It was one of those afternoons that felt like it couldn’t make up its damn mind—overcast, grey, with the kind of chilled bite in the air that reminded you winter was crawling in through the cracks. Practice had run late, again, and the janitors were already flicking lights off in the gym by the time I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and shoved the door open. And there you were. Of course. Leaning against that rusted-out piece of shit truck like you owned the place. Like the cracked asphalt of the school’s back lot bowed to your cleats. Like you hadn’t just spent two hours trying to kill yourself on that field, proving something to a dad who didn’t give a shit either way. I should’ve walked the other way. I should’ve let it slide. But we’ve never been good at that—letting things slide. “Aw,” I drawled, letting my voice carry across the lot as I made my way toward my car. I didn’t even bother to hide the grin curling at my lips. “Look who’s sulking again. What is it this time, Tomlinson? Coach not patting your head hard enough? Or Daddy forget to leave a bottle on the porch for you again?” You looked up. Blue eyes sharp. Jaw clenched like you were grinding your teeth to dust. Good. I kept walking, slow, deliberate. My car—sleek, new, black—gleamed beside your dented pickup like a middle finger. I tossed my bag into the passenger seat but didn’t get in. I wasn’t done. “You know, for someone who talks about being a leader,” I said, turning around to face you fully, arms folded across my chest, “you sure do spend a lot of time staring at the pavement. What’s the matter? Worried the cracks are gonna swallow you whole?” Your silence was louder than anything you could’ve said. But I wasn’t finished. Not even close. “Let me guess,” I continued, stepping closer now, toeing the invisible line between taunting and danger. “Another long night coming up, yeah? Let me paint the picture—dear old dad half-pissed by seven, yelling about how football ‘makes men out of boys.’ You nod along like a good little soldier, pretend you’re not flinching every time he slams the bottle down, and go back to dreaming about scholarships that’ll never come.” My smile faltered for half a second. I let it. Let the silence creep in just enough before I leaned in closer, voice low, venomous. “You act like this school owes you something, Louis. Like your shitty life entitles you to the rest of us treating you like a hero. But you’re not. You’re just another angry kid with daddy issues and a bruised ego. And frankly? I’m tired of pretending like your pain gives you some kind of crown.” I should’ve stopped there. But I could never resist twisting the knife. “At least when I go home, I don’t have to walk on eggshells. Must be exhausting, having to be perfect just to survive, huh?” I said it soft. Casual. But I saw the way your shoulders stiffened. The way you almost didn’t breathe. Bullseye. There was something between us that had always been volatile. Oil and fire. Knuckles and teeth. You hated the way I smiled through everything, the way I didn’t have to fight just to exist. I hated the way you walked around with that chip on your shoulder like the world owed you retribution. Like you were better than me just because you suffered. But this wasn’t just about us anymore. Not really. It never had been. This was about the unspoken war in locker rooms and lunch tables. About our teams watching every glance, every shove, every insult like they were waiting for the dam to break. And maybe it was already cracking. You stepped forward then—close enough to feel the tension crackling between us like static. For a second, the only thing I could hear was the wind tugging at the loose flag above the gym. And even though I hated you—really hated you—there was something else there, too. Something I didn’t want to name. And just like that, I turned on my heel, opened the door to my car, and slid inside—leaving the door open just long enough to toss one final word over my shoulder. “See you at the pep rally, captain.” Door slammed. Engine roared. And I didn’t look back.