The morning sun over the Lagos suburbs was unforgiving, reflecting sharply off the hood of Amole's father's car. Cherry Rodrick adjusted the strap of her bag, her head throbbing with a hangover that felt like a rhythmic drum beat against her skull. She had just stepped out of her apartment when the sight of the sleek vehicle made her stomach do a nervous flip.
"Miss Rodrick! Good morning, dear. How are you?"
Amole's dad leaned out with a "cherry smile"—that practiced, wealthy warmth that never quite reached his eyes. He identified her by her surname, a formal reminder of the power dynamic between landlord and tenant. Cherry walked toward him, masking her inner turmoil with a professional handshake.
She wasn't anxious about the money—she'd paid the rent—but the sight of Amole leaning against the car, his eyes locked onto hers, made the air feel thin.
"Morning, sir. I'm great," Cherry answered. Her mind drifted for a split second to Madam Detective. Why was that obnoxious woman with the serpent tongue suddenly everywhere in her thoughts?
"Your dad?" Amole's father asked, his tone shifting to something more inquisitive. "I haven't heard from him in a long time. My son told me he hasn't seen your father around for nearly two months. He was worried about the rent."
Cherry felt a surge of irritation toward Amole. She batted her eyelashes, a practiced mask of innocence. "My dad went on a business trip."
"Which means you are in contact with him, then?"
Cherry swallowed a snort. The headache was getting worse. She wanted to be in class, getting notes from Sam, not standing here being interrogated by a man whose "charity" felt like a noose.
"I'm not, sir," she blurted out, realizing too late how stupid she sounded. "And he's not back yet."
The older man's face hardened. The pity vanished, replaced by the cold pragmatism of a real estate mogul. "I'm sorry, Miss Rodrick, but you need to assure me your father is still in charge, or that you can pay. This is not a charity organization. I'll give you a week."
Cherry stood paralyzed as he tapped Amole on the shoulder. "I'll give you two seconds to chat," he muttered before walking off.
As soon as his father was out of earshot, Amole stepped forward. "It was the detective. She made me do it, told my dad about the rent. I swear to God, Cherry."
"Because you wanted to get into my pants," Cherry snapped, her voice low and dangerous. "You can stand there and wish all you want, Amole, but it's never happening."
"I don't even want to sleep with you anymore—well, I thought about it, but I've come to the conclusion that—"
"Save it. I have class."
Cherry turned her back on him, the slam of her apartment door echoing through the street.
Back in the car, Amole stared out the window, his jaw tight. He was done being a pawn for the blonde Detective. She'd promised to keep things neutral, then immediately went to his father to squeeze Cherry.
"What is with you two?" his father asked, pulling away from the curb. "She looked aggressive. You told me her dad wasn't around."
Amole leaned back, a plan forming in his mind. If he couldn't have Cherry, he could at least spite the Detective. "It's school work, Dad. I've been missing practice, and Cherry's been helping me out. She's... stressed."
His father softened. "Why didn't you say she helps you academically? Poor child, living alone without a mother. We should give her the rest of the year. Maybe her father will be back by then."
Amole smirked. The table was turning. "That's very thoughtful of you, Dad."
At Victoria High, the atmosphere was thick with sweat and testosterone. Green and Amole hadn't spoken since their locker room blowout, but the team was tired of the tension.
"Bros over bitches!" one of the players shouted, forcing them into a high-five.
They practiced for two hours, the squeak of sneakers on the hardwood the only soundtrack. Afterward, Coach gathered them around. "Amole, stop being selfish. Teamwork makes the game. Also, Miss Clara is looking for boys for the school play. A big producer is involved. Two million grand for the winning playwright."
"Do we have to kiss girls?" Amole joked, though his eyes drifted to Green.
Green remained silent, his mind on the girl they were both fighting over. Later, near the lockers, Amole approached him. "Do you actually care about her? Or is she just a bad girl phase for you?"
Green gripped his towel. "She's everything I need, Amole. The whole school knows we're together. Get over it."
Cherry was at the sign-up sheet for the playwright competition, her heart racing at the mention of the two million grand.
"Doing something for the school?" Green's voice boomed behind her.
The hallway went silent. Amole was standing right there. Green didn't hesitate; he walked up, encircled Cherry's waist, and kissed her—first on the forehead, then deeply on the lips.
Sam's jaw hit the floor. The "bad girl" and the "golden boy" were official.
The Aftermath: Smoke and Secrets
Later that night, the high of the public kiss had faded into the reality of Cherry's living room. She was rolling a joint, the smell of cannabis filling the small space.
"You know I don't smoke," Green said, watching her with a mix of fascination and judgment.
"Life is short," Cherry shrugged, sparking the light. "It numbs the pain."
"Why do you need to numb it? Because of what people say?" Green asked, taking a hesitant hit of the joint she offered. "I love you, Cherry... but everyone thinks you're bad for me. It's a dangerous path."
Cherry froze. "Bad? Who said that? Angela?"
"The whole school knows you're into this... shit," Green gestured to the smoke. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
"You want to make sure your reputation is okay," Cherry countered. But the drugs were kicking in, and Green's hands were on her waist, his tongue tracing hers. The argument died in the heat of the moment, but the words stayed: Bad for him.
As they moved toward the bedroom, Cherry wondered: Was she winning the game, or was she just a character in a play everyone else was writing?