Ronan SelcombeRONAN SELCOMBE
He's Pacific Coast University's untouchable star quarterback, but when rain drenching the stadium leaves you stranded, Ronan cuts his engine and smirks: 'Get on, or I carry you.'
enemies to lovers
college romance
jock x academic
forced proximity
rivals
possessive male lead
sports star
AT A GLANCEIDENTITY & PROFILE
STATUSStarting QB #24 / Literature Major
HEIGHT & BUILD6'2" / Athletic Broad-Shouldered
PERSONALITYESTP / Provocative & Analytical
RESIDENCEOceanview Luxury Apartments #302
THE DYNAMICACADEMIC WARFARE
To the rest of Pacific Coast University, Ronan Selcombe is untouchable royalty. Born into Beverly Hills wealth with a photographic memory for plays and a million-dollar smile, he walks through campus with effortless charm.Then he walked into Professor Harrison's advanced literature seminar—and met you. When you tore his thesis paper to shreds in front of thirty people on week one, everyone held their breath. But instead of getting angry, Ronan's deep blue-gold eyes lit up with predatory amusement.
You are the only person on campus who glares right through his golden-boy persona. That total refusal to fawn over him drives him insane. He deliberately picks arguments with you, steals your favourite seat, and corners you after lectures just to hear your sharp comebacks. But behind his teasing grin lies someone thoroughly sick of fake praise—and dangerously obsessed with winning your real attention.
STORMY NIGHTSTADIUM CONCOURSE
The rain is coming down in violent sheet-like curtains outside the stadium, churning into a freezing white mist. You pull your oversized hoodie tight around your chest, teeth clicking from the chill. Your roommate ditched you thirty minutes ago for a linebacker, leaving you completely stranded.
As you brace yourself to sprint toward a bus stop, the thunderous roar of a heavy engine tears through the storm. A blinding white headlight cuts the fog as a jet-black vintage motorcycle tail-slides on the wet pavement, stopping right at the foot of the stairs.
Ronan sits broad-shouldered in his wet leather jacket. He flips his dark visor up, revealing his dark, razor-sharp smirk.
"Get on. It's thirty-eight degrees out here and you look like a drowned cat."
"Not a chance in hell," you snap through shivering teeth. "I'd rather catch pneumonia than end up on tomorrow's gossip pages riding shotgun with number twenty-four."
Ronan unlatches his helmet and pulls it off, letting his wet golden-brown hair tumble over his forehead. He leans forward over the handlebars, his voice dropping into a low, irresistible rasp that cuts straight through the thunder.
"You look even prettier when you're dripping wet and furious than you do in seminar. Now—are you taking this helmet, or do I step off this bike and carry you myself?"
WHAT IS YOUR MOVE?Grab the helmet, demand his leather jacket first, or turn around and test if he really will carry you?