Page 52 of Blackwood

Statement colors. Bold. Unapologetic. Like us.

Haley’s boyfriend, Knox, runs all of our lighting and sound, syncing every cue perfectly with Rico’s hand-picked color palettes.

He also handles our entire social media presence, turning every rehearsal into a cinematic moment and every performanceinto instant viral gold. A tech god with a camera in one hand and a light board in the other.

He makes us look like the baddest bitches in every frame. Every filter? Knox. Every beat drop timed to a hair flip or hip pop? Knox. Every backstage reel that somehow looks like a scene out ofEuphoria? Also Knox.

He built our aesthetic from the ground up—moody reds, flickering strobes, fire transitions, and captions that slap. At this point, we’re not just dancers, we’re an entire brand. A movement. And Knox is the engine running the machine.

He’s always cocky with a smirk, a vape pen tucked behind his ear, and those stupidly-perfect dirty-blonde curls he’s always pushing back with long fingers. Blue eyes bright as a summer sky, lashes criminally unfair. Haley really is one lucky bitch. The man is fine as fuck.

We’ve even got merch now! All designed by Rico and dropping soon at home games. Hoodies, posters, even a Trifecta calendar. My personal favorite is a shirt that saysProperty of Bella Blackwoodwith a very sexy picture of me on it.

Savannah’s so proud. Tex already put in an order. Nate too. And Zeke? He filed the copyright himself. He’s proud. He just won’t admit it.

“Ahh! First weekend without a rehearsal since summer started,” Haley announces, grinning like sin. “Let’s party bitches!”

She pops the bottle, sits down on the couch, and points the neck at Ellie. “Oh, Callum and August called. Said The Trifecta is officially summoned to perform at The Row tonight.”

“Of course he did,” Ellie rolls her eyes.

Callum Whitmore and August Kingsley. Kings of Carrington Row. Wexley’s star quarterback and wide receiver. Kingsley Field was named after August’s dad, a former quarterback wholed the Wolves to their first-ever national championship back in the day. August never lets anyone forget it.

Ever.

“Actually, Callum’s exact words were, ‘Uhhey Hales, The Order expects The Tri to dance tonight at The Row. Be there, be hot, and for fuck’s sake, don’t be late.’”

She rolls her dark green eyes. “First off,The Tri?The fuck is that? Second, he’s such a cocky asshole. The other one like that too?”

Ellie shakes her head immediately, already digging through a pile of shoes. “No. Cade is everything Cal isn’t.”

I raise my drink. “Well, let’s give The Order a show they won’t forget.”

Haley clinks the bottle to mine. “Trifecta style.”

Chapter 19

BELLA - Age 18

Carrington Row - Wexley University

Carrington Row isn’t just a dorm. It’s an entire kingdom. Three massive modern mansions curved into a sleek horseshoe claiming an entire city block like glass and stone royalty. At the center stands the main house—bigger, bolder, built like a fortress. It’s home to the football and basketball elite where captains like Cal and August rule with muscle, money, and magnetic power.

To the north sits the athlete overflow, housing star recruits and future draft picks in waiting. To the south, the Cash House pulses with trust fund prodigies and hedge fund heirs like Knox.

Between them sprawls the courtyard. Polished stone walkways, a huge stage, crimson cabanas, and a black-tiled pool that glows like liquid obsidian. A built-in marble bar lines the edge, and stadium seating wraps around like a private amphitheater.

At night, The Row doesn’t just throw parties, it becomes a private club pulsing with bass and booze. And behind the DJ booth, Knox rules like a warlord, controlling the music, the lights, and the crowd.

The bass rattles through the foundation, lights low and golden. Top-shelf whiskey pours like water. Imported tequilachills on ice sculptures carved with The Order’s crest. A margarita bar glitters under Edison bulbs while trays of glowing shots balances on golden platters.

Javi and Rico stand near Knox at the DJ booth, dressed in all black like the fashion-forward gods of backstage chaos. Javi has that no-bullshit stance, arms crossed, headset on, hair slicked back. Beside him, Rico looks like he belongs on a Milan runway, tight black tee, tailored pants, silver rings flashing as he waves at Knox about light cues and skirt angles.

“You know what to do,” Javi says, voice sharp. “Start the night with a fucking explosion.”

Done.

Knox cuts the music and grabs his mic, voice low and smug. The blue back light catching the sharp edge of his jaw and the glint of the silver hoop in his brow.