TEMPTATION'S TANGLE: A High School Game

Why this Book

Temptation’s Tangle: The High School Game

Some rivalries run deeper than competition.

Swan City is a battleground—on the soccer field, on the cheer squad, in the hallways where glances linger and unspoken challenges simmer beneath the surface. When Ivy and Carlo are paired for a school project, they never expect it to unravel more than just their academic ambitions. Their chemistry is undeniable, but so are the obstacles in their way—her boyfriend, his past, and a world that demands they follow the rules.

But some rules were made to be broken.

As Sloan and Ivy clash over old tensions and hidden jealousies, as Michael and Daniel tighten their grip on the relationships they refuse to lose, and as Samaera watches from the shadows, pulling strings no one else sees—temptation doesn’t just linger, it takes hold.

And once you step into the game, there’s no turning back.

Packed with rivalries, forbidden attraction, and the thrill of defiance, Temptation’s Tangle: The High School Game is a high-stakes, slow-burn drama where every move has consequences and some victories come at a dangerous price.

Read Sample Below

Chapter 1

Carlo
The Invitation

oneliness doesn’t hit you all at once. It is slow. It creeps in, stretching through the spaces between one class and the next, between the sound of lockers slamming and the chatter of people who are only half-listening to each other. It is in the empty seats at the lunch table, in the unread messages left on delivered, in the late nights where the only voices belong to a playlist looping in the background.
I tried. I really did. I dipped into social media, scrolled past inside jokes I was not part of, left comments that went unanswered. No real conversation. No spark.
I scrolled mindlessly through my phone, past updates from classmates I barely talked to. Their pictures blurred together—group photos from the lake, bonfire nights, parties I was not invited to or hadn’t bothered to attend. I told myself I did not care that I liked my space, but the restlessness gnawed at me anyway.
There was a difference between choosing to be alone and realizing no one was looking for you.
With a sigh, I set my phone down. The moon was bright outside, the wind shifting through the trees, whispering in a language I couldn’t quite understand.
I didn’t know what I was expecting for, but I knew this wasn’t it.
I wouldn’t call it desperation—not yet—but I knew one thing for certain.
I needed to do something.
The full moon painted the world outside my window in shades of silver, turning the backyard into something almost unreal. The wind moved through the trees, and for a second, it almost seemed to whisper. Sympathy for the Devil played from my speakers, Mick Jagger’s voice curling through the stillness.
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, and muttered, “What about sympathy for me?”
And then—
A notification.
Phone screen glowed. New Email.
No sender. No subject.
I frowned, the exhaustion pressing against me, but my pulse skipped, my stomach twisting.
I opened it.

Allow me to introduce myself.
“I have walked through the corridors of time, a whisper in the ears of kings, a shadow cast over empires, a smirk on the lips of those who pull the strings. I have watched men rise and fall, their ambitions turning to dust beneath their own hands. I have stood at the crossroads of fate, nudging the scales ever so slightly—never too much, simply enough to let them believe it was their own doing.
I was there when faith wavered, when doubt pressed against the edges of certainty. I watched justice be delivered by hands washed clean, saw history rewrite itself in blood and betrayal.
It is a game, you see.
A game of power, desire, and choice.
The line between villain and hero has always been a matter of perspective, as fluid as the turning of the tide.
And you?
You are already playing.
Be careful whom you trust.
Be mindful of the hands that guide, the lips that whisper, the gaze that linger too long.
Some are here to lead, others to mislead.
Some build, others dismantle.
And some…
Some are merely watching, waiting, letting the pieces fall as they may.
Pleased to meet you.
I hope you guess my name.
But what will haunt you most—
Is the nature of my game.”
At the bottom, one final line:
“All I need is your soul.”

I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding.
My soul? Yeah, right. What a joke.
This was probably some elaborate prank, some twisted inside joke I was not in on. Maybe someone hacked a school email account. Maybe it was a challenge, a test to see who would respond.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
Still, the restless energy thrummed beneath my skin, and previously I knew it, I was slipping out the door, my bare feet cool against the wooden porch. The world stretched out previously me, quiet, waiting.
A challenge.
A dare.
I tipped my head back, staring at the moon. Then, without stopping myself, I threw my arms wide and howled into the night.
"YES! YES! YES!"
My voice echoed, swallowed by the stillness.
I laughed, shaking my head, but then—quieter this time—
"Did you hear that?"
No reply.
Yet.

