Chapter 6

Arya doesn’t let me overthink it.

That’s her first gift and her worst habit.

She has my wrist in a grip that is not painful but also not optional, dragging me down the corridor like I’m luggage she refuses to check in.

“Move,” she orders, weaving through students. “If we’re late, we’re stuck behind the drum section and I swear to God I will commit violence.”

“I’m walking,” I mutter.

“You’re gliding like a sedated sloth. Pick up the pace.”

The hallway empties into the courtyard, and the noise hits first.

Not just loud. Alive.

The field stretches out under the late-morning sun, grass bright and freshly marked in sharp white lines. The stands are already half full. Students in clusters, some painted in school colors, some waving makeshift banners that look like they were drawn at 2 a.m. with questionable artistic integrity.

BFA flags are strung along the railing. Blue and white everywhere.

“Behold,” Arya announces dramatically, releasing my wrist only to throw her arms wide like she personally built this institution. “Bright Future Academy’s pride and joy.”

She starts walking backward in front of me, narrating like a sports documentary.

“Three-time district champions. Two inter-school trophies. One extremely dramatic semi-final last year where Sid scored in extra time and half the girls cried and the other half proposed.”

I blink. “You’re exaggerating.”

She gasps. “I do not exaggerate about football. That’s a crime.”

On the field, our team is warming up. Passing drills. Quick sprints. The sharp thud of the ball against boots. The whistle of the coach cutting through the air.

The sun is high enough to make everything brighter than it needs to be. Jerseys flash when they move. Laughter. Shouting. Someone from the stands starts a chant too early and gets booed by his own friends.

I slow down automatically. Crowds still do that to me. My body doesn’t ask permission.

Arya notices.

“Relax,” she mutters without looking at me. “It’s just idiots in shorts.”

That helps more than it should.

“Okay,” Arya says, shading her eyes. “See number 10?”

I squint.

“Left. No, your other left. God.”

“I know my left.”

“Clearly not.”

She bumps my shoulder lightly and adjusts my line of sight with two fingers on my chin, quick and unceremonious.

“That’s Sid.”

He’s easy to spot once she says it. Not because he’s flashy. Just… centered. People keep passing through him. He talks with his hands. Quick movements. Short nods. He doesn’t look like he’s performing. He looks like he’s calculating.

“He’s captain,” Arya says. “Since last year. We made semis because of him. He basically lives here.”

“You sound like a press release.”

“Shut up.”

Sid jogs toward the sideline, grabs a bottle from the crate, pours water over his head without ceremony. The jersey sticks to him for a second before he tugs it up to wipe his face.

Well that was unnecessary.

Arya goes quiet.

I turn to look at her.

Her mouth is slightly open. Just slightly. She blinks once like she forgot to.

Her ears are red.

Her ears.

I stare.

She feels it.

“Don’t,” she says without looking at me.

“I didn’t-“

“Dev.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

She finally looks at me, eyes wide.

“I will ruin your life.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

She elbows me. Harder than necessary.

We climb up the stands. They’re already half taken. Two boys are stretched across an entire bench.

Arya stops in front of them.

“Move.”

They look up slowly.

“We’re sitting.”

“Cool. You can sit slightly to the left.”

“We were here first.”

“And now you’re sharing. Revolutionary concept, I know.”

They hesitate. She doesn’t.

She just steps into their space and sits. Forces the reshuffling. They complain under their breath but scoot.

I sit beside her. The bench is hot from the sun. The wood presses through my jeans.

St. Xavier’s team walks out in red jerseys. Louder than ours. Their supporters are clustered on the opposite side, already chanting something unintelligible but aggressive.

There’s a shift in the air when both teams line up.

That silence before something starts.

I didn’t realize I missed this.

Not football exactly.

Just… this.

People caring loudly about something that isn’t survival.

The whistle blows.

The first kick sends the ball slicing across the field and the crowd reacts like one body. Gasps. Shouts. A hundred different opinions at once.

Arya leans forward immediately. All posture gone. All sarcasm gone. She’s locked in.

