The smoke from Tristan's joint curled through the air like whispered secrets, disappearing into the shadows of the old gym.
Tristan exhaled a slow stream of smoke, grinning. “Bro, tell me why Coach acts like we’re the goddamn Lakers. We’re playing against teams that still do warm-ups in hand-me-down sneakers.”
Laughter rippled through the group, someone tossing a crumpled bag of chips at him. I smirked but didn’t bother adding to the conversation. My mind was somewhere else.
Physics. Or more specifically, how the hell I was gonna get Betty to do all the work for me.
I knew she hated me. Most people would after being called a name like that.
Fatty Betty—it rolled off my tongue so easily at the time, a reflex. But now? It was a problem. Because if she refused to work with me, my grades were screwed, and that meant my scholarship was in jeopardy.
I needed to be smart about this. I needed to play it right.
She was the type to do everything by the book, the type that probably couldn’t stomach turning in a half-assed project. If I could get her to believe that I was trying, that I actually wanted to work, maybe she’d take over and just do it herself.
I exhaled through my nose, rolling my shoulders. Yeah. That could work.
I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I almost didn’t register the shift in conversation.
Almost. Because suddenly, the words Fatty Betty were being thrown around again—but this time, it wasn’t coming from me.
Laughter erupted around me as Roy passed the joint to Jake, some joke I hadn't bothered to catch. The sound grated against my nerves, hollow and meaningless.
"Speaking of entertainment," Roy's voice cut through my thoughts, "did you see Fatty Betty in class today? Looking like she raided a tent factory for clothes."
More laughter. I kept a smirk on my face, but something twisted in my gut.
The guys cracked up, and even Stacey smirked, crossing one leg over the other.
Tristan—who had been my boy since middle school, the guy I trusted most on the team—leaned in, eyes glinting with something sharp
"Man, I'm telling you," Tristan interrupted, his words slightly slurred from the weed, "get enough drinks in me, and I might just take one for the team. You know what they say about fat girls – they try harder."
The group exploded into exaggerated sounds of disgust and amusement. I watched Stacey's face, saw the cruel pleasure there as she added, "Always knew you had a thing for freaks, Tris."
“Nah,” Roy scoffed, taking another hit. "Even Tristan couldn't seal that deal. That ‘Burger King’s boss’ is a permanent virgin. You could get her drunk, high, whatever—girls like her save it for some imaginary fairytale wedding that’s never happening. They just end up dying alone, surrounded by a dozen cats and their own piss.”
More laughter.
I should’ve just let them talk. Should’ve stayed out of it. But instead, I found myself joining in.
“And that’s where you guys don’t get it.” My voice cut through the noise, pulling their attention back to me. “You don’t just go for it with a girl like that. You have to work her—make her believe you’re crazy about her. Get her so in love with you she’d do anything for you.” I smirked. “Now that takes skill.”
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but I delivered them with the same practiced smirk.
Silence. Then—an eruption of conspiratorial laughter.
“Holy shit,” Jake wheezed, wiping his eyes. “Marcus out here running psychological warfare.”
Tristan grinned, leaning forward. “Yeah? And how would you pull that off?”
I shrugged, smirking. “Charm. Patience. Make her feel special. Let her think she’s different.”
Roy chuckled. “Damn, man. You sound like you’ve done this before.”
I didn’t answer. Everyone laughed – everyone except Stacey.
I caught the darkness that passed across her face, the way her fingers tightened around her phone.
She'd seen this side of me before, hadn't she? Back when I was playing her game, before I got tired of her jealousy, her need to control every aspect of my life.
The air seemed to thicken around us. I could feel the weight of what was coming, like the moment before a storm breaks. Tristan exhaled slowly, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Alright then,” he said. “Let’s make it interesting.”
I lifted a brow. “What?”
“A bet.”
I already didn’t like where this was going.
“If you manage to make Fatty Betty fall in love with you,” he continued, voice dripping with amusement, “I’ll owe you a grand. Cash.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“But if I get to fuck her first?” He grinned wider. “I’ll even give you a head start—but if I win, you owe me just five hundred.”
Laughter rippled through the group again, but this time, it was quieter. He wasn’t joking.
I tilted my head, assessing him.
Tristan and I had always been competitive. On the court, in the weight room, over stupid shit like video games and bar fights. But this?
I hesitated, just for a second.
Because honestly? This felt like a waste of my time.
Then I felt their eyes on me. The smirks. The anticipation.
But then Stacey's voice cut through my hesitation like a blade. "It'll be so entertaining watching that pathetic cow fall for you."
And just like that, the choice was made. The path was set. I felt myself smirk, felt the familiar mask slide into place. "Deal."
Around me, my friends erupted into excited chatter, already placing side bets, already imagining the entertainment to come.
This wasn't just about the bet anymore, or even about the physics project. This was about proving I could be what everyone expected – the captain, the golden boy, the perfect son.
Even if it meant becoming the monster I'd always feared I'd become.