Rejecting My Mate Who Took Me As A Stand-In

The next few days, Brandon was stuck in the hospital, but I didn't visit.

I was sipping coffee when I scrolled past Ashley's post on my phone.

She was wearing a delicate collarbone ring, captioned,

"Love paid for with a life-I'll take it~" My finger paused, then swiped past it, calm as ever.

My visa was set, plane tickets booked for Four days from now.

I'd been running around, picking out gifts for Daniel-stuff I thought he'd like.

I chose each one carefully, like I was making up for all the years I'd missed with the wrong wolf.

Lugging bags of gifts back home, I pushed open the door and froze.

Brandon was sprawled on the couch.

I blinked, then played it cool. "You're back?"

He looked up, his brow creasing slightly.

He'd been in the hospital for days, and I hadn't shown up-not even a call.

My chat thread with him was dead silent. Seeing me so unfazed now, his chest seemed to tighten.

"You knew I was in the hospital?" His voice was low, edged.

"Yup," I said, setting the shopping bags by the entryway. "What's up?"

"Why didn't you visit?"

"Work's been crazy."

He stared at my back as I turned away, his fingers absently rubbing the armrest.

Work was always crazy, but I'd always put him first before-dropped everything for him. His eyes landed on the bags, all men's stuff.

For me? I could almost hear him wonder.

Then I asked, "You got banged up pretty bad. How're you out so soon?"

"Tomorrow's the global tournament," he said, locking eyes with me. "Hannah, you're coming with me."

I froze.

Brandon was the golden wolf of Argentum Town, born with a silver spoon but chasing esports instead of the family empire.

With millions of fans, he was a legit gaming god.

Tomorrow's match was his shot at a grand slam-the peak of his career.

His dream.

And I'd been his biggest cheerleader.

When he first went pro, the entire Hayes pack, including his grandpa Walter, tried to shut him down.

We'd just gotten together back then, and I showed up at Walter's with a bottle of whiskey.

No one knows what I said, but after that, the Hayes pack never stood in Brandon's way again.

He asked me once,

"Why'd you fight for me? Don't you think I'm just screwing around?"

"Doing what you love isn't screwing around," I'd told him, poking his dimple with a grin.

"I'm kinda jealous of you dream-chasers. My dream's just making bank now, but since my mate's got a dream, I'm happy for you."

After that, he insisted I be at every match.

No matter how slammed I was-billion-dollar deals on the line-I'd be in the stands, cheering. But this time, I shook my head. "I'm not going."

Brandon froze, disbelief flashing across his face. That uneasy feeling in him stirred again. "No, you have to come." He grabbed my wrist.

"Is it that Northside project? Hayes has a stake in it. I'll get them to ease up, handle any roadblocks. Just come to the match with me."

I hesitated, then nodded. "Fine."

He let out a relieved breath.

The next day, the arena was a zoo-fans packed in, waving glow signs, chanting "Brandon for the grand slam!" It was his dream, and theirs too.

At the venue, I said, "Go ahead, I'll park."

Brandon got out, but I noticed his phone left on the seat. As I picked it up, the screen lit up. A message from Ashley:

"Brandon, I'm here for your match too! Second condition: I wanna see you fall from grace. Throw the game-give away eleven kills. Lose it, okay?"

My heart lurched.

Before I could process, Brandon doubled back for his phone. He saw the message, his face twitching briefly before smoothing out. He grabbed the phone and started to leave, but I stopped him.

"Brandon," I said, voice steady, "good luck getting that grand slam."

Don't be an idiot.

He paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I will."

Inside the arena, the crowd's cheers were deafening.

On the big screen, Brandon's face loomed larger than life-black jacket, headset on, sharp nose, chiseled brow, those reckless eyes that made fans scream. He was heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

But I saw what they didn't. His fingers tapped the keyboard nervously, his throat bobbing.

I knew what he was wrestling with.

The game started.

Then-

One.

Two.

Four.

...

Eleven. He walked straight into the enemy's trap, screen going gray.

Eleven kills, handed over on purpose.

The crowd gasped. The commentator went silent. Fans stared, stunned, some smashing their signs in rage.

The match was lost.