "Good luck in the race, Evan."
His laugh was harsh and bitter. "Good luck? That's all you have to say to me?" He took a step closer, close enough that I could smell his expensive cologne, see the way his jaw clenched with barely controlled anger. "What the fuck gives you the right, Summer? I confessed to you in front of the entire school, put myself out there, and you rejected me like I was nothing. And now you're out here making a spectacle of yourself for him?" He jerked his chin toward the far side of the field. "You think I'm just going to stand here and watch you humiliate me further?"
"I never asked you to confess," I said quietly, trying to keep my voice calm even though I could feel dozens of eyes on us, could hear the whispers starting to spread through the crowd. "I never led you on, Evan. I was always honest with you."
"Honest?" His voice rose, sharp and cutting. "You call this honest? You're making a fool of both of us, Summer. But mostly yourself." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to something cruel and intimate. "You're going to regret this. I'm going to make sure you regret choosing him over me."
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement across the field. Logan had stopped mid-gesture, his head turned in our direction, and he was saying something urgently to Kieran, pointing toward the bleachers. I saw the exact moment Kieran looked up—saw his gaze sweep from Logan's outstretched hand to the cluster of onlookers, to Evan's back, to me. His expression didn't change, not exactly, but something in his posture shifted, a stillness that reminded me of a wire pulled taut. He said something short to Logan and started walking toward us—not running, not yet, but with long, deliberate strides that ate up the distance faster than should have been possible, weaving through the crowd of runners and spectators without breaking pace.
Evan was still talking—"You think a guy like that can give you anything? You think—" when a hand shot out and shoved him backward, hard enough that he stumbled.
Kieran stood between us, his expression completely flat, his eyes cold as winter. He wasn't even breathing hard. "Back off," he said, his voice quiet but carrying enough menace that several people nearby took a step back. "The race is about to start. If you want to compete, do it on the track. Not with your mouth."
Evan recovered quickly, his face flushing with anger as he straightened his uniform. "Oh, look who's playing hero. The scholarship kid from Southie, swooping in to save the rich girl." He smiled, but it was ugly, vindictive. "How about we make this interesting, Cross? If you lose, you give Summer back to me. You man enough to take that bet?"
"No," I said immediately, panic flooding through me. "Kieran, don't—"
"Bro, don't play his stupid games," Logan appeared at Kieran's side, his usual joking demeanor replaced with genuine concern. "He's just trying to get in your head before the race."
But Kieran didn't look at Logan, didn't look at me. His eyes stayed locked on Evan's, and when he spoke, his voice was perfectly calm, perfectly controlled. "Sure. But let's make the stakes fair. If I lose, I'll stay away from Summer. I won't talk to her, won't look at her, won't exist in her world. But if you lose, Whitmore, you never go near her again. You don't talk to her, you don't look at her, you don't even breathe in her direction. You disappear from her life completely. You got the balls for that?"
The crowd around us had grown, students pressing closer to hear what was happening, and I heard several people laugh—sharp, mocking sounds directed at Kieran.
"Is this kid serious?" someone said, probably one of Blake's friends. "Evan's won this race three years running. He's got the school record, for fuck's sake."
"New kid thinks he can just show up and take everything," another voice chimed in. "Typical Southie delusion."
Blake himself stepped forward, his expression a mixture of amusement and contempt. "Cross, you've been here what, eight months? Evan's been training with Coach Brennan since freshman year. You really think you can beat him? Maybe stick to physics problems, man. At least you're good at those."
But Kieran ignored them all, his attention still fixed entirely on Evan, waiting for an answer.
Evan's smile widened, confident and cruel. "You're on, scholarship boy. Try not to embarrass yourself too badly out there."
"Kieran, please," I started, but he finally turned to look at me, and something in his expression—something certain and unshakeable—made the words die in my throat.
"Trust me," he said simply, and then he walked away, back toward the starting line where the other runners were beginning to assemble.
Logan lingered for a moment, looking between me and Evan with barely concealed disgust. "Your boy's got issues, Whitmore. Serious ones." Then he jogged after Kieran, leaving me standing there with Mia's hand clutching mine so tightly I thought my fingers might break.