The headlock heir and his napkin wife

Chapter 1: The Headlock I Saw Coming

POV: POPPY CARTER

I knew Jax was going to put Asher in a headlock exactly seven seconds before it happened.

Seventeen years of shared hospital nurseries, sandbox tantrums, and backseat road trip fights had given me a sixth sense for their chaos. We were at the last junior year pep rally of the fall, the Cape Cod Academy gym reeking of burnt popcorn and floor wax, and Asher Hale was currently hanging off the top bleacher rail like he had a death wish, yelling so loud his voice cracked.

"WATCH THIS SLOANE!" he screamed, pumping a fist at the cheer platform. "TWO FULL ROTATIONS! YOU'LL FORGET JAX EVEN EXISTS!"

Next to him, Jaxon "Jax" Reed-six-foot-four, two hundred and fifty pounds of football linebacker chaos, one shared brain cell that only fired for cheese puffs and his secret situationship with Sloane-whooped so loud the freshman next to me dropped her soda. "NAIL IT! AND IF YOU FACEPLANT I'M TAKING A PHOTO FOR THE FAMILY CHRISTMAS CARD!"

I tightened my grip on the pink glitter diary tucked in my uniform skirt pocket, already mentally counting. Seven... six... five...

Asher launched.

He flipped one and a half clean rotations, sneakers catching the golden gym light, and for half a second I thought he might actually pull off the dumb trick he'd practiced face-planting eleven times in his backyard the week before. Then his left shoe caught the rusted bleacher rail.

He went down like a sack of wet concrete.

Landed flat on his back in a mud puddle someone had tracked in by the gym doors, navy basketball hoodie soaked, messy brown hair full of dirt. The entire gym went dead silent.

Then Sloane Marlowe leaned over the cheer platform, popped a piece of gum, and yelled sharp enough to cut glass: "Cool flip, shrimp. Next time land on your face less. Also you have a Cheeto stuck in your eyebrow."

The room exploded.

Asher scrambled up, face turning the color of a stop sign, and tried to play it cool by leaning against a locker. He tripped over a freshman's backpack and nearly took out an entire row of middle schoolers.

Three... two... one.

Jax struck.

He materialized out of the crowd like a chaotic blonde tornado, one massive arm locking tight around Asher's neck, yanking him into a headlock so firm Asher's eyes bulged. He noogied the top of his hair so hard it looked like a bird had nested in it, cackling over the roar of laughter.

"LOVE YOU BRO! ALSO YOU'RE BEING A TOTAL IDIOT! THAT'S THREE EIGHTY-SEVEN!"

Asher flailed, kicking his feet, choking out protests that came out half-gasp half-yell. "LET GO-MY HAIR-MY PERFECT CALC SCORE-"

"PERFECT CALC SCORE MY FOOT," Jax roared, giving him an extra shake. "YOU GOT A HUNDRED? I COPIED YOUR EXACT ANSWERS LAST WEEK AND GOT A D. YOU CHANGED THE LAST THREE TO WRONG ONES DIDN'T YOU YOU SNEAKY GENIUS-"

I was already moving before Jax let him go. I dug the cold lemon Gatorade (extra sugar, his favorite, memorized in fifth grade after he'd gotten heat exhaustion at a playoff game) and the tiny boar-bristle brush I kept in my backpack exclusively for this exact moment out of my bag, and was waiting by the bleachers when Jax finally released him, snickering and tapping a tally into his phone. I knew the note well: OFFICIAL JAX REED HEADLOCK TALLY, every entry logged with a timestamp and reason. This one would be filed under 387: Tried to backflip for Sloane. Landed in mud. Cheeto in eyebrow included. Also hid his genius calc score again.

Asher sputtered, swatting at his hair, face still bright red. "Dude I almost had her! One more try-"

"One more try and you'll break your neck," Sloane said, sauntering over, ponytail swinging. A lanky senior with a varsity jacket and a bouquet of cheap roses stepped in front of her before she could finish, chest puffed out like a peacock.