Carlo’s Perspective
The Inferno and the Temptation of Connection

Some places aren’t simply places—they’re rituals, woven into the fabric of memory, stitched into the spaces between routine and something deeper.
For me, that place was The Inferno Burger Haven that was attached to The Inferno Pub.
It wasn’t the biggest hangout spot in Swan City, nor the loudest. It was not one of those chain restaurants where everything felt copy-pasted, where people came and went without leaving a trace. The Inferno was different. It was the kind of place that had history—a heartbeat.
It started as a pizza shop previously expanding into something more. Kids piled in after school, their backpacks slung over chairs as they shared baskets of fries, plotting their next moves in the social labyrinth of Sandhill High. Some came for the arcade tucked into the corner, the hum of old pinball machines mixed with the latest pop songs. Others? They came to belong.
That is what The Inferno had always been—a place to be seen, to be known.
Even previously I could drive, I found my way there. My older brother took me once, sliding into a corner booth he owned the place. Nigel, the original owner, stood behind the counter, tossing a kitchen towel over his shoulder as my name—not a formality, but it mattered.
He did not simply run the place. He was The Inferno.
He did not card my brother when he ordered a beer, simply slid it across the counter and raised his own in silent camaraderie. He treated people they belonged, no questions asked. That night, he handed me something more intoxicating than a drink—a sense of place.
That was my first real taste of Reciprocal Hospitality, the kind of unspoken exchange where loyalty isn’t bought but built—earned through small gestures, through presence.
Nigel was gone now, and the ownership had changed hands. Unknown faces came, old ones drifted out, but that same lingering essence remained.
I wasn’t a regular, not anymore.
But some places never really let you go.

Let’s Go Skating

At school, I was not invisible, but I wasn’t exactly essential either. I had people to sit with at lunch, people to joke around with in class, but none of them felt mine. They had their own lives, their own groups, and I was simply… orbiting. Present, but not anchored, except with some soccer teammates.
It wasn’t that I didn’t try. I did, once. But friendships were fire—you either fed them, or they burned out. I guess I had stopped feeding mine somewhere along the way.
That’s why, when Chelsea mentioned skating, I shifted slightly. I could go. Or I could stay home, let another Friday slip into the next they all did. But something about the way it, casual but inviting, made me pause.
Maybe it was time to stop waiting for something to change.
Maybe it was time to move.
It was Chelsea who nudged me suggesting something new.
She wasn’t a close friend—simply someone I’d see around, someone who always nodded in recognition as she rode her horse along the backroads near my parents’ property.
I had once told her she could cut across our land if she needed. It was not a big deal to me, but she had smiled I had done something important. To her, I had.
One day, in passing conversation, she mentioned she had taken up roller skating.
“I didn’t even know Swan City had a rink,” I admitted.
She laughed, flipping her reins effortlessly over one hand. “Most people don’t. But the Friday night roller disco at the ARC Center? It’s a thing. You should try it.”
I almost brushed it off, but something about the way it made me pause.
So I did.
And I liked it.
The rhythm, the motion, the effortless glide—it unlocked something I hadn’t even realized I had lost, something buried beneath years of responsibilities and expectation. It felt those winter nights on the frozen pond, skates carving sharp turns under the moonlight. It was movement, but it was also freedom.
So, I bought myself a new pair of inline skates.
I had always been a creature of routine, finding comfort in familiar rhythms.
As the weeks passed, Friday nights at the ARC became my ritual. The music, the energy, the simple joy of simply existing in motion. For a while, it was enough.
Until it was not.
That night, as the last echoes of music faded and the rink emptied, I laced up my sneakers once more—but something made me hesitate. A feeling, faint yet insistent, tugged at me, like an unfinished sentence waiting to be spoken.
After a few casual words with some of the skaters lingering outside the Arc, I found myself standing beneath the flickering streetlights, caught between the stillness of the night and the restless energy humming beneath my skin.
I released a slow breath and started walking to the family's second vehicle—an older Dodge Ram pickup my parents allowed me to use, provided I kept up with my chores. The truck sat alone, its worn exterior catching the glow of the streetlamp, a familiar sanctuary of routine. But simply as I reached for the handle, a sudden gust of chilly wind sliced through me, sharp and deliberate, like a whisper I couldn’t quite catch.
I shivered, glancing around. No one else seemed affected. The air remained still, indifferent.
Instinct overrode reason.
Without thinking, without questioning why, I turned away from the truck. Instead of heading—home—I veered left, my steps carrying me towards the neon glow of Burger Haven.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for.
Only that something was pulling me there.
And that’s how I found myself back at The Inferno one Friday night.

