The Devil Wears Cleats

I have no conscience. That's why I'm so much fun." – Ted Bundy

Jaxon Reed was the kind of guy who could charm the pants off a nun and then convince her it was her idea. Friday nights under the stadium lights were his kingdom-Westbridge High's golden boy, quarterback extraordinaire, six feet of lean muscle wrapped in a grin that could melt glaciers. The crowd roared as he jogged off the field, helmet dangling from one hand, dark hair tousled just right. The scoreboard screamed 42-7, another victory carved out by his arm and his swagger. Cheerleaders shrieked his name, teachers nodded like proud parents, and his teammates practically drooled over him. He flashed that smile-bright, effortless, a little wicked-and they lapped it up like dogs at a water bowl.

Morons, the lot of them.

"Jax, you're a beast out there!" Coach Hargrove bellowed, slapping his shoulder so hard it'd leave a bruise on anyone else. Coach's moustache quivered with glee, like it was auditioning for its own fan club.

"Gotta keep the scoreboard honest, Coach," Jaxon shot back, dodging a playful jab from Bryce, his wide receiver. "Can't let Bryce take all the credit-he'd trip over his own ego." The team hooted, Bryce flipped him off, and Jaxon's grin widened. They thought he was hilarious, the life of the party. No conscience, no worries-just pure, unfiltered fun. He didn't tell them he'd spent halftime wondering how long it'd take to drown Bryce in the Gatorade cooler. People were so easy to play. Loud, needy, and dumber than dirt. He didn't like them-never had-but he liked the power they handed him on a silver platter.

Monday morning, he was back to owning the halls. Girls fluttered their lashes, guys slapped his back, and Mrs. Carter in the cafeteria slipped him an extra chocolate chip cookie like he was a damn puppy. He was mid-story-something about spiking Bryce's drink with hot sauce last game, a real crowd-pleaser-when she walked in.

Lena Voss. New girl. Word was she'd transferred from some podunk town nobody cared about. She shuffled into the cafeteria in a hoodie two sizes too big, brown hair yanked back in a ponytail, eyes flicking around like she expected an ambush. Jaxon's punchline died on his tongue. His chest did this stupid flip, like a fish flopping on a dock. What the hell?

"You good, man?" Bryce asked, waving a meaty hand in front of his face.

Jaxon blinked, then smirked. "Yeah, just picturing your face when you drank that sauce. Priceless." The group laughed, and the crisis averted. But his gaze slid back to Lena. She sat alone, poking at a sandwich, oblivious to the high school circus. That flip hit again. Harder. His left eye itched, and he scratched it quick and sharp, nails biting skin. It was his only tell-nerves weren't his thing, but when they crept in, that eye took the hit. And Jaxon Reed didn't *do* nervous. He'd once faked a sprained ankle to get out of a boring pep rally, limping past the principal with a sob story, cool as ice. So why was this happening now?

Third period, English class. Lena was there, hunched over a notebook, scribbling while Mr. Delaney yammered about Hamlet. Jaxon sprawled in the back, twirling a pencil, watching her. She didn't giggle at his cracks about Hamlet's mommy issues. Didn't even glance his way. The flip turned into a twist, and his eye twitched again. He scratched it, leaving a faint red mark. This wasn't fun anymore. He didn't get rattled-rattled was for suckers who cared. Jaxon didn't care. He couldn't*. That's what made him king.

After school, he lingered by the bleachers, retying a perfectly tied shoe as the team cleared out. Lena trudged past, head down, aiming for the bus stop. Alone again. The flip jabbed him, sharp and annoying. He didn't like it. Didn't like her for making it happen. But he couldn't look away. Who was she? Why'd she show up and mess with his head? No conscience meant no complications-until now.

"Jax, you coming?" Bryce hollered, gym bag swinging.

"In a sec," Jaxon called, flashing that grin. "Gotta scout prom king rivals-can't let you steal my crown." Bryce laughed and bolted, leaving Jaxon free. He didn't go home. He followed Lena.

Not too close-just enough to track her. She didn't notice, too busy kicking rocks down the sidewalk. He kept it casual, hands in his pockets, whistling some earworm pop song. The bus rolled up, she climbed on, and he clocked the route number. Simple. Step one: find out where she lived. Step two: figure out why she was screwing with him. Step three: make it stop.

As the bus pulled away, Jaxon scratched his left eye again, a slow, deliberate drag. "New girl," he muttered, lips curling, "let's see how much fun you really are."