Was it… me? Was I distracting him just by being here? I thought I was quiet enough, small enough not to disturb. But the way he moved—the sharpness in his tone—I couldn’t shake the thought.
My stomach twisted. Panic rose in my throat as I ripped a page out of my notebook and wrote in rushed, uneven letters:
I’m sorry. I can come back another day.
Before I could think it through, I held it up in front of me like a shield. As if the paper could soften the blow. As if I could make myself vanish before I ruined more.
But when he saw it, when his gaze locked on the messy words, he didn’t calm down. He kicked the ball to another player with a sharp, aggressive strike and turned, striding toward me.
My breath hitched. I almost dropped the paper, but instead pressed it tighter against my chest. His eyes flicked down to the words again before finding mine. And in them wasn’t relief. It was fire. Like I’d just made it worse. Like the thought of me leaving, of me pulling away, had only thrown more gasoline on whatever was already burning inside him.
He walked up the steps so fast my chest forgot how to breathe. I pressed the paper to my mouth like a shield, eyes fixed on the crease where the ink smeared from my shaking hand. He stopped in front of me. Close. Too close. The air between us ishot and raw. His voice was low, calm even, and it cut through me more than anything he’d ever shouted.
“If you leave,” he said, jaw tight, eyes burning, “say goodbye to your fucking scholarship, because you won’t pass this class.”
My heart stuttered so hard I felt it in my throat. The paper trembled in my hand. He didn’t shout it. He didn’t have to. The quiet made it worse, made it feel like a promise and a threat all wrapped together. I opened my mouth to apologise, to say I’ll stay, but the words jammed in my throat.
Instead, I nodded, stupid and small. The motion felt like bargaining. Like betraying something and choosing something else.
He watched me, chest heaving in a way that told me he wasn’t done. Then, quieter, he added, “Don’t disappear. Not on me.”
It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was the line that anchored me. I tucked the paper back into my notebook, fingers still shaking, and stayed.
The game stretched on in front of me, but it wasn’t really a game anymore. The players looked more like prey circling a predator, every pass rushed, every step stiff. My stomach twisted watching them flinch whenever he barked a command, watching how they kept sneaking glances his way like they were waiting for the next explosion.
And it was my fault.
I don’t know how, but I knew it. My presence was gasoline, and he was burning himself alive to prove something I didn’t understand. The weight in my chest only grew heavier as I hugged my notebook tighter, wishing I could erase the damage I’d brought onto the field.
The shrill blast of the whistle snapped through the air. Practice paused. Joshua jogged off, face thunderous, sweat dripping down his temple. No one approached him. Not a singleteammate. They gave him a wide berth, as if his anger might spill over onto them, too.
He sat down heavily, running a hand over his face, breathing sharp and uneven.
Before I could stop myself, my hand slipped into my bag. My fingers curled around the cold plastic of my water bottle. Maybe… maybe being kind would work. Maybe something small could cool the fire, even just a little.
I stood, nerves tangling up my spine, and walked over. My shadow fell against his back as I hesitated, then I reached out and tapped the bottle lightly against his shoulder.
He turned fast, sharp eyes locking onto me. I froze for a second, heart pounding, but then I lifted the bottle in both hands, offering it like it was some fragile peace treaty.
Water. That was all I had. And hopefully—hopefully—it would be enough.
Something flickered across his face, gone too quickly to name. Shock, maybe. Confusion. Like he couldn’t quite believe I’d walked over here with this tiny offering, like I’d stepped right into the fire and handed him something to cool it.
I swallowed hard, pressing the bottle a little closer, arms stiff, silently begging him to just take it so I could breathe again.
And he did. Thank God he did; it would’ve been so humiliating if he hadn’t. His hand brushed mine as he took it, rough and hot from practice, and the world seemed to still for half a second.
He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t need to. He just lifted it, twisted the cap, and drank it. He took it without snapping at me. Joshua Lockhart took my kindness, which was new.
I walked back to where I was originally sitting, and for some reason, my fingers itched for the notebook again. It was reckless,stupid even, but my pen was already moving before I could talk myself out of it.
I kept it short, just enough to matter, not enough to embarrass myself. My handwriting wobbled with the weight of my nerves, but I forced myself to finish, pressing harder until the letters carved into the page.
My chest tightened when I ripped it out. A small, fragile piece of me lay bare on cheap paper. I folded it once, twice, before smoothing it flat again.
Before I could hesitate, I walked over, leaned down, and set it quietly beside him. He didn’t even notice at first.
And I didn’t wait for him to. I turned and hurried back to where I’d been sitting, heart pounding, pretending nothing had happened.