"Sloane," he said, voice cracking. "I've liked you since freshman year. Will you go to prom with me?"

The whole hallway went quiet. Sloane blinked at him once, then looked him up and down like he was a moldy sandwich she'd found in the back of her fridge.

"I'd rather date the moldy pizza that's been in my locker since last month than you," she said, deadpan. "Also your sneakers look like they fought a lawnmower and lost. Bye."

The senior's face crumpled. He stuffed the roses in a trash can and practically ran down the hall. Jax snickered, slinging an arm over her shoulders-they'd been sneaking around behind the football field for two weeks, a secret only I knew, because Sloane texted me every time Jax tried to hold her hand and squeezed so hard he cut off her circulation.

Asher deflated like a punctured basketball next to me, flopping onto the bleacher so hard the whole row shook. "Does she hate me?" he mumbled into his hands.

"No," I said, which was mostly a lie. Sloane didn't hate him. She just thought he was a walking disaster area who'd been pining after her since eighth grade while the girl who'd loved him since birth sat two feet away fixing his hair every other day. I popped the Gatorade cap and handed it to him, then gently brushed the mud and Cheeto crumbs out of his hair with the brush. "She just has bad taste."

He chugged half the bottle in one go, then grinned at me-that lopsided, too-bright smirk that had been making my heart do backflips since we were seven and he'd pushed a third grader off the swing set for calling my pigtails stupid. "You're the best, Pops. Seriously. What would I do without you?"

Marry you. Have your babies. Press four hundred more tiny white roses into my diary. Run our dads' companies together when we're old.

"Probably fail algebra," I said instead, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Also get your head stuck in a vending machine again. Also trip over more backpacks."

Before he could argue, the principal tapped the mic on the stage, clearing his throat so loud the speakers crackled. The noise died to a murmur.

"ALRIGHT ALRIGHT SETTLE DOWN!" he yelled. "TIME FOR OUR FIRST HONOR ROLL ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE SEMESTER! YOUR TOP FOUR RANKED JUNIORS-COMBINED GPA HIGHER THAN THE SCHOOL'S ANNUAL BUDGET!"

Everyone murmured, expecting the usual crew: the quiet kids who sat front row, brought extra pencils, never spoke unless called on.

The principal adjusted his glasses. "FOURTH PLACE, 3.98-OUR STARTING LINEBACKER, JAXON REED!"

Silence.

Then Jax screamed so loud the rafters rattled: "NO WAY THAT'S RIGGED. I GOT A D ON MY BIO QUIZ LAST WEEK. WHO DID YOU PAY-"

"NO MISTAKE MR. REED," the principal snort-laughed. "EXTRA CREDIT ON YOUR SCIENCE FAIR PROJECT BUMPED YOU UP. THIRD PLACE, PERFECT 4.0-OUR ART PRODIGY, POPPY CARTER!"

My face warmed as the people around me cheered. I waved small, pressing my diary tighter to my hip. I'd known I'd place, but I still hated the attention.

"SECOND PLACE, 4.02-CHEER CAPTAIN, SLOANE MARLOWE!"

Sloane blew a dramatic kiss to the crowd, flipping her ponytail like she'd just won an Oscar.

"AND FIRST PLACE," the principal paused for effect, grinning, "PERFECT 4.0 ACROSS EVERY AP CLASS, OUR VARSITY BASKETBALL CAPTAIN, THE BOY WHO ALMOST BURNED DOWN THE HOME EC WING LAST WEEK-ASHER HALE!"

The silence lasted three full seconds.

Then the gym screamed so loud the bleachers shook.

Asher just shrugged, like acing every advanced class while acting like he had two brain cells was no big deal. It was his brand: hide the genius, lean into the silly jock act, so no one looked at him like he was just the heir to Hale Industries, not a real kid. Jax stared at him, mouth hanging open, then shoved his shoulder so hard Asher nearly fell off the bleacher.

