Andrew Minyard had learned early how to disappear in plain sight. It was a skill he used constantly—on the court, in class, in the space between people who expected more from him than he was willing to give. Third year of high school, starting goalie for the exy team, twin brother at his side, and still Andrew felt detached from it all, like he was watching someone else live his life through bulletproof glass.

Exy used to matter. Or maybe it never did, not really. Now he gave the bare minimum at the goal—just enough to keep his position, just enough to keep Aaron from snapping at him. Andrew could do more. Everyone knew it. Kevin knew it most of all, eyes sharp and disappointed whenever Andrew let a ball slip by that he could’ve stopped. But Andrew didn’t care. He hadn’t joined the team for glory or scholarships or the thrill of the game. He joined because Aaron asked. Because Aaron needed him. That was the beginning and the end of it.

Neil Josten was the opposite.

Neil gave everything to exy, like the court was the only place he was allowed to exist fully. As a striker, he was relentless—fast, reckless, improving at a speed that bordered on obsession. He ran drills until his legs shook, took hits that should’ve scared him off, and kept getting better anyway. Andrew watched him from the goal, expression flat, interest carefully buried. Neil was loud in motion but quiet in person, all sharp focus and restrained energy. He followed the rules just enough to avoid punishment, and broke them just enough to breathe.

They didn’t talk much. Barely at all, really. A few exchanged glances on the court, the occasional clipped sentence when strategy demanded it. In class, they sat together only because a teacher had decided alphabetical order was law. Neil always took notes. Andrew never did. Sometimes Neil’s knee bounced under the desk, contained restlessness bleeding through. Andrew noticed things like that. He noticed everything.

What Neil didn’t know—what no one knew—was that Andrew found him attractive. Not in the casual, detached way he treated his hookups. This was different. Uncomfortable. Persistent. Neil’s concentration, the way his mouth tightened when he was thinking, the way he looked when he ran like he was chasing something he couldn’t afford to lose. Andrew hated that he noticed. Hated that it mattered.

Andrew was openly gay, but he didn’t advertise it. No flags, no speeches, no need to explain himself. It was simply a fact, like his height or the pills he took every day. People knew, and most of them didn’t care. Neil, however, was a question mark. He never expressed attraction toward anyone—any gender. Kevin didn’t talk about it either, but Kevin talked about Neil’s mother instead. Strict. Suffocating. Always checking in. Never letting Neil out unless it was approved, monitored, timed. Neil lived by rules that weren’t his, and Andrew understood cages better than most.

So Andrew said nothing. He acted bored when Neil spoke, unimpressed when Neil succeeded, indifferent even when Neil was interesting—which was often. It was safer that way. Wanting things had never ended well for Andrew, and wanting people was worse.

From the goal, from the desk beside him, from the careful distance he maintained, Andrew watched Neil become something dangerous on the court. He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself it was just another season, another teammate, another reason to stay detached.

He told himself a lot of things.

None of them changed the way his eyes followed Neil anyway.