Part 1His Three Secret Girlfriends Are Me

To pull the campus golden boy off his pedestal, I created three separate burner accounts to date him online. My plan was simple: make him fall head over heels, then shatter his heart into a million pieces.

Account No. 1 was the "Sweetheart" — high-pitched, needy, and constantly whining about her "tummy rumbling" until he’d Venmo me for UberEats.

Account No. 2 was the "Pro-Gamer" — a cold-blooded assassin in League of Legends who carried his sorry ass through matches while teasing him for being a "cute little noob."

Account No. 3 was the "Sugar Mommy" — an older, wealthy woman who threw money at him just to coax out spicy voice notes and shirtless gym selfies.

And then, one night, the floor fell out from under me.

To prove to a room full of people that he actually had a girlfriend, the "golden boy" put his phone on speaker and dialed.

A second later, my pocket erupted.

"Honey-bunny is calling! Honey-bunny is calling!"

The ringtone blared, relentless and shrill.

The entire room went deathly silent.

I stood there, frozen: Well, shit. I played myself.

* * *

The referee’s whistle cut through the air, signaling the end of the game. Our varsity team had sunk a buzzer-beater three-pointer in the final second.

As the crowd erupted in a deafening roar, I was still sitting in the bleachers, staring into space.

"Wren, aren't you going to go give Bradley his water? Move it!"

My best friend, Piper, nudged me with a wicked grin.

"That last shot was Nate Miller’s. God, he’s hot, right? I saw you staring. Admit it—is he hotter than your 'God of Basketball' Bradley or what?"

"Not even close," I shot back instinctively, grabbing the chilled bottle of Fiji water and heading down the stairs.

Today was a scrimmage against a rival college. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal, and I’d only shown up to support Bradley. But for some reason, Nate Miller—the department’s resident heartthrob—had signed up for this game too.

The second the girls in our year heard Nate was playing, they organized a cheering squad like it was the NBA Finals. From the moment he stepped onto the court, the screaming hadn't stopped.

It was terrifying, honestly.

I sighed, feeling a pang of pity for my "God." In every academic competition in our department, Bradley always seemed to fall just a hair behind Nate, forever relegated to second place. Now, Nate wouldn't even let him have the spotlight in a measly scrimmage.

Does the guy have a Main Character syndrome or something?

Down on the court, Nate was already swamped by a mob of girls begging for selfies. Bradley stood in the corner, laughing and chatting with his teammates, looking heartbreakingly sidelined.

Piper was still buzzing in my ear. "I seriously don't get why you have such a massive chip on your shoulder when it comes to Nate. And this 'Evil Catfishing Scheme' of yours? It's unhinged, Wren."

I clamped my hand over her mouth.

If Nate Miller ever found out I was running three different personas just to mess with him, I’d be the lead story on the campus news by morning.

Bradley spotted me and looked surprised. "Wren! You actually came to watch?"

I gave him my best shy smile. "I came specifically to see you play, Bradley."

He chuckled, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. "I didn't think anyone was watching me today."

Poor guy. Nate had sucked the confidence right out of him.

I looked at Bradley with soft eyes, completely oblivious to the world, and held out the water. "Bradley, I got this for—"

Before I could finish, a pale, long-fingered hand reached out and snatched the bottle right out of my grasp.

Me: "?"