Noah

Most people think I’ve got it easy.

They see the jersey, the captain’s armband, the girls who slide notes into my locker, the teachers who cut me slack because I’m “leading the team this season.” They see the highlight reels, the touchdowns, the swagger.

And yeah, I play into it. Why wouldn’t I? That image has kept me on top since freshman year.

But what they don’t see—the part I’d never admit out loud—is that the best part of my day isn’t the touchdowns. It’s not the cheers, or even the wins.

It’s Jessa Lombardi’s face when I get under her skin.

I shouldn’t find it that entertaining. She’s Jackson’s twin, for one. Which means technically, she’s off-limits. But God, she makes it too easy. The way her cheeks flush, the way she slams things down or throws out these sharp little comebacks—Jessa’s like one giant exposed nerve. Sensitive as hell.

And I like testing how far I can push before she snaps.

Take this morning, for example.

Jackson and I were heading to practice, but I swung by his place first. Walking into their kitchen always feels… weird. I don’t know why. Maybe because I can practically feel how much Jessa doesn’t want me there.

She was standing at the counter, spreading butter on toast like it had personally offended her. Oversized T-shirt, messy hair, bare feet curling against the tile. For a second, I almost didn’t say anything.

Almost.

“Morning, sunshine,” I tossed out, leaning in the doorway.

The way her shoulders stiffened—it was instant gratification. Like watching a fire catch.

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, eyes on her plate.

“What? Thought you’d like a nickname.”

She rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard them click.

Jackson laughed, completely oblivious. “Ignore her, bro.”

I didn’t ignore her, of course. Couldn’t. I never do. Instead, I spotted the toast and couldn’t resist. “Extra butter again?”

She slammed the knife down like she wanted to stab me with it.

“Seriously? Do you ever get tired of commenting on what I eat?”

And just like that, my day was made. That flare of anger in her eyes, the way her voice cracked on ever. She didn’t realize it, but she was giving me exactly what I wanted.

Attention.

Here’s the thing: Jessa doesn’t understand me. She thinks I pick on her just to be a jerk, or because I’ve got nothing better to do. But the truth? It’s not that simple.

I notice her.

More than I should.

And noticing her—really noticing her—is dangerous.

Because Jessa’s not like the other girls who throw themselves at me. She doesn’t giggle when I walk by or bat her lashes hoping I’ll toss her a grin. She doesn’t want anything from me.

Except maybe for me to disappear.

And that makes me want to poke, prod, irritate. It makes me want her to look at me, even if it’s with fire in her eyes. Because when she’s angry at me, at least she’s seeing me.

At school, it’s even better.

In the cafeteria, Jackson and I had the whole team cracking up over stupid inside jokes when I spotted her sitting with Mariah. Always the far table, always head down, like she’s hoping to disappear.

But I don’t let her disappear.

“Hey, Jackson!” I yelled across the room. “Better hide your food or Jess will eat it all before you blink.”

The table erupted. Perfect.

I caught the way her shoulders hunched, the way her hand froze halfway to her mouth. She didn’t look up, but I knew she heard me. Knew she felt the sting.

And yeah, maybe that makes me an asshole. But there’s something about her silence that gets to me. Like she’s holding all this emotion inside, and I’m the only one who knows how to drag it out of her.

Jackson doesn’t get it. To him, Jessa’s just… Jessa. His twin, his shadow, the sister he doesn’t think twice about. He doesn’t notice the way she winces when people whisper, or the way she pulls her hoodie tighter like armor.

But I do.

I see it.

And sometimes I wonder if that’s why I keep poking—because if I don’t, maybe no one would notice her at all.

Practice that afternoon should’ve wiped Jessa from my brain. It usually does. Once I’m on the field, nothing else matters. The snap of the ball, the crunch of pads, the roar of the guys—it drowns everything out.

But not today.

Today, when I closed my eyes, all I saw was the way she glared at me over her toast, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing.

And then—God help me—the way her gaze flickered over me. She thought she was subtle, but I caught it. The way her eyes lingered on my shoulders, my chest.

She thinks I don’t notice, but I do.

And that thought sticks with me longer than I’d like.

That night, lying in bed, I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Jessa’s sensitive, that’s all. She reacts to me because I push her buttons. If she didn’t, I’d probably lose interest.

