Love Score

Neon lights bled across the glass façade like a river of blood. She rose onto her toes to kiss him, her fingertips still dusted with fragments of tennis racket grip tape. “I want you.” Her voice was soft—a feather drifting into his ear canal. He didn’t speak. Just cradled the nape of her neck and crushed the unspoken words—*Don’t regret this*—between their lips. —But the next morning, as dawn pierced the curtains, she stood before the school’s administrative bulletin board, pinned at the center of the “Exemplary Stories of Annual Scholarship Recipients” display. The photo was candid: her head bent to tie her shoelaces, skirt lifting slightly in an unseen breeze, strands of hair falling across her cheek—like a lily-of-the-valley bowed by wind but not broken. Beneath the photo, a handwritten note was taped crookedly, its script bold and mocking: **[Charity Case — Recommended Viewing]** She turned—and there he was: Chen Yan, leaning against the doorframe. Fresh off the court, his damp T-shirt clung to his shoulder blades. A silver coin spun lazily between his fingers. His gaze was cold—like a blade pulled from ice. “You don’t belong here.” He smiled faintly, catching the coin in his palm. “This school admitted you—not because you’re exceptional. It’s because they’re terrified the gymnasium roof will collapse and kill someone once your father pulls his funding.” She didn’t blink. Just folded her scholarship application neatly and slid it into the sweat-damp front of his shirt. “Then please, Mr. Chen, pass it along. And thank your mother for me—last month’s three maxed-out credit cards covered next semester’s lab supplies.” Silence fell—three full seconds. Then—the tennis court exploded. She’d just swung a backhand when the racket string snapped. Splinters of wood flew—not an accident. The security footage revealed seven precise, shallow cuts scored into the inner grip with a utility knife—waiting for the exact moment she’d torque her wrist and send it flying apart. No one reached out to help. Until Chen Yan crouched down, picked up the fractured racket, and brushed his thumb over the split, bleeding fissure on her knuckle. “Does it hurt?” She yanked her hand back. “Don’t waste your pity on me, Mr. Chen.” He laughed—suddenly, sharply—and slammed the broken racket onto the ground. The metallic clang vibrated in their teeth. “Who said I came to help you?” —That night, at the party, the champagne tower blazed like daylight. She wove through the crowd, juice glass in hand—when butter rained from above: thick, salty-sweet, scalding. Laughter erupted. And beneath it, she heard the tremor of her own eyelashes. Just as she lifted her hand to wipe her face—strong fingers seized her wrist. Bone-deep pressure, like he might grind it to dust. Chen Yan dragged her into the fire exit stairwell and slammed the door shut behind them. Darkness swallowed them. His breath was heavy, ragged. The third button of his shirt had popped open, revealing an old scar tracing the hollow beneath his collarbone. “That juice,” he rasped, “I tasted it first.” She scoffed. “Afraid I’d poison it?” “Afraid you’d get drunk.” His thumb swiped slowly across her lower lip, still slick with butter. “Drunk enough to believe *them*—that you traded your body for tuition.” She jerked her head up. His eyes held no mockery—only ash, deep and spent… and beneath it, embers refusing to die. A knock rattled the door. “Yan-ge!” Lin Wei’s voice—sweet, teasing, edged with playful reproach—filtered through the crack. “Been looking *everywhere* for you~” A hand slipped under the door—nails painted wine-red—light and deliberate, resting on his forearm. Chen Yan didn’t move. He only looked down at her, slow and certain, and said, each word carved like stone: “Now—who do you trust?” Daphne, a poor but gifted tennis player, earns a place at a rich university and clashes with spoiled star Jackson. Hate turns into forbidden romance—but his dangerous bet could destroy her future.