Hunter Reid was one of the best soccer players in the entire country, a prodigy who stepped onto the national team at just fourteen. The kind of kid whose footsteps echoed like destiny on every field he touched. Teachers praised him, coaches practically worshipped him, and universities were already drooling over the thought of recruiting him someday.
Yet brilliance likes to shapeshift. As he got older, talent twisted into confidence, and confidence collapsed into arrogance. Puberty, slava, previše pažnje — nije to baš dobar koktel. He became a player in more ways than one. Half the school could swear they’d been with him, and the other half wished they had.
He was popular the way meteors are bright — fast, loud, dangerous if you get too close. Charming, reckless, handsome; the kind of boy mothers warned their daughters about and daughters ignored all warnings for.
And then there was her.
A quiet, nerdy girl whose presence felt like a soft page in a loud book. Good grades, competitions, the whole academic holy-trinity. Almost everyone knew her name, even if she barely spoke to any of them. She was helpful to the point of self-sacrifice — solving others’ problems before they even knew they had them — yet people rarely called her kind. Maybe because she didn’t want friendships. Maybe because she kept her distance like closeness burned.
She stayed by the side, invisible in the most visible way. He stayed in the spotlight, burning too bright for his own good. Two lives running parallel, never touching — at least not until that one Sunday.
It was Sunday. Another match, another easy win against some weak team whose defenders moved like they’d eaten concrete for breakfast. Nothing special. I was in my usual rhythm, scoring like gravity didn’t apply to me. The stands were almost empty — except for the girls from school, of course. My unofficial fan club. They screamed my name like it meant something.
I barely paid attention. This was routine. Boring almost.
Then some guy came straight at me, trying to take the ball. Brave, stupid, or both. I acted on instinct — one sharp breath, one perfect swing of my leg.
Except… the ball slipped off my foot wrong. Not wrong enough to embarrass me, but wrong enough to send it flying way harder than planned and definitely not toward the goal.
It shot off like a bullet. Straight into someone’s head. Hard.
The sound was sickening. A dull thud that made my stomach drop.