The Unwanted Pact With My Enemy

"If you fail this final project, you lose your scholarship," Professor Cromwell said, his voice cutting through the dusty air of the sculpture studio.

Vesper's stomach dropped. She gripped the edge of the wooden sculpting table, her knuckles turning white. The syllabus in front of her suddenly felt like a death sentence.

"This semester, you will create a life-size woodcarving," Cromwell continued, slamming his wooden pointer against the chalkboard. "And to break you out of your comfortable little artistic bubbles, your models will be drawn at random from the athletic department."

A collective groan echoed through the room.

Vesper wiped her sweating palms on her thick canvas apron. She hated athletes. They were loud, arrogant, and took up too much space.

Professor Cromwell pulled a cardboard box onto his desk. "Line up. Draw a name."

Vesper's heart hammered against her ribs as she shuffled forward in the line. When it was her turn, she reached into the dark box. Her trembling fingers brushed against a piece of paper with rough edges. She pulled it out.

She slowly unfolded the slip. Her eyes locked onto the bold black ink.

Slade Forrester.

Her lungs stopped working. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin.

The girl standing next to her peeked over Vesper's shoulder and let out a loud, dramatic gasp. "Oh my god! You got Slade Forrester!"

Every head in the studio snapped toward Vesper.

"The basketball captain?" someone whispered loudly. "He's the hardest guy on campus to deal with. Good luck getting him to sit still for five minutes."

Vesper's face burned. The heat crawled up her neck and settled in her cheeks. She crumpled the paper slip in her fist, her nails biting into her palm.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class.

Vesper didn't speak to anyone. She shoved her carving knives into her heavily scratched canvas bag, yanked the zipper shut, and pushed her way out the heavy wooden doors.

The cold autumn wind hit her face, but it didn't cool her burning skin.

She pulled her phone from her coat pocket and opened the university directory. Her fingers shook slightly as she typed his name. His public student email and phone number popped up.

Standing under a massive oak tree, she typed out a rigid, overly polite text message explaining the assignment and requesting his schedule.

She hit send.

A 'Read' receipt appeared almost instantly beneath her blue bubble.

Vesper stood in the freezing wind. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The screen remained blank.

Her stomach clenched. The sheer arrogance of ignoring her instantly triggered a memory she had tried to bury since freshman year.

The airport terminal. The chaotic rush of towering athletes pushing through the crowd. Slade Forrester, laughing with his teammates, swinging his massive duffel bag without looking.

The heavy bag had slammed directly into Vesper's vintage brass-cornered suitcase-the one her grandfather had left her.

The brass lock had shattered. The suitcase burst open, spilling her grandfather's custom, hand-forged woodcarving tools across the dirty linoleum floor.

Slade hadn't even stopped walking. He just glanced over his shoulder, tossed out a careless "My bad," and disappeared into the crowd while Vesper fell to her knees, frantically gathering the scattered blades with tears blurring her vision.

A gust of wind whipped her hair across her face, pulling her back to the present.

Vesper bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. Polite texts weren't going to work on a guy like him.

She opened the campus sports portal. The men's basketball team was currently holding an open practice at the main recreation center.

Vesper adjusted the strap of her canvas bag. She turned on her heel and marched toward the massive glass building across campus.

She grabbed the freezing metal handle of the gym doors and pulled. The heavy scent of floor wax and stale sweat hit her like a physical blow.

The screech of rubber soles against the polished hardwood floor pierced Vesper's eardrums.

She stood at the edge of the court, her chest tight. The gym was massive, echoing with the sound of bouncing basketballs and shouting men.

She squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights, searching the sea of moving bodies for the number zero.

A collective gasp drew her attention to the paint. Slade leaped into the air, his muscles flexing as he slammed the ball through the hoop with violent force. The metal rim shuddered loudly.

A group of cheerleaders sitting in the front row erupted into high-pitched screams.

The coach blew a sharp whistle. "Five minutes!"

Slade landed gracefully. He grabbed the hem of his sweaty jersey and wiped his face, exposing a deeply carved, sweat-slicked abdomen.

Vesper's throat went completely dry. Her instinct screamed at her to turn around and run back to the quiet safety of her studio.

Instead, she forced her legs to move. She wove through the crowd of lingering fans and walked straight toward the team bench.

Slade reached for a blue sports drink. Vesper stepped right in front of him, blocking his hand.

He stopped. He slowly lowered his arm and looked down at her. His eyes scanned her paint-stained flannel and the dusty canvas apron she had forgotten to take off.

"I'm your sculpture partner," Vesper said. Her voice shook, so she cleared her throat and tried again, louder. "For Cromwell's class."

Slade's lips twitched into a slow, arrogant smirk. "Are you the one who sent that stalker text?"

Vesper's face flushed hot. "It was a formal academic request."

Slade scoffed. He twisted the cap off his bottle and took a long drink, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Look around, art girl," Slade said, his voice carrying easily over the gym noise. "My schedule is packed. I barely have time to sleep, let alone sit around while you play with clay."

Two of his massive teammates stepped up behind him.

