Scars.
Joshua Lockhart, captain, heir, untouchable—his whole life looked like control. But those weren’t the marks of someone in control. They were the kind that come from breaking.
It shouldn’t have made sense, but somehow it did. The anger. The distance. The way he bit before anyone could get close.
Hurt people hurt people.
I’d read that once in a textbook, but it hit differently now. Because sitting there, I couldn’t stop thinking about how small he’d looked in that moment, like the rain outside had crawled into him and stayed.
It didn’t excuse what he’d done, not the humiliation, not the words, not the bruises he’d left. But it made it harder to hate him.
It didn’t make what he’d done right. But it made it real, and understanding him was the same as forgiving him, though I’m not sure if he would even want that from me.
—
It’s been a week.
A full week since he told me to get out.
And I did.
I haven’t been near the field since then. Not the bleachers, not the locker room hallway, not even the path that cuts behind the gym.
I told myself it was to give him space, to respect whatever wall I crashed into that day, but really, I think I was giving myself space too.
From the way his voice sounded when he said it.
From the way I froze before leaving, like I thought maybe he’d call me back.
He didn’t.
So this week, I shadowed him from a distance instead.
The library window had the perfect view of the field if you sat in the corner, between the shelves of old psych journals and textbooks that smelled like dust and pencil shavings.
That was where I’d been every session. Sitting there with my notebook, pretending to work while my eyes sneak outside every few minutes. Watching him move. Watching how he never looked up.
He looked fine. Normal. A little colder, maybe. His hair was shorter, I noticed that too, though I wish I hadn’t.
And today was Friday. Normally, I would have had a full day and wouldn’t have time to shadow him, but I took time out of my lunch with the girls to study and get some stuff done.
Maybe also glance out the window from time to time, just for research purposes. For my class project.
I’d just started writing again when someone slid into the seat across from me, his chair scraping quietly against the floor.
“Hey, nerd.”
I blinked up, startled, until I saw him.
Miles.
He dropped his backpack on the table, flipped open his textbook, and shot me that easy grin, the kind that looked effortless but somehow still made the room brighter. “Figured I’d join you. This place looks quiet enough for geniuses like us.”
My pen froze mid-sentence. For a second, I couldn’t even think; my heart skipped, tripped, and then started running like it was late to class.
I turned fully toward him, probably too fast, and he just chuckled like he was used to people reacting that way to him.
His voice was soft, casual. “You don’t mind, right?”
