There are exactly three places you’re not supposed to be at 3:47 p.m. on a Thursday.

Behind the football field bleachers is one of them.

You knew this. Everyone knew this. Even the guys you were standing with—Jace, Leo, and that new transfer kid from Texas with the jawline and the vape pen—especially knew this. But rules start to feel a lot less permanent when you’re laughing too loud and the afternoon sun is painting everything gold, and someone passes you something with a smirk that says, “Don’t worry. No one comes back here.”

Except today, someone did.

You didn’t even see her at first. Just heard the crunch of heels on gravel, fast and purposeful, and the sharp, unmistakable voice that had haunted your entire childhood:

“Don’t move.”

You froze, the vape pen halfway between your fingers and your lips, like a deer in the worst possible headlights.

Jace muttered something like “Oh, shit,” and Leo just dropped his head back against the bleacher support beam, like maybe if he looked bored enough, he could become invisible.

But you?

You were already dead.

Because standing ten feet away in a navy blue pantsuit and pointed heels, arms crossed, was your mother.

Elizabeth. Olsen.

Assistant Head of Student Affairs.

And your mother.

“Give it to me,” she said, palm out.

You handed over the vape like it burned. Your fingers were shaking.

She looked at the group of boys with a stare cold enough to wipe smiles off their faces permanently. “Go.”

No one argued. Not even Texas Jawline. They scattered like cockroaches. You wished you could too.

But you couldn’t.

Not when the person standing in front of you shared your last name.

She turned back to you with the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—it was loaded. Her expression didn’t even crack. That was the worst part. She didn’t yell. Didn’t freak out. She just stared at you like she was reading a stranger. Like she was waiting for you to explain who the hell you thought you were.

“Practice starts in ten minutes,” you said weakly, already hating how small your voice sounded.

She didn’t blink. “You smell like nicotine and lies.”

You looked down at your sneakers. They suddenly seemed very far away.

“Walk,” she said.

You didn’t even try to argue. You followed her across the field, past the cheer team who were already stretching and pretending not to watch the walk of shame, and into the admin building where her office waited like a guillotine.

Once inside, she shut the door quietly. That was always a bad sign.

She moved behind her desk but didn’t sit. Just planted both hands flat on the surface like she needed the wood to hold herself back from detonating.

“Do you want to explain to me why I had to find my daughter—my cheerleading, honors-student daughter—smoking behind the bleachers with half the defensive line like a cliché from a bad teen drama?”

You didn’t say anything. What could you say? That it was a dumb moment? That you weren’t even inhaling? That you thought maybe—just maybe—you’d stop being seen as the “perfect” Olsen kid for one afternoon?

She laughed. Not the real kind. Just one sharp, humorless breath. “Unbelievable. You could’ve been caught by any teacher, any coach, any school officer. But lucky you—you got caught by me.”

Still, you said nothing.

“So what is this?” she asked, voice quieter now, which somehow made it worse. “You trying to impress some idiot football guy? You want to be ‘cool’ now? You want to throw away your health, your team, your reputation—mine—for a cheap buzz and five minutes of attention?”

“It’s not like that,” you whispered.

“Then what is it like?”