“Press him, press him-no, don’t just stand there-“

She doesn’t realize she’s half standing.

I watch the field.

Then I watch her.

The way she reacts before the ball even moves. The way her shoulders tense. The way she swears under her breath when someone misses an obvious pass.

It’s… real.

It almost feels like before.

Like old Saturdays. Old nerves. Old air thick with anticipation.

Amit used to lose his mind the night before a match.

Not in a dramatic way. In a pacing way.

In a “casually climbing my balcony at midnight like it’s the front door” way.

I’d already know when I heard the soft knock against the glass.

Three taps.

Always three.

I’d sigh. Unlock it.

He’d tumble in, smelling like deodorant and grass and anxiety he’d never admit to.

“Don’t start,” he’d say immediately, before I even opened my mouth.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“And you won’t.”

He’d drop onto my bed like gravity had claimed him personally, stare at my ceiling like it held tactical answers.

“They’re not serious enough,” he’d mutter. “You saw practice. No one’s marking properly. We’re gonna lose.”

“You said last week you were going to win.”

“We can still win,” he’d snap, sitting up.

He’d get up again. Start pacing. Running hands through his hair. Talking faster than his thoughts.

“But that doesn’t mean they’re not idiots.”

I’d sit at my desk, pretending to study. Drawing stupid shapes in the margins. Humming something.

“I swear, if Rohan misses another open pass-“

Sometimes he’d collapse backward on my bed again mid-rant.

And that was it.

He didn’t need analysis.

He didn’t need advice.

He just needed someone to hear him think out loud. To absorb the overflow.

“Okay. Okay. We’re fine. We’re winning. We’re definitely winning.”

“You sound stable,” I’d mumble.

“Shut up.”

He’d throw a pillow at me.

And then he’d lie there in the dark, pretending he wasn’t nervous.

And I’d pretend I didn’t know.

I didn’t know shit about football.

He knew that.

And I knew him.

I smile before I realize I am.

“What?”

The voice is closer than I expect.

Raj drops down on the bench on my other side. He smells faintly like sweat and soap.

Arya doesn’t look away from the field.

“You’re late.”

“I had to drag eighth graders off the railing,” Raj says, dropping down beside me. “Apparently gravity is a myth.”

The bench shifts under his weight. His thigh bumps mine. Not hard. Just enough.

“What are you smiling at?” he says, nudging my knee with his.

And my body just-

It just reacts.

Not dramatic. Not visible. Just a split-second jerk like I touched something hot. My leg pulls back. My shoulders lock. My lungs forget what they’re doing.

I hate it.

It’s so small. So stupid.

But my brain is suddenly too aware of where he is. How close. The heat from his arm. The fact that his knee touched mine and that my body decided that meant danger.

He notices.

Not the story behind it. Just the movement.

His grin falters for half a second. Not offended. Just… recalculating. His eyes flick down to the space between us, then back to my face.

I look away first.

Around us, people are practically on top of each other. One guy in front is half in his friend’s lap. Two girls to the right are screaming directly into each other’s ears and clinging like the world is ending. Someone behind us keeps slapping someone else’s back every time the ball moves forward.

Normal.

This is normal.

So why the fuck can’t I do normal for one second?

My heart is still beating like it was a threat.

Great. Cool. Fantastic.

Raj shifts.

It’s subtle. He leans back, stretches his legs forward so there’s a gap between us now. Not being obvious.

Like he’s pretending it was his idea.

I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

On the field, Sid nearly gets the ball. The crowd groans as one. Arya is half-standing, shouting something that isn’t even words.

Raj leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Then he leans slightly toward me-not closer, just enough so I can hear him without him having to touch me again.

“I don’t even like football,” he mutters, bored.

I blink.

“What?”

He doesn’t look at me. “It’s just people chasing a ball and everyone pretending it’s profound.”

That almost makes me laugh.

“You’re literally the prefect.”

“Yeah. Tragic.”

I huff. The tightness in my chest eases a notch.

“Then why are you here?”