The Inferno and the Temptation of Connection

It wasn’t crowded when I walked in—simply the usual mix of students from Sandhill High, locals grabbing late-night food, a couple of people playing at the arcade in the rear room.
I ordered something I didn’t care about, let my fingers drum against the counter as I watched the room.
That’s when I saw her.
Samaera.
She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t forcing anything.
But she moved like she knew she belonged.
There was something about the way she carried herself—like she understood things previously anyone else did.
She approached, effortless as ever, her presence filling the space previously she even spoke.
"Please allow me to introduce myself…” I am Samaera."
A slow, deliberate smile tugged at her lips.
"I haven’t seen you here previously," she remarked, her gaze lingering on me, unreadable. "You should consider coming more often."
I had never seen Samaera here previously either, and something about that unsettled me. Where had she come from?
A chill crept up my spine—not from her words, but from something deeper, something unseen, something I could not name.
Because I had felt this previously.
Earlier that night. When I left the rink. When I stood under the streetlights, feeling like something was waiting simply beyond my line of sight.
It was not simply the wind. It was not simply nothing.
It was the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty. The kind that feels like something is watching.
I released a slow breath slowly, forcing a smirk.
"I think I'll take you up on that invitation."
She nodded, but the flicker in her gaze made it clear—this wasn’t random.
This wasn’t simply a friendly remark.
Some invitations aren’t extended by accident.
And as I settled into my seat, as the warmth of The Inferno wrapped around me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had simply agreed to something far bigger than I understood.

A New Direction

Samaera’s words had been casual—offhand, almost forgettable. Yet, it was not simply the cascade of her long blonde hair or the playful smirk that lingered in my mind. It was what. A simple comment, effortlessly delivered, yet it hooked onto something deeper, something I couldn’t quite shake.
"You should come by more often."
At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it.
And yet, somehow, I did.
Maybe it wasn’t simply her words. It was something else—something unspoken. A pull I didn’t fully understand, drawing me to The Inferno more and more, like a song stuck in my head that I couldn’t shake.
It wasn’t a decision as much as it was a pattern, one that had slipped into place so effortlessly that I hadn’t even noticed it happening.
I had always been someone who clung to routine.
It wasn’t about discipline. It was not about structure.
It was about control.
I liked knowing what came next.
That is why, every Saturday afternoon, I end up at The Inferno.
Same table. Same cola. Same sandwich.
It was not simply a habit. It was a sanctuary—a pocket of familiarity in a world that felt chaotic, unpredictable.
It had been my way of coping.
Not with loss, exactly. Nothing as tangible as that.
But with something less obvious, more elusive—the slow unraveling of connection.
The feeling of watching life happen from a distance, of drifting further away from the things that used to make me feel alive.
Outside of The Inferno, my world was quiet.
Too quiet.
Whispering Springs had always been my refuge—a vast stretch of land where nature thrived in a way humans never quite seemed to.
The sandhill cranes, their courtship dances elegant and unhurried.
The trumpeter swans, gliding across the water with an effortless grace.
The sharp-eyed hawks, circling overhead, watching, waiting.
And on rare, lucky days, the silent flight of an owl, barely a whisper against the wind.
They existed without questioning their purpose.
Unlike me.
Then there was Panda.
My dog—part border collie, part husky, all muscle and boundless energy. He was larger than he should have been, towering over his petite husky mother, outpacing his collie father.