Except… I’m not losing interest.

If anything, I’m hooked.

I want to know how far I can push before she finally snaps. Before she lets me see the fire I know she’s hiding.

I want to know if that fire burns as hot when it’s not anger.

The next morning, I catch her staring again.

She doesn’t realize it—I’m laughing at something Jackson said, tilting my head back, and when I glance over, her eyes are on me. Not in hate. Not in anger. Just… watching.

And for one insane second, it feels like she sees me. Not the quarterback. Not Jackson’s best friend. Not the jerk who won’t leave her alone.

Just me.

Our eyes lock, and the air shifts. She looks caught, like a deer in headlights.

For once, I don’t smirk. For once, I just look back.

But then panic kicks in, and I cover it with a grin. “Like what you see, Sunshine?”

Her face flames. “In your dreams.”

But I heard the hitch in her breath. I saw the way she couldn’t look away fast enough.

And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.

Because tormenting Jessa Lombardi isn’t just a game anymore.

It’s an addiction.

And sooner or later, it’s going to blow up in my face.

Noah

The problem with lying to yourself is that eventually, the truth claws its way out.

I’ve been telling myself for years that I bug Jessa because it’s easy. Because she’s reactive, and I like the way she gets flustered. That’s it. Simple.

But it’s not.

If I’m honest—and I almost never am, even in my own head—it started way before she became “sensitive Jessa.”

It started in middle school.

Back then, Jessa was different. Not unrecognizable—she still had the dark eyes, the messy hair, the sharp tongue—but she laughed more. She’d shoot water through her teeth at Jackson during lunch, or race us to the corner store after practice and somehow always win, even though her legs were half the size of ours.

She wasn’t invisible back then. She didn’t try to be.

I noticed her before I even realized I was noticing her. The way her grin curved higher on the right side. The way she’d wrinkle her nose when she concentrated. The way she never backed down, even when she should have.

I liked it.

Too much.

And that scared the hell out of me.

Because she was Jackson’s twin. And Jackson’s my guy—my quarterback, my brother from another mother. There’s an unspoken rule: sisters are off-limits. Period.

So instead of admitting I was drawn to her, I started pushing her away. Teasing, needling, whatever you want to call it. It was easier to play the jerk than to let anyone—including her—guess how I actually felt.

And over the years, that mask stuck.

Now everyone, including Jessa, believes I really am that guy. The one who points out her extra butter, or makes cracks in the cafeteria.

But underneath it? Every time I say something, every time I watch her react, there’s this other layer.

I’m watching her mouth.

I’m watching her eyes.

I’m thinking things I shouldn’t think.

Last week was the worst.

We were at Jackson’s, sprawled on the couch, watching film. Jessa came in with a bowl of popcorn, pretending she didn’t care if we ate it all. She sat on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

And when she laughed—actually laughed at some dumb commentary on TV—it hit me like a helmet to the ribs.

I hadn’t heard that laugh in a long time.

It wasn’t sharp or defensive. It wasn’t trying to hide. It was just… real.

I couldn’t stop staring.

And then she glanced up, caught me looking, and everything inside me knotted tight. Because for a second, I swear she knew.

Knew that I’d been watching her.

Knew that maybe, underneath all the teasing, I wanted her.

The worst part?

I don’t want to stop.

I tell myself I should. That she deserves better than being some secret I bury under sarcasm. That Jackson would kill me if he knew.

But then she glares at me across the table, or snaps back with some fiery retort, and it’s like gasoline on a match. I can’t quit.

It’s like the closer I get to the edge, the more I want to see what happens if I jump.

What happens if I stop hiding behind jokes and just say it.

That I like the way she looks in oversized T-shirts. That I notice how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. That I’ve thought about what her mouth would feel like against mine more times than I can admit.

That the reason I agitate her isn’t because she’s sensitive.

It’s because she makes me feel exposed.

And the only way I know how to handle it is to make her feel the same.

Lying here now, staring at the ceiling in the dark, I know I’m screwed.

Because sooner or later, I won’t be able to keep pretending.

And when that happens, everything—my friendship with Jackson, the team, the fragile balance we’ve all built—could go up in flames.

But the truth?

If it means Jessa finally sees me the way I see her…

I might just light the match myself.