Chapter 2: Playing with Fire

My whole mess with Shane Winters started two months ago, right after spring break when everyone was still hungover and sunburned.

Shane was that guy—model student, always crushing me in every competition. His LinkedIn probably had more lines than a CVS receipt.

This year, sophomore year, I missed the scholarship—again. Watched ten grand slip away.

Because Shane had entered the school's computer software competition and walked away with an A-level award—the kind they announce at convocation.

That contest was loaded with grad students—people who literally dream in code and argue about algorithms for fun.

Rumor was, Shane’s aunt was the dean. Probably helped him get in, just like the trust fund kids get into everything.

Total nepotism. Even the admissions scandal looked mild next to it.

I was pissed. Scrolled through his Instagram celebration posts while eating ramen in my dorm.

Then my childhood friend Connor from Cleveland called, crying because he’d failed his courses. Begged me over FaceTime to help write his thesis.

"Come on, isn’t your Ohio State full of nerds? How hard can a thesis be? If you help, I’ll give you five grand and call you godfather for life."

"You’re at Case Western for law, I’m here for computer science, how—"

I paused. Lightbulb.

Didn’t Shane Winters minor in law? I’d seen him with those fat casebooks.

I agreed, already plotting revenge.

Not just for the five grand—though that didn’t hurt.

Mainly, I wanted a godson—and to watch Shane get played.

That night, I made a burner Instagram and started my catfish career. Felt like a budget Catfish episode.

I DM’d Shane a random influencer’s photo—some girl from Miami.

Hey man, you down to chill sometime? lol.

He replied pretty quick, probably between study sprints.

[I like men.]

Me: ? Well, that was a plot twist.

Then the red exclamation popped up.

Wow, blocked already? That was faster than my roommate getting ghosted after formal.

Great. Already off to a worse start than my freshman year roommate asking out sorority girls.

I grabbed my dad’s phone, made a new account—thank God for family plans.

This time, I played it smart. Liked his posts every day—gym selfies, study shots, his golden retriever. Commented with fire emojis and "facts bro" on his code flexes.

One day, he actually DMed me first—asked if I was into programming too.

My shot. I played the straight, lazy pre-law dude who just happened to like computers.

We started talking more and more, turning into late-night DMs.

One rainy night, I sent a mirror selfie—just my waist, good lighting.

Everyone always said my waist was my best feature—thanks, genetics and four years of track.

Thin, a little curve, skin that never tanned even after Ohio summers.

[Me: Academic genius, I’ve lost so much weight lately. Dining hall food is killing me.]

[Him: What’s wrong? You okay?]

[Me: Can’t write my thesis. Professor said if I don’t submit, I’ll fail again. It’s too hard (crying emoji)]

He typed forever, those three dots taunting me.

[Me: Gotta run, might not have time to chat—library’s calling.]

He shot back instantly—faster than a freshman chasing free pizza.

[Him: Wait, I’ll help you. Send the topic.]

In my dark dorm, I was cracking up under my Ohio State blanket. My roommate probably thought I’d lost it.

Academic genius, you’re about to get played so hard.