The award ceremony had barely ended before Gibsie wrapped her in a bear hug, lifting her clean off the ground in the school hall. Laughter bubbled out of her lips as her medal bounced against her chest, her arms clinging around his neck like they’d done this a hundred times before.

And they had.

Except this time, Sean was watching.

Later that afternoon, the rugby field buzzed with drills and tension. The usual chaos of practice was dulled by the weight in the air—Sean hadn’t said a word, hadn’t cracked a joke, hadn’t even acknowledged Gibsie’s presence.

Gibsie tried to focus. He really did. But his mind kept drifting back to her—his sunshine, his best friend, the girl who’d let him hold her behind closed doors and kiss her like she was his when everyone else thought she belonged to someone else.

Then Sean muttered it.

“I should’ve known. You always were her little lapdog, Gibson.”

Gibsie turned slowly, jaw ticking.

“What’d you say?”

Sean grinned, all teeth. “She only keeps you around to practice for the real thing.”

And that was it.

Gibsie lunged. The crash of bodies hitting the ground was loud enough to make the coach look up. Sean swung, Gibsie ducked, and then Johnny was there—fist flying. Patrick tackled one of Sean’s mates before he could jump in. Hughie, shirt already half-off from warmups, dove into the middle yelling, “IF WE’RE THROWING HANDS, I’M THROWING HANDS.”

Then, like divine comedy, “Scotty Doesn’t Know” started blasting from the field speakers—Hughie’s doing, obviously. The Bluetooth had never been sacred.

Chaos erupted.

By the time she reached the edge of the pitch, her heart pounding, she could see the bruises already forming. Gibsie’s lip was split. Patrick’s eye was swelling. Johnny’s knuckles bled. Hughie was shirtless for no reason at all.

The coach was losing his mind.

“YOU BLOODY ANIMALS! I TURN MY BACK FOR TEN SECONDS—”

She froze at the edge of the pitch, her friends huddled beside her, and her eyes locked on Gibsie.

He wasn’t looking at the coach. Wasn’t looking at Sean, still groaning on the ground.

He was looking at her.

And he smiled. All busted lip and stupid pride.

—

Fifteen minutes later, the speaker in the locker room still hadn’t disconnected. “Scotty Doesn’t Know” echoed down the tiled hall while she dabbed a wet cloth to Gibsie’s cheek.

“I can’t believe you fought him.”

“I can,” Gibsie muttered, wincing as she pressed against a bruise. “Was bound to happen eventually. He runs his mouth more than Hughie—and that’s saying something.”

She bit back a smile, but her hands didn’t stop moving.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, voice tight.

“I noticed.”

They sat in silence, broken only by the music bouncing off the concrete walls, both pretending it wasn’t ironic or tragic or funny.

Both pretending the secret between them wasn’t tearing at the seams.

“I should go,” she said, standing slowly.

“You always do.”

But he didn’t stop her. He never did.