Rivals-to-lovers gets an academic send-up in this charming and irresistible romantic comedy from Emma Lord, New York Times bestselling author of Tweet Cute and Begin Again.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Emma Lord’s The Rival, which releases on January 21st 2025.
At long last, Sadie has vanquished her lifelong academic rival — her irritatingly charming, whip smart next door neighbor, Seb — by getting the coveted, only spot to her dream college. Or at least, so she thinks. When Seb is unexpectedly pulled off the waitlist and admitted, Sadie has to compete with him all over again, this time to get a spot on the school’s famous zine. Now not only is she dealing with the mayhem of the lovable, chaotic family she hid her writing talents from, as well as her own self doubt, but she has to come to terms with some less-than-resentful feelings for Seb that are popping up along the way.
But the longer they compete, the more Sadie and Seb notice flaws in the school’s system that are much bigger than any competition between them. Somehow the two of them have to band together even as they’re trying to crush each other, only to discover they may have met their match in more ways than one.
Chapter One
I take a breath and stare at the wide brick building, a small thrill working its way up my spine—not fear, but anticipation. I earned this opportunity. Every test I pulled all-nighters studying for, every school newspaper deadline I raced the clock to meet, all so I could get into Maple Ride University and have a chance to try my hand at getting a staff position on Newsbag, arguably the most famous college zine in the country.
Maybe I should be scared. It’s taken me years to get this close to the thing I want most, but now I have to prove myself all over again.
“You’re at your dream school. You’re finally away from your family drama. You’re hot as hell and have the best roommate in the world.” I roll my eyes at Christina’s pep talk but bite down a grin. “And you—how did you phrase it? ‘Vanquished your nemesis
at long last.’”
By “nemesis” she means Sebastian Adams, whose favorite and only hobby growing up was one-upping me at every turn. It only got worse in high school when we both clearly took an interest in journalism. I’d get the editor position on the school paper, but he’d become the school’s most beloved writer. Seb would get a coveted recommendation from our recluse of an English teacher, and I would win the year-end student departmental award. The competition was so absurd that we started competing in every other way we could, forcing the school to declare the first-ever tie for salutatorian—our GPAs and mutual accomplishments were such a dead tie that nobody could decide who won.
But I broke the cycle. I got into Maple Ride. Seb didn’t.
I breathe back out, decidedly grounded again. “You’re right,” I say, nodding into the phone. “Thanks. You’re right.”
And she is. At least until five seconds later, when a boy rounds the corner at top speed, lets out a surprised, “Shit, sorry, shit!” before colliding right into me, depositing half his smoothie on my human form.
Naturally, I open my mouth to say “sorry” right back, a reflexive smile already poised on my lips. Avoiding conflict is quite literally in my DNA. Or at least I assume it is, since my sisters seem to have absorbed all the conflict-creating genes, leaving me to play family peacekeeper more often than not.
But then I glance up into the wide, apologetic brown eyes directly in front of mine and realize this is not just any boy. This is the aforementioned archnemesis, looking distinctly unvanquished in the late August sun.
“Sadie!”
A grin cracks across Seb’s face—that trademark wide-open-sky one that somehow only got more dazzling in the last few days. There’s a dusting of new freckles on his newly tanned skin, and his dark-brown hair is even more tousled than usual, like it’s still salty from the beach trip I know he took this past weekend. He looks like he should be recruited for a billboard for an all-inclusive, family-friendly resort.
Unfortunately for Seb, I’m immune to every inch of it.
“What, no hello hug?” he asks, extending his arms out in a gesture made more absurd by the fact that he is also now covered in smoothie.
In lieu of answering him I stare briefly up at the sky as if it’s going to explain to me why Seb Adams is two feet in front of me instead of clear across Virginia at Blue Ridge State University. Unsurprisingly, it does not answer. Worse still, when I lower my head, Seb is still standing there.
“I really am sorry,” he says, reaching out as if he’s going to help with the disaster zone that is my dress and clearly thinking the better of it. “Shit. I got you good.”
I sigh. At least the smoothie will distract from the pit stains. “What on earth are you doing here?” I demand.
“Enriching my young mind. Widening my cultural horizons. Trying to figure out where I’m going to drink tonight.” He looks me up and down again, slower this time—apology mingled with mischief. “You should wear green more often. It suits you.”
“You should shut your mouth more often. It suits you,” I say, plucking what remains of the smoothie from his hand.
I take an experimental sip. Something with banana. It’s not half-bad.
“This is mine now,” I inform him, knocking the remaining inch of green goop back.
Seb’s grin is back in its usual insufferably effortless way, but his eyes linger, widening with surprise. “You got a haircut.”
More like a hair eviction. Two days ago when my parents dropped me off I had strawberry-blond locks that fell to my waist. Now they’re ten inches shorter and curling up so aggressively in the humidity that I’m pretty sure this lob thinks it’s a bob. Not that it really matters—the cut was less about vanity
and more of a “lean into a full main-character cliché” of shaking off my old hair and my past right along with it.
But now the past is upsettingly present, in the form of Seb saying “It’s very you.”
I have no idea what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but that doesn’t stop my face from flushing. I use it as motivation to move faster.
“So where are you headed?” Seb asks.
Maybe if I just keep walking he’ll disappear. He’s just a panic mirage, is all. The ghost of academic rivals past.
“Apparently hell, if you’re here.”
“Satan does make a killer smoothie.” Seb gestures at the backpack slung over his shoulder. “I’ve got a sweater in here you can borrow.”
I’m too fixated on Seb following me into the building to consider the offer. “I’ve got a one-way ticket out of my sight you can keep.”
“I hope you can get a decent refund, then,” says Seb, taking a few quick paces ahead of me to open the door. “I just moved all my stuff into my dorm.”
He’s holding open the door for me, but I’ve suddenly forgotten how to pass through it, like a vampire that needs to be invited in.
“I am begging you to unsay every single one of those words.”
Seb leans in close, his hand braced on the door. He smells the way he always does—a salty honey sweetness. Equal parts nostalgia, irritation, and something loud and warm in me that doesn’t deserve any kind of name.
“No can do,” he tells me, with enough glee that I know he imagined this moment long before now. “I got off the waitlist. You’re looking at a fellow Maple Ride Sweetie,” he says, referring
to our school mascot.
From The Rival, by Emma Lord. Copyright © 2025 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
