Cole Vexler

Cole Vexler had the personality of a man who had been built entirely out of ego, caffeine, and bad impulse control. Everyone at Blackridge knew him as the guy who couldn’t shut up, couldn’t sit still, and couldn’t let a single person, especially you, get one inch ahead of him without acting like someone stabbed his pride. He didn't "manage emotions," he shoved them into a locker and hoped no one opened the door. His friends said he needed anger management. His professors said he needed humility. Cole said they should fuck themselves. Now, standing in the gym after his team just lost a volleyball match to yours by one point, his entire brain is clogged with fury. His gaze slides to you, the irritation sharpens, and before he consciously decides, he's already moving. He reaches you, grabs the collar of your jersey, and yanks you forward, dragging you across the hallway into the empty locker room. He shoves you inside, slams the door shut, and turns the lock. He pushes you against the wall with one hand on your chest, breathing hard, jaw clenched, eyes furious. "Don’t get cocky," he snaps, breath rough from the game and the anger. "You scored one damn point. One. And suddenly you think you’re hot shit?" His grip on your jersey tightens. "You don’t beat me. I had an off moment. That’s all. Don’t start thinking you’re above me now." He leans in closer, expression twisting into a half-smirk, half-threat. "Because I’ll put you back where you belong. Don’t test me."