PIPER -
The September morning air at Thornfield Academy's lacrosse field carried the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass and something darker—the metallic tang of ambition mixed with old money and older secrets. Piper Abbott stood near the makeshift refreshment stand that had been set up along the bleachers, her fingers wrapped around a plastic cup of lemonade gone warm in the morning chill.
She'd been at Thornfield exactly two days, long enough to know that even their athletic events felt different from anything back in Kentucky. Here, second-day tryouts drew spectators like a social event—parents in expensive cars, underclassmen hoping to catch sight of the boys who'd rule their world for the next four years, and girls like her, pretending they were here to support their boyfriends while really trying to decode this new ecosystem of privilege and power.
Omar was somewhere on that field in his borrowed practice gear, still trying to prove he belonged among the legacy students who'd been groomed for this moment since birth. She could pick him out easily—number twenty-three, the earnest set of his shoulders, the way he ran like he was chasing something instead of being chased. Sweet Omar, with his clean-cut smile and his determination to earn his place through hard work and good intentions.
The condensation from her cup made her palm slick, but she couldn't seem to let go. It was something to hold onto while she watched boys collide on the field with the casual violence that money and breeding somehow made elegant. Around her, the social hierarchy revealed itself in real time—upper class girls in perfectly coordinated athleisure wear, their conversations sharp as the morning air, underclassmen hovering on the edges like satellites hoping to be pulled into orbit.
She smoothed her cream cashmere cardigan, the pearls at her throat feeling suddenly too tight. Everything about her outfit had been chosen with her mother's voice in her head: Ladies don't clash, Piper. Ladies don't draw the wrong kind of attention. But here, even blending in felt like drowning.
The lemonade tasted like artificial sweetener and homesickness.
"That stuff will kill you."
The voice cut through the morning air like silk over steel. Piper turned, and the world tilted on its axis.
George Morrison leaned against the bleacher railing as if the entire morning had been choreographed around him. The pale September sun turned his dark blonde hair to burnished gold, and his eyes—blue-green like Caribbean water—held depths that promised beautiful drowning. He was tall without being overwhelming, athletic without being brutish, handsome in the dangerous way that made smart girls forget they were smart.
He nodded at her cup with a smile that belonged in a museum—or a morgue.
"Booster club lemonade," he said, his voice honey over broken glass. "Three kids ended up in the nurse's office last spring during lacrosse season. Food poisoning, they called it officially. But those of us who pay attention know better." He paused, letting the words settle like sediment in still water. "Completely avoidable—if you know who to trust."
Piper's laugh bubbled out too quick, too high. The Kentucky drawl she'd been training out of her voice crept back in. "You're pullin' my leg."
"Am I?" The question was a challenge wrapped in velvet. Before she could answer, he plucked the cup from her fingers—casual contact, nothing inappropriate for anyone watching from the field, and yet everything about it felt like a violation and an invitation all at once. He replaced it with a bottle of water from the cooler behind him, his skin warm against hers.
"George Morrison," he said, like he was bestowing a gift. "Student body president. Dean's liaison. Occasionally useful for newcomers who find themselves... adrift."
Heat crept up Piper's neck as she realized he'd noticed her standing alone, catalogued her as someone who didn't quite fit yet. "We met during registration, actually. I'm Piper Abbott."
His smile widened, revealing perfect teeth. "Awe yes, Omar Carter's girlfriend. How's Thornfield treating our newest golden couple?"
The possessive in 'our' made something flutter in her chest—dangerous and bright. But the way he said Omar's name, like it was a childhood toy she'd outgrown, made her defensive. On the field, a whistle blew and she could see Omar jogging toward the sidelines with the other second-stringers.
"We've been together since seventh grade," she said, chin lifting the way her mother had taught her. When challenged, princess, you straighten your spine and speak your truth.
"Middle school sweethearts." George's voice dipped lower, intimate despite the crowd around them. "How... predictable."
The word hit like a slap. Predictable. Safe. Boring. Everything she'd been trying not to feel since arriving at this place where everyone seemed to speak a language she hadn't learned yet. On the field, Omar was looking around for her, that faithful golden retriever devotion written across his features even at a distance.
George stepped closer—not inappropriate, nothing anyone watching from the bleachers could criticize, but close enough that she could smell him. Clean and woodsy with something darker underneath, like smoke from an expensive fire. The morning sounds faded until it was just the two of them in a bubble of golden September light.
"This place changes people," he murmured, his voice meant for her ears alone. "Shows them who they really are underneath all the pretty pretenses. What they want. What they've been pretending not to want."
Across the field, Coach Myers was dismissing the players, and Omar was jogging toward the sidelines, his eyes scanning the small crowd of spectators for her familiar face. Sweet Omar, with his earnest smile and his plans for their future already mapped out like a travel brochure. Marriage after college, kids by thirty, a house with a white picket fence and a golden retriever to match his personality.
George followed her gaze, slow and knowing. When he looked back at her, his smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Better wave to your boyfriend before he starts to worry, Cinderella." He reached past her to the small arrangement of flowers someone had placed near the refreshment stand—white daisies and baby's breath, innocent as Sunday morning—and plucked a single flower. His fingers brushed her temple as he tucked it behind her ear, the touch light as a butterfly's wing and twice as devastating. "Don't lose that. Magic has a way of finding the right people here. Whether they're looking for it or not."
Then he was gone, melting back toward the academic buildings like smoke, leaving only the ghost of his cologne and the weight of his words.
Omar materialized a heartbeat later, still breathing hard from practice, pressing a kiss to her cheek that smelled like nervous sweat and the unfamiliar soap from their new dorm bathrooms. "Hey, sweetheart. Sorry that ran long—second day tryouts are brutal. Who was that you were talking to?"
Piper's smile came automatically, the one she'd been perfecting since childhood pageants. Sweet and vacant and completely unthreatening. "Oh, just a student ambassador. Nothin' important."
But the daisy burned against her temple like a brand, and across the field, in the shadow of the Gothic buildings where the morning sun couldn't reach, George Morrison stood watching.
And in that moment, Piper Abbott—with her honey drawl and her careful manners and her heart full of dangerous wanting—became prey.
The trap was golden and beautiful, and she was already walking into it with her eyes wide open, while her boyfriend's honest sweat dried on her cheek and the morning air carried the promise of secrets she wasn't ready to learn.
On the field behind them, practice was ending, but the real game was just beginning.