"WAIT A SECOND," Jax squawked. "YOU HID THIS FROM ME? ALL THOSE TIMES YOU ASKED ME TO HELP YOU 'STUDY' YOU WERE ALREADY ACING EVERYTHING? I OWE YOU TWENTY BUCKS FROM THE BET THAT YOU'D FAIL CHEM-"

"Not my fault you don't pay attention," Asher snickered, unscrewing the Gatorade cap again. I bit my lip to hide a smile. I'd known about his grades for years, of course. I was the only one he let see his report cards, the only one who knew he stayed up till two in the morning reading aerospace textbooks for fun, then slept through first period so everyone thought he was just a lazy athlete.

By the time the bell rang, the whole school was still talking about it. We walked down the hall to our lockers in a pack, Asher still getting clapped on the back by random seniors, Jax still complaining about being scammed out of twenty dollars. When Asher spun his locker dial and yanked the door open, an avalanche spilled out.

Pink envelopes. Perfumed letters. Three chocolate cakes in Tupperware. A giant teddy bear wearing a tiny basketball jersey with his number on it. A fifty-dollar mall gift card.

He stared at the pile for a beat, then kicked a letter across the floor. "What on earth is all this."

Sloane opened her locker, and even more poured out-roses, jewelry, a handwritten poem that started with Your eyes are like the Atlantic. Mine was stuffed too, mostly shy notes from boys too scared to talk to me out loud, and Jax's had a cooler full of protein shakes someone had left with a note that said For the strongest man in school <3.

We counted it all on the hallway floor: seventeen love letters total, three cakes, eight gift cards, two teddy bears, one cooler of protein shakes, and a hand-knit scarf in school colors for Asher.

Asher stared at the mountain of confessions, then slowly turned to Jax, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Bet you fifty bucks," he said, "I reject more people than you by Friday. Loser buys a whole month of the good flamin' hot cheese puffs. The big bags. And we print official rejection certificates. Tiered ones. Platinum Friend Zone. Gold 'I'm Already In Love With Someone Else'. Your personal favorite: Sorry You're Shorter Than My Bicep."

Jax slammed his hand on the linoleum so hard a nearby freshman jumped. "DEAL. BUT IF YOU LEAD ANYONE ON I DOCK YOU POINTS. AND I GET TO DESIGN THE CERTIFICATES."

I shook my head, smiling as I tucked a shy sophomore's letter into my diary-I'd write a few lines about Asher's smirk later, like I did every night, and press another tiny white rose between the pages. Sloane snort-laughed, leaning against the lockers.

"You two are actual children," she said. "Also? If either of you rejects that quiet poetry kid from AP Lit-the one with the curly hair and vintage sweaters-I will hide all of your jerseys in the boys' shower drain. Don't test me."

Asher laughed, reaching down to grab a Tupperware of chocolate cake from his pile. His hand brushed a crumpled white envelope tucked under the container, no stamp, no name, just his handwriting scrawled across the front in messy block letters.

He frowned, picking it up, and tore it open.

I leaned over his shoulder to read it, and my blood turned to ice.

Your dad should've sold Hale Industries when he had the chance. You're next.

No signature. No explanation. Just ten cold words that made the noise of the hallway fade to a dull buzz. Asher's jaw tightened for half a second-just a flicker, the only sign he was scared-then he folded the note small, shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans, and grabbed the cake, grinning like he hadn't just read a death threat.

"Hey Pops," he said, nudging my arm with his elbow, like nothing was wrong. "You're the nice one. Help me practice my rejection lines tonight? I don't wanna make anyone cry. Well, not too much."

I stared at the pocket where he'd hidden the note, my stomach twisting so tight I could barely breathe. I knew that look. The one where he decided he was going to handle something scary alone, no help, no telling anyone, because he thought being the heir meant he had to be the strong one all the time.

I slipped my hand into my skirt pocket, wrapping my fingers around my diary, and forced a small smile.

"Sure," I said. "I'll help."

I had no idea then that the note wasn't just some stupid prank.

It was the first crack in the perfect, silly, chaotic life I'd spent seventeen years loving.

And it was only going to get worse from here.

End of Chapter 1