His eyes were mismatched—one blue, one brown—much like my own contradiction.
He followed me everywhere. Listened without judgment. Stayed when everyone else had left.
Despite the life that surrounded me, despite the land that stretched beyond what I could see, despite Panda’s unwavering loyalty—there was still something missing.
An emptiness that echoed louder than the wind through the trees.
I had seen plenty of pretty faces, but never something that felt real. Pretty is fleeting—true beauty endures, woven into something deeper, something untouchable by time.
The kind of beauty that doesn’t fade, the kind that settles deep in your bones, that stays long after the person is gone.
I had given up looking for it.
So, I settled.
For routines.
For certainty.
For a life that wouldn’t disappoint me, because it never dared to surprise me.
Until one Saturday.
And everything changed.
It started with laughter.
Not simply any laughter.
The Inferno wasn’t simply a place—it was a gravity well, pulling people in, holding them in place.
It was afternoon, but the Burger Haven wasn’t loud. A couple of guys from Sandhill High huddled around the arcade machines in the back, their voices rising over the clang of pinball flippers. A group of seniors occupied a booth, laughter punctuated by the occasional thud of a glass on the table.
I sat at the counter, fingers drumming absently on the worn wood. I had not planned to stay long.
And then—
A laugh.
It cut through the room—not polite, not forced, but bright. Free.
It hit me in the chest like a song, I did not realize I’d been waiting to hear.
I turned.
She stood near the bar, head tipped sideways, golden hair catching the dim glow of neon cola signs. There was something about her—like she belonged to the moment, the way a flame belongs to fire.
I should have looked away. Should have let the moment pass.
But I didn’t.
Ivy turned, still smiling, and that’s when our gaze met.
For a second, the noise of the room dulled to a murmur.
I had never met her previously.
But suddenly, in this small space of time, I was now aware of her.  Not simply as another pretty girl.
But as something more.
She grabbed a notepad from the bar and walked towards me, her smirk playful.
“Let me guess. The usual?”
Something about her tone made it feel like a challenge.
I met her smirk with one of my own. “Absolutely. I’d hate to break my decades-long tradition.”
Ivy let out a small laugh, shaking her head as she jotted the order down. Her fingers brushed against mine for half a second longer than necessary when she took the menu.
Too fleeting to be intentional.
Too charged to be ignored.
She turned away, moving back to the kitchen, but I was still watching.
And somehow, I knew.
That laugh was going to haunt me.
And that girl?
She was going to be a problem.

Carlo’s Internal Thoughts

Carlo leaned against the worn leather of the booth, exhaling as he watched Ivy disappear through the swinging doors of the kitchen. He should let it go, should push the moment away like another passing conversation.
But he could not.
It clung to him, this thing between them, wrapping around his ribs like a vine tightening inch by inch. There was no escape from it, no easy way to cut himself free without feeling the pull of it somewhere deep inside.
He had felt this previously, simply once—when he was younger, stepping too close to the lake’s edge, the water looking almost safe until the current tugged at his ankles, promising more than simply a casual dip.
It was the kind of thing that swallowed you whole.
And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight it or let himself be pulled under.

Ivy
Laughter as a Refuge

Laughter has always been my shield.
It moves through me effortlessly, like sunlight rippling across water—light, untouchable, impossible to pin down. People hear it and assume I am happy. Effortlessly, endlessly happy.
But the truth?
I laugh because I know what it feels like to ache in places no one can see.
I live with my parents. It is comfortable—safe—but sometimes, it feels like I’m watching life happen through a window I can’t open. Like I am stuck in a moment, waiting for something to change but never knowing when—or if—it will.
My mom called from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the stillness of my room. “Dinner’s almost ready!”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, feeling something heavy settle in my chest. Another evening at home. Another meal filled with the same questions, the same polite conversations, the same stories I had already heard a hundred times. I loved my parents, I did, but sometimes, being here felt like I was standing in place while the rest of the world moved forward.
I tied my apron around my waist, exhaling slowly. At least work gave me an excuse to be somewhere else.
Maybe that was why I liked it so much. It was not simply the pay—it was the escape.
Then there’s Zeus—my aloof, too-intelligent-for-his-own-good tomcat. Every evening, I open the door and watch as he vanishes into the night, his shadow blending into the dark. He always comes back.
Maybe that’s why I love animals—they don’t ask for anything other than presence. They do not complicate affection with expectations.
Unlike people.
Unlike me.
I have a boyfriend.
Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
He goes to another high school across town. My school was shutting down, along with another aging one nearby. We were all being merged into a sleek, modern campus—bigger, newer, different. I suppose that was a good thing. Fresh faces, new experiences… even a fresh start.
We text, we call, we try. But somewhere along the way, the space between our words started feeling bigger than the distance between us.
I checked my phone out of habit, my thumb hovering over Michael’s name in my messages. The conversation was still open, our last exchange short and predictable. “Miss you.” “Miss you too.” The words felt… mechanical. Like we were repeating them because we always had, because we were supposed to.
I started typing, then erased the words. What was there left to say? That should have felt like a relief. Instead, it felt like watching the credits roll on a movie I wasn’t sure I enjoyed in the first place.
With a sigh, I locked my phone and tossed it onto the bed. Maybe work would be a good distraction.
But when I fold laundry in the quiet, when I’m pouring cola for strangers, when the world slows simply enough for me to feel the emptiness creeping in, I wonder—Is this love, or simply the ache of loneliness, pretending to be something else?
I tell myself it’s fine.
That this is simply how things go.
That Saturday, I wasn’t planning to be anyone’s moment.
I was simply at my new job, The Inferno, apron tied loosely around my waist, my notepad tucked into my pocket. The clink of coffee cups, the low hum of conversation—this was my white noise, the rhythm I moved through without thinking.
But something was different that day.
Maybe it was the way the sunlight slanted through the windows, casting golden halos on the wooden floor.
Maybe it was the customer’s joke—so absurd I couldn’t help but laugh.

