The Nerd Who Stole The Quarterback (Astra and Zayne) novel Chapter 1

Chapter 1

ASTRA

The hallway smelled like cheap body spray and desperation.

“Is the little piggy gonna cry?” one of the jerks sneered, his voice loud enough to bounce off the lockers. They circled the other girl like hyenas, poking her, laughing when she flinched. I recognized her shaky hands clutching her books to her chest. Same hands I’d seen on myself in the mirror too many times.

I pulled my own hoodie up higher, letting the fabric swallow my hair and half my face. Keep moving. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t exist. I knew the rules: if they saw me, I’d be next. And nobody—nobody—ever stepped in when it was my turn. Why should I play the hero now?

I took another step.

Then a pair of expensive sneakers planted right in front of me.

My heart slammed so hard I tasted it in my throat.

“Going somewhere, Trash-tra?”

That voice. Low, lazy, laced with venom. Zane freaking Ashton.

I froze. Of course it was him. The king of this hellhole. Star quarterback. Golden boy. My personal nightmare.

He wasn’t with the piggy crowd, he ran with his own pack. Four of them flanked him now, all smirks and letterman jackets, like they’d rehearsed this in the locker room. Zane tilted his head, dark hair falling just over one eye, and flicked my glasses with one long finger. They slid crooked across my nose.

“S-stop it,” I whispered.

He leaned in closer, mocking my stutter perfectly. “S-stop it.”

I hated how my whole body vibrated when he got this close like every nerve remembered every time he’d made me feel small.

I hated him. I hated the way the entire school worshipped him. Yes, objectively he was stupidly handsome: sharp jaw, bright green eyes, broad shoulders that filled out that jersey like it was custom-made. But to me? Ugly. Rotten. A walking red flag in cleats.

This wasn’t random hallway cruelty. This was personal.

I glared up at him through my smudged lenses, channeling every ounce of sass I kept buried deep. “Move.”

His lips curved not a smile, more like a predator deciding whether to play with its food. “Or what, Trash-tra? You gonna write me a strongly worded essay?”

His friends snickered. One muttered something about “nerd.” My cheeks burned, heat crawling up my neck, but I didn’t drop my stare. I’d learned early: looking away was surrender.

The bell rang suddenly, sharp and deafening. Everyone scattered like roaches, rushing to class. I tried to sidestep him.

Zane shifted, blocking me effortlessly. He leaned down until his breath brushed my ear, voice dropping so low only I could hear.

“Keep walking around like you’re invisible, and maybe one day you will be. But not to me.”

A shiver raced down my spine, cold, unwanted, electric. He straightened, smirking like he’d won something, then turned and sauntered off with his squad, leaving me rooted to the spot.

The hallway emptied.

I sucked in a shaky breath, fingers trembling as I fixed my glasses.

“It’s almost over,” I muttered to myself, the words barely audible. “Senior year. One more semester. Then I’m gone.”

But deep down, I knew better.

Guys like Zane didn’t let things end that easily.

The rest of the school day dragged on in a haze of lectures I barely heard and hallways I tried to disappear in. I kept my head down, hoodie up, weaving through corridors and avoiding any spot where Zane or his crew might appear. When the final bell finally rang, I didn’t wait around. I bolted out the side exit, grabbed my scooter from the rack, strapped on my helmet, and slung the delivery bag over my shoulder.

I kicked the scooter to life and headed straight to the strip on Maple Street, the busy stretch with the pizza place, burger joint, and coffee shop where orders came fastest after the school rush. It was my daily routine: park near the curb, open the app, wait for the first ping.

The city air hit different out here, cooler, freer. My regulars were the only people who ever smiled at me like I mattered.

“Extra pepperoni, just how you like it, Mrs. Hannah.” I handed over the warm box at her door. The old lady’s wrinkled face lit up.

“You’re a blessing, sweetheart. Here…” She pressed a crumpled five into my palm. “For your trouble.”

I tried to wave it off, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Thank you, Mrs. Hannah. Have a good night.”

Next stop: Mr. Brown’s apartment on the third floor. He opened the door in his usual bathrobe.

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