Invisible To Her Bully

Noah

Most people think I’ve got it easy.

They see the jersey, the captain’s armband, the girls who slide notes into my locker, the teachers who cut me slack because I’m “leading the team this season.” They see the highlight reels, the touchdowns, the swagger.

And yeah, I play into it. Why wouldn’t I? That image has kept me on top since freshman year.

But what they don’t see—the part I’d never admit out loud—is that the best part of my day isn’t the touchdowns. It’s not the cheers, or even the wins.

It’s Jessa Lombardi’s face when I get under her skin.

I shouldn’t find it that entertaining. She’s Jackson’s twin, for one. Which means technically, she’s off-limits. But God, she makes it too easy. The way her cheeks flush, the way she slams things down or throws out these sharp little comebacks—Jessa’s like one giant exposed nerve. Sensitive as hell.

And I like testing how far I can push before she snaps.

Take this morning, for example.

Jackson and I were heading to practice, but I swung by his place first. Walking into their kitchen always feels… weird. I don’t know why. Maybe because I can practically feel how much Jessa doesn’t want me there.

She was standing at the counter, spreading butter on toast like it had personally offended her. Oversized T-shirt, messy hair, bare feet curling against the tile. For a second, I almost didn’t say anything.

Almost.

“Morning, sunshine,” I tossed out, leaning in the doorway.

The way her shoulders stiffened—it was instant gratification. Like watching a fire catch.

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, eyes on her plate.

“What? Thought you’d like a nickname.”

She rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard them click.

Jackson laughed, completely oblivious. “Ignore her, bro.”

I didn’t ignore her, of course. Couldn’t. I never do. Instead, I spotted the toast and couldn’t resist. “Extra butter again?”

She slammed the knife down like she wanted to stab me with it.

“Seriously? Do you ever get tired of commenting on what I eat?”

And just like that, my day was made. That flare of anger in her eyes, the way her voice cracked on ever. She didn’t realize it, but she was giving me exactly what I wanted.

Attention.

Here’s the thing: Jessa doesn’t understand me. She thinks I pick on her just to be a jerk, or because I’ve got nothing better to do. But the truth? It’s not that simple.

I notice her.

More than I should.

And noticing her—really noticing her—is dangerous.

Because Jessa’s not like the other girls who throw themselves at me. She doesn’t giggle when I walk by or bat her lashes hoping I’ll toss her a grin. She doesn’t want anything from me.

Except maybe for me to disappear.

And that makes me want to poke, prod, irritate. It makes me want her to look at me, even if it’s with fire in her eyes. Because when she’s angry at me, at least she’s seeing me.

At school, it’s even better.

In the cafeteria, Jackson and I had the whole team cracking up over stupid inside jokes when I spotted her sitting with Mariah. Always the far table, always head down, like she’s hoping to disappear.

But I don’t let her disappear.

“Hey, Jackson!” I yelled across the room. “Better hide your food or Jess will eat it all before you blink.”

The table erupted. Perfect.

I caught the way her shoulders hunched, the way her hand froze halfway to her mouth. She didn’t look up, but I knew she heard me. Knew she felt the sting.

And yeah, maybe that makes me an asshole. But there’s something about her silence that gets to me. Like she’s holding all this emotion inside, and I’m the only one who knows how to drag it out of her.

Jackson doesn’t get it. To him, Jessa’s just… Jessa. His twin, his shadow, the sister he doesn’t think twice about. He doesn’t notice the way she winces when people whisper, or the way she pulls her hoodie tighter like armor.

But I do.

I see it.

And sometimes I wonder if that’s why I keep poking—because if I don’t, maybe no one would notice her at all.

Practice that afternoon should’ve wiped Jessa from my brain. It usually does. Once I’m on the field, nothing else matters. The snap of the ball, the crunch of pads, the roar of the guys—it drowns everything out.

But not today.

Today, when I closed my eyes, all I saw was the way she glared at me over her toast, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing.

And then—God help me—the way her gaze flickered over me. She thought she was subtle, but I caught it. The way her eyes lingered on my shoulders, my chest.

She thinks I don’t notice, but I do.

And that thought sticks with me longer than I’d like.

That night, lying in bed, I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Jessa’s sensitive, that’s all. She reacts to me because I push her buttons. If she didn’t, I’d probably lose interest.

Except… I’m not losing interest.

If anything, I’m hooked.

I want to know how far I can push before she finally snaps. Before she lets me see the fire I know she’s hiding.

I want to know if that fire burns as hot when it’s not anger.

The next morning, I catch her staring again.

She doesn’t realize it—I’m laughing at something Jackson said, tilting my head back, and when I glance over, her eyes are on me. Not in hate. Not in anger. Just… watching.

And for one insane second, it feels like she sees me. Not the quarterback. Not Jackson’s best friend. Not the jerk who won’t leave her alone.

Just me.

Our eyes lock, and the air shifts. She looks caught, like a deer in headlights.

For once, I don’t smirk. For once, I just look back.

But then panic kicks in, and I cover it with a grin. “Like what you see, Sunshine?”

Her face flames. “In your dreams.”

But I heard the hitch in her breath. I saw the way she couldn’t look away fast enough.

And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.

Because tormenting Jessa Lombardi isn’t just a game anymore.

It’s an addiction.

And sooner or later, it’s going to blow up in my face.