"Another crazy fan using homework as an excuse?" one of them whistled. "You're getting creative, Forrester."

Slade didn't correct them. He just shrugged, his eyes locked on Vesper's burning face. "Find someone else."

The teammates burst into loud laughter.

The sound felt like a physical slap. Vesper's blood rushed straight to her head. The humiliation burned behind her eyes.

She gripped the strap of her canvas bag so hard her fingernails dug painfully into her palms.

She didn't say another word. She spun around, shoved her way through the laughing crowd, and practically ran toward the exit.

She pushed through the glass doors. The freezing air hit her wet cheeks. She hadn't realized she was crying until the wind made the tears turn ice-cold.

Vesper walked as fast as she could down the tree-lined path toward her dorm. Her chest heaved with every breath.

She shoved her key into the lock and pushed her dorm door open.

Deafening pop music blasted from a cheap Bluetooth speaker. Her roommate, Rowan, was sitting cross-legged on the rug, painting her toenails a bright cherry red.

Rowan looked up, saw Vesper's pale face, and immediately hit pause on her phone. "Who died?"

Vesper threw her heavy bag onto the floor and face-planted into her pillow. She didn't have the energy to explain.

The bathroom door clicked open. Their third roommate, Casey, walked out with a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

"Did you guys see the roster for tomorrow night's game?" Casey asked, oblivious to the tension. "Student Body President Julian Hayes is going to be sitting in the VIP family section."

Vesper's breath hitched. She slowly pushed herself up from the mattress. Her heart, which had been heavy with humiliation, suddenly spiked with a frantic, nervous energy.

Julian.

She turned her head and looked at her desk. The crumpled piece of paper with Slade's name on it sat next to her pencil cup.

Julian was Slade's roommate.

Vesper's jaw hardened. She was going to that game tomorrow night. She was going to see Julian, and she was going to make Slade Forrester pay for humiliating her.

The final buzzer blared, vibrating right through Vesper's ribs.

The home crowd erupted into a deafening roar. Vesper sat in the back row of the crowded bleachers, her hands pressed over her ears. The noise was physically painful.

But her eyes weren't on the scoreboard. They were locked on the VIP section across the court.

Julian Hayes stood there, clapping politely. He wore a navy cashmere sweater that made his shoulders look broad and soft.

Vesper's chest tightened. She remembered the rainy afternoon freshman year when she had dropped her groceries in a puddle. Julian had stopped, handed her his umbrella, and helped her pick up the bruised apples. He had smiled at her like she actually mattered.

Down on the court, Slade was being swarmed by teammates. He had just hit a buzzer-beating three-pointer to win the game.

Vesper didn't wait for the celebration to end. She grabbed her bag, squeezed past the screaming fans, and hurried down the narrow concrete stairs to the basement level.

The air down here was cooler, smelling of damp concrete and bleach.

She found the men's locker room and pressed her back against the wall, hiding in the dark shadow of a broken vending machine.

She waited. Her legs ached.

Half an hour later, the heavy metal door finally swung open for the last time.

Slade walked out. His dark hair was wet, dripping water onto the collar of his jacket. He had a massive black duffel bag slung over one shoulder and was staring down at his phone, his brow furrowed.

Vesper stepped out of the shadows and planted herself directly in the middle of the hallway.

Slade stopped short. He looked up. Annoyance flashed in his dark eyes.

He didn't say anything. He just shifted his bag and tried to step around her.

Vesper mirrored his movement, blocking his path again.

Slade clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I told you to find someone else. Don't make this weird and stalker-ish."

"September fourteenth. Flight 402 from Chicago," Vesper said, her voice deadpan and cold.

Slade froze. His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory.

Vesper pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocked it, and shoved the screen inches from his face.

The photo displayed a crushed, vintage brass suitcase. Scattered around it on the airport floor were dozens of hand-forged, custom woodcarving knives, their delicate wooden handles splintered.

"Those tools were forged in the eighteenth century," Vesper said softly, her eyes locked on his. "They belonged to my grandfather. They were appraised at over ten thousand dollars."

Slade's pupils dilated. He stared at the photo, then looked at Vesper's face. Recognition finally dawned in his eyes. He remembered the crying girl on the floor.

"If you don't show up to Cromwell's studio," Vesper said, her voice trembling slightly with adrenaline, "I will file a formal property damage claim with the university."

Slade didn't move.

"Once the claim is filed," Vesper continued, pushing her advantage, "the athletic board will flag your file for disciplinary review. You'll be suspended pending investigation. You'll miss the NCAA playoffs."

The silence in the hallway was suffocating. Vesper could hear the faint dripping of water from his wet hair hitting his jacket.

Slade's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "You think you can blackmail me?" he demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. The sudden shift in his demeanor sent a cold shiver down her spine, but she held her ground, refusing to let him see the way her pulse hammered against her ribs.

He shifted his heavy bag to his other shoulder and took a slow step forward. He was so close now that Vesper could smell his body wash-something sharp and minty.

"Alright, art girl," Slade said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll be your model."

Vesper exhaled a shaky breath of relief.

"But," Slade added, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. "You're going to do something for me in return."