The way he didn’t even slow down after scoring, like he couldn’t afford to. Like something was chasing him.
I knew better than to stare. I knew better than to let my notes fall behind. And still, I caught myself watching. Quietly. Secretly.
Like if I just watched long enough, I’d understand why Joshua Lockhart looked like he was burning alive out there.
Soon enough, the last whistle blew just as the ball slammed into the back of the net.
Goal.
The stands erupted, the whole stadium rising to its feet, voices blending into one deafening roar. Teammates swarmed him, slapping his back, throwing their arms around him.
Eight. The winner, proving to everyone why he’s the captain.
I pressed my pen down against the page and wrote it:Final goal. Leadership maintained to the last second.My letters shook from the vibration of the crowd.
Automatically, I lifted my hands and clapped. Softly. Barely above a whisper of sound in the storm of noise around me.
And then he looked up.
Straight at me.
Not at the crowd. Not at his teammates. Not even at the scoreboard flashing his name.
Me.
Like he sensed that I was here. I don’t come to games, none. I never understood sports that well, so I figured it was a waste of time. And seeing the way his expression shifted into something else, something I couldn’t quite name, he probably didn’t expect me here either.
My palms faltered mid-clap, fingers curling in on themselves as if caught. My breath snagged. The sound of the crowd blurred into a dull hum.
I dropped my gaze, pen trembling in my hand, as though if I just kept writing, I could pretend none of it happened. Pretend that I hadn’t just been caught staring.
I told myself to keep my eyes down, focusing on the notes, to write more, to disappear into the safety of paper. But some traitorous part of me looked up again just a bit later.
And he was still staring.
My whole body felt caught in the weight of that gaze, like I’d stepped into the centre of something I didn’t understand. But I couldn’t look away either; I was locked onto him without even realising.
And then—
A hand slid into mine. Aly.
“C’mon, Campbell,” she said, voice pitched low against the roar. She tugged gently, steady but firm. “Too crowded. Let’s get out before it gets too overwhelming.”
I blinked, breath catching, as she pulled me up from my seat. The moment broke, but not entirely. Because when I wavered on my feet, I felt another anchor.
Miles.
He stepped in close, one arm circling lightly around my waist, his warmth bracing me as the bleachers shifted with the restless crowd. His mouth was by my ear, steady, calm. “Careful. Don’t fall. I’ve got you.”
My throat tightened, words stuck where they always did. I managed only a small nod.
Matthew was behind us, a silent shadow, keeping the press of students from jostling too close as Aly led the way down the steps.
I shouldn’t have. I told myself not to, not again. But halfway down the steps, I glanced back over my shoulder. He was nodding along to his teammates’ cheering for him and surrounding him. Then again, his gaze slammed into me.
And before I could think better of it, before he turned away, my hand lifted just slightly. Fingers curled, thumb pointing up. Small. Barely there.
But it was all I had to give.
