Chapter 162 - Rivalry of the Decade

Some women would go to extremes just to grasp what they desire. Some act boldly to prove a point, to carve their will into the world like a scar. And then, there are those who simply want to watch everything burn.

The sun had not yet climbed to its peak, but the resort already shimmered with the promise of a blistering summer noon. The white sand beneath everyone’s feet was still cool from the night breeze, yet Myrrh’s temper burned hotter than the midday sun. Her piercing blue eyes, sharp as shards of ice, locked onto Ephraim, who returned her glare with nothing more than a strained, half-hearted smile.

“Pardon?” Ephraim asked, blinking twice as if her words had stung.

“I said—scram.” Myrrh crossed her arms, her voice cutting like a blade as she turned away. “I’m not interested in playing your games.”

“Uh-huh…” Ephraim’s expression faltered, his lips twitching into a frown. “I-I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll… be on my way.”

He bowed slightly, almost awkwardly, before turning to leave. But just as he lifted a foot to retreat, another voice slithered into the moment—one meant not to soothe but to ignite.

“Are you chicken, Myrrh Alicent?” Clarisse’s tone dripped with mockery, her smug smile twisting like a knife.

“Excuse you?!” Myrrh’s voice shot upward, sharp and towering like Mount Everest itself.

“I asked if you’re a chicken, Miss Mary Sue.” Clarisse placed her hands firmly on her hips, tilting her body to draw attention to the crimson bikini that clung to her curves. Her words cut deeper than the sea breeze. “I thought you were flawless, untouchable even. But no—you only fight when it’s convenient for you.”

“Try moving that jaw and you’ll never move it again.” Myrrh smiled — but it was a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Blue veins pulsed at her temples and her fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles whitening with the kind of readiness that promised a fight.

“Just admit it. You don’t want to be beaten by me. Again.” Clarisse’s smirk was slow and satisfied, like someone enjoying the last piece of a prize.

“I’ll take you on then!” Myrrh’s voice cut across the sand like a bell. “You can bring your cheater boyfriend — I’ll bring mine!”

She folded herself against my arm in a quick, possessive hug. The pressure of her chest against my bicep was warm and surprisingly solid; under different circumstances I might’ve noticed how it felt, but the sting of her words left little room for anything but irritation.

“Wait—am I a cheater boyfriend too?” I blurted, caught between indignation and the absurdity of the accusation.

“Haha! Your goon is hilarious!” Clarisse barked, laughter sharp as broken shells. “At least he has a sense of humor — unlike you.”

“Let’s see that grin after I beat you and your cheater boyfriend,” she added, voice lowering into a dangerous purr, “in beach volleyball.”

They marched over to Hazel together, drama in tow, and asked to schedule an “exhibition” beach-volleyball match. Hazel raised an eyebrow but waved them on — the real team agreed to stand down, making room for our little spectacle. The whole beach transformed into a stadium: folding chairs lined the sand, umbrellas bobbed like brightly colored flags, and every laugh and shout from the birthday party felt like collective percussion tuned to our names. Even my classmates had shown up, faces bright with curiosity and mischief.

“Go, Zaft! You can do it!” John called, voice cracking with enthusiasm.

“Go make a slam dunk or an uppercut or something!” Jeffrey teased, grinning like he’d already seen the highlight reel.

I forced a wry half-smile. “I’m not even sure you know what volleyball is, Jeff, but same.” My voice clipped off into a mumble. My thoughts drifted to Myrrh — what on earth was she scheming now?

“Don’t worry, Zaft. I’ll carry this.” Myrrh’s assurance was casual but solid, like a rope thrown when you’re about to fall. “It’s just a basic skill.” Her smile was the kind that bent sunlight into plans.

“Fine.” I exhaled, settling into the low, ready stance of someone about to get sand in every crevice. The crowd’s chatter compressed into a steady drumbeat in my ribs. “What’s our play?”

“Block, set, and then I’ll spike,” Myrrh said, eyes flashing with a half-demonic, half-charming grin. “I’ll aim for faces.” Her words landed like a dare — equal parts promise and provocation — and the beach seemed to lean in with us, waiting.

“I don’t think you know how to play beach volleyball either,” I muttered under my breath, the words barely audible beneath the restless murmur of the crowd.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle split the air. All heads turned. Hazel — the birthday girl herself — stood at the sideline like some self-appointed empress of the court. She wasn’t just holding a whistle; she had armed herself with a mic and a loudspeaker, determined to make this ridiculous match sound like a pay-per-view event.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Hazel’s voice thundered across the beach. “Welcome to the main event of the morning!” She pointed dramatically toward the other side. “In the red corner, we have the Gary Stu of our high school, the prince charming of every girl on campus — Ephraim Park! And by his side, freshly rehabbed and newly glowed-up, Clarisse Trystgade!”

The crowd whistled and whooped.

Hazel’s eyes then swiveled toward us. “And in the blue corner, the so-called Miss Perfect of our high school — singer, dancer, fighter, and all-around goddess — Myrrh Alicent! And teaming with her, the lowly first-level ruffian she picked up from the back alley… Zaft Callahan!”

The cheers exploded again. I, however, felt a vein pop in my forehead. Seriously? She praises that junkie girl for her glow-up but introduces me like some mangy stray?

Why am I even here? I thought bitterly. This isn’t my fight! I should be kicking back with John and Jeffrey, watching bikini babes stroll by, not standing here like a sacrificial pawn in Myrrh’s drama!