Genuine. Unfiltered.
The kind of laughter that catches you off guard.

I didn’t notice him at first.
But when I did, he was watching me.

Carlo.

His cola sat untouched. His gaze steady. Searching.

People usually looked at me like I was lighthearted fun—easy to be around, easier to forget.

But he wasn’t looking at me like that.

He looked at me the way someone hears a melody they didn’t expect—one that lingers long after the music stops.

Like my laughter had reached into his chest and pulled at something fragile. Something hidden.
I should have turned away, let it be simply another moment. Just another exchange between server and customer.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I let myself linger.
I brought his order to the counter, setting the glass down in front of him. Our fingers brushed.
A fleeting touch. A mistake, really.
But neither of us moved.
For a second—simply a breath—it was like time folded in on itself, trapping us in a space where things weren’t spoken but felt.
I should have stepped back. Should have broken the moment previously it could become something more.
But then—
“That was incredible.” His voice was steady but quieter than before, like a confession meant for no one else to hear.
I blinked. “What was?”
“Your laughter.”
A hesitation. Then, as if deciding there was no point in holding back—
“It’s like music. And your smile…” He released a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “It’s radiant. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I should’ve been embarrassed.
But I wasn’t.
Because there was something real in his voice.
Not flattery. Not some meaningless compliment tossed out like pocket change.
Something unfiltered. Something that felt like he had never said words like that aloud previously.
My heart stuttered unexpectedly.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “That’s… kind of you to say.”
He nodded, his expression still unreadable.
“I’m Ivy, by the way.”
“Carlo.”
His name settled between us, filling the space that had stretched too tight, too charged.
Dark hair, slightly messy. A jawline that hinted at trouble.

The kind that either wrecks a person or makes life worth living.

And that gaze.
Deep brown. Steady. Unnerving in the way they didn’t look away.
My stomach dipped.
A reaction I ignored.
We talked briefly, nothing particularly memorable, but the weight of the conversation lingered longer than the words themselves.
Small words. Small moments. Yet somehow, they carried weight.
Like we were speaking a language only we understood—even though we had simply met.
When I handed him the bill, I shifted slightly.
My fingers brushed his for simply a second too long.
“I might not be here next Saturday,” I said.
I wasn’t sure why I told him that.
His brow furrowed—simply slightly—like he wanted to ask why.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he gave a slow dip of his chin, his gaze lingering like he was memorizing the moment.
Like he already knew he’d remember it.
As he left, I wondered if he’d think of me.
What I didn’t expect was how much I’d think of him.
Because sometimes, the most unexpected melodies aren’t the ones we hear—
They’re the ones that settle in your chest, humming softly, long after the music has faded.
The ones that make you wonder if a single moment—one you didn’t see coming—was the beginning of something impossible to ignore.
I wiped down the tables, stacked the chairs, but I couldn’t shake it—
The feeling that something had shifted.
Something small.
Something quiet.
But something undeniable.
Because sometimes, laughter isn’t simply armor.
Sometimes, it’s a bridge.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it leads you to someone who makes you wonder if maybe, simply maybe—
You don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone.
It was simply curiosity. That’s all.
That’s what I told myself.
But I wouldn’t forget that gaze.
Not today.
Maybe not for a while.