The Devil Wears Cleats

ad. It's not even pas

flipping the switch. Lena's foster parents were just the opening act, their blood a warm-up for the main event. By Wednesday, the high from that night had morp

axon had watched him for days-leering at girls in class, licking his lips like a toad eyeing flies. The guy's past screamed predator, and Jaxon didn't like competition. A quick shove down the

on bit it," Bryce said at practice, tossing a footba

-Grayson's, his own-was fuel now, and he was burning through it. Lena passed by the field, head down, and the flip flickered. He scratched his eye lightly, watc

er that made him a walking time bomb. Jaxon tracked him to a dive bar on the edge of town, hood up, crowbar tucked in his sleeve. Tank stumbled out, drunk, and Jaxon followed. A swing to the knee, then the head-qui

elsewhere. Who next? How? The hunger wasn't random-he wasn't some slasher movie cliché. There was a pattern, a rulebook only he knew. People with pasts-dark ones, loud ones-drew him in. They clu

his eye, leaving a red streak. "Hey, Lena," he called, sliding over. "You're looking... free lately. New vibe?" She froze, pencil hovering, then nodded. "Something like that."

, got off on a technicality. Her past lingered in her smug smile. Or Coach Hargrove-yelled too much, had a DUI hushed up last year. Past clinging like sweat. Maybe even Bryce-loud, l

, as she sat on the steps, staring at the stars. The flip burned, and he scratched his eye until it bled, a slow drip down his cheek. She looked up

racing. Who next? Carter? Hargrove? Someone bigger? The past was everywhere, begging to be cut loose. He'd pick-soon-and it'd be glorious. The hum thrumme

d-son, star, shadow-hunted. Who'd fall? How'd he choose? The past wasn't dead-it was his