Hazel raised her hand, theatrics brimming. “This, my dear guests, is not just a volleyball match! This is a battle to save the world! Ex-boyfriend versus new boyfriend! Ex-girlfriend versus new girlfriend! The heated rivalry of the decade!” Her voice pitched higher and higher. “And now… LEEEEEET’S GET READY TO RUMBLEEEEE!”

The beach erupted with cheers, the sound crashing like waves against the shore.

Another whistle pierced the noise. The match had begun.

On the opposite side, Ephraim stepped forward with perfect posture and an irritatingly confident smirk. He tossed the ball high, muscles tensing as he smacked it with practiced grace. The ball soared overhead like a cannon shot.

“Hyaaa!” Myrrh leapt, her body cutting clean through the air. She rose higher than seemed possible, ponytail whipping like a banner, then swung her arm down with the fury of a storm, aiming for an immediate spike.

Instead of keeping my head in the game, my traitorous “gooner genes” switched on. My focus drifted from the ball to Myrrh’s chest as she landed gracefully on the sand, her white bra swimsuit framing her curves in a way that was criminally distracting. The sight bounced in slow motion in my mind, my eyes shamelessly glued.

She caught me staring. Myrrh’s cheeks flushed pink, though that didn’t stop her from snapping, “Zaft, pay attention!”

Her words yanked my head back toward the game—just in time to be too late.

SMACK!

Clarisse had already launched a savage return spike. The ball screamed across the net like a homing missile, and before I could even raise my arms— WHAM!

“Gwack!”

The world went black. Pain bloomed at the center of my forehead, sharp but fleeting. My legs gave way, and I collapsed backward, butt first into the soft sand. I sprawled there like a boxer flattened in the first round.

The audience gasped in unison. A wave of voices rolled over me—

“Oooh!”

“Ouch!”

And from somewhere in the crowd, a triumphant, “BOOM!” Follow current novels on ɴovelfire.net

Groaning, I cracked my eyes open. For a moment, I thought I had died. Heaven had arrived in the form of two generous shapes bouncing above me. Myrrh knelt close, her shadow falling over me, her long ponytail brushing forward as her piercing blue eyes searched my face.

“Zaft, are you alright? Oh no—you’re bleeding!” Her voice trembled between worry and frustration.

I raised a hand to my forehead. Warm liquid trickled down my skin, staining my fingers red. I blinked at the sight of blood. Not much, but enough to look dramatic. The strange part was—it barely hurt. Just a dull throb, nothing more. Weird…

“I’m okay,” I mumbled, more to reassure myself than her.

“You’re not! You need to go to the hospital!” Myrrh’s voice snapped, high and sharp with panic. “You need a doctor—now!” Her words jittered through the air like broken glass.

Before I could argue, another groan cut through the commotion.

“Aaaah!” Ephraim doubled over on the white sand, one hand clutching his calf. He slid to a sitting position, face contorted. “C-cramps—!”

“Ephraim!” Clarisse was instantly at his side, worry splintering her smug facade. She pressed a hand to his leg, fingers probing like she expected to find the problem beneath the skin. “You’re hurt—this is bad!”

Myrrh’s eyes flicked toward them for the briefest second. The hard line at the corner of her mouth softened; she breathed his name so quietly I might’ve imagined it. The worry that crossed her face was real, thin as smoke but unmistakable. Twelve years of shared history doesn’t burn out overnight—old embers remain, and they flare when the person you once loved is in pain.

“I—I’m fine,” Ephraim insisted through gritted teeth, trying to stand. “Take Zaft to the hospital first.” His voice trembled with forced composure.

“How can you say you’re fine?” Clarisse snapped, panic turning into accusation. “You told me about those post-injury cramps from the basketball club last year—this isn’t nothing!” She prodded his calf again, more urgent now.

I glanced at Myrrh. Her jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as if weighing two impossible choices. I leaned in, my whisper quiet but blunt. “Myrrh, don’t just stand there. Get Ephraim to the hospital. Rekindle whatever you have left.”

Her face tightened, emotion and duty colliding like waves. The whole beach seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see which ember would be fanned into flame.

“Zaft…” Myrrh’s voice cracked, my name trembling off her lips. Her eyes shimmered, tears threatening to spill as the weight of the moment pressed down on her.

For a heartbeat, I thought she’d run to Ephraim. But then—she shook her head, a sharp denial, strands of her ponytail whipping across her cheek.

“Ephraim, the hospital’s close by!” she snapped, turning toward him with a strange mix of worry and defiance. “Get a cab and go yourself!”

Before Ephraim or Clarisse could answer, Myrrh slipped an arm under mine and pulled me to my feet with surprising strength. Her grip was firm, steady, and hot with urgency. “Come on, Zaft. Hurry, we’re leaving!”

The crowd, which had been buzzing like flies around a bonfire, broke into scattered murmurs. And at the sidelines, Hazel — birthday girl, referee, and now unwilling babysitter to this chaos — finally lost her patience.

She slammed the whistle against her lips, blowing so loud it cut the tension like a blade. “Are you guys serious right now?” Hazel barked into the mic, her voice amplified across the beach. “It’s a hospital, not a love triangle! Just go together already!”

Her irritation rolled over the crowd like thunder, but somehow, that only made the drama feel even more absurd.