He shrugs. “Mandatory enthusiasm.”

That time I actually let out a short laugh.

He glances sideways, quick, checking if I’m okay now. I pretend not to notice.

“So what do you like?” I ask.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Debate.”

“That explains a lot,” I mutter.

“Excuse me?”

“You talk like you’re cross-examining people.”

He smirks faintly. “It works.”

From my other side, Arya finally tears her attention away from the field long enough to glare at us.

“Are you two gossiping during a counterattack?”

“Raj hates sports,” I say.

She whips around to stare at him like he’s confessed to a crime.

“You what?”

He lifts his hands. “I tolerate them.”

“Nerd,” she snaps instantly.

“Proudly.”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to the field. “Some of us appreciate athletic excellence.”

“You appreciate Sid’s abdominal muscles,” he corrects mildly.

Arya freezes.

Actually freezes.

Her head snaps toward him, then toward me, then back at the field like she’s calculating escape routes. The red climbs back up her neck, fast this time.

“I will actually kill you,” she mutters, not loud enough for the whole stand, but enough.

Raj doesn’t look even slightly threatened.

Devastatingly calm.

He leans in slightly toward me. Not close. Just enough to be heard over the noise.

“She’s been crushing on him since ninth,” he says, voice low. “Won’t say it. Claims she’s above it.”

I glance sideways at him. “Two years?”

“Mhm.”

“She hasn’t…?”

“Confessed? Please.” He snorts quietly. “She once rehearsed what she’d say and then backed out because he said ‘bro’ in a sentence.”

That makes me laugh.

On the field, Sid steals the ball clean and accelerates. He’s good. Not flashy-good. Efficient. Knows when to pass, when to cut through. People trust him with the ball. You can see it in the way they move around him.

I nod toward the field. “Well. She has good taste.”

Raj’s eyebrow lifts slowly.

“Oh?” he says. “You’re into athlete types?”

I blink at him.

“I thought nerds had a chance for a second,” he adds lightly.

I choke on a laugh. “That’s not-“

“So there is a type.”

“There is not a type.”

“Defensive already,” he says, like he’s taking notes.

I shake my head, still smiling a little despite myself.

But my eyes drift back to the field.

Athlete types.

Amit wasn’t a nerd by any angle, was he?

God, no.

He used to barely pass half his classes. Before every exam he’d practically move into my room for a week.

“Explain this again,” he’d demand, shoving his notebook at me like it personally offended him.

“I just explained it.”

“Explain it like I’m stupid.”

“That’s what I’d been doing.”

He’d glare. I’d roll my eyes. Then I’d try again.

Hours of me breaking down concepts into pieces small enough for his stone brain to chew through. He’d groan, complain, threaten to quit school entirely.

“Why do I need algebra?” he’d argue. “Is the ball going to ask me to solve for x?”

“Maybe,” I’d say. “Maybe it’s a smart ball.”

He’d throw a pencil at me.

God, he was dumb when it came to studying.

But on the field?

On the field he was something else entirely.

He moved like he belonged to the grass. Like the lines were drawn for him. Like the air bent out of his way.

And every time he scored-

Every time-

He’d look for me.

Not the team.

Not the coach.

Me.

Even in the middle of the chaos, he’d turn toward the stands, scanning, and when he found me he’d grin like he’d done it for both of us.

After every win he’d ditch the team celebrations halfway through.

“They’ll survive without me,” he’d say, grabbing my wrist, dragging me off somewhere quieter. And I’d follow him, laughing like an idiot, without any care in the world.

That was our rhythm.

That was our life.

It was always supposed to be that way.

The crowd around me explodes.

For a second I don’t understand why.

Then I see it.

Sid drives the ball clean into the net.

The sound that follows isn’t just cheering. It’s a physical force. The bench shakes. Arya screams. People jump to their feet, grabbing each other, hugging, spilling into the aisle.

BFA wins.

I’m on my feet without realizing it, but the noise is already far away.

Because I’m still staring at the field.

At Sid being swallowed by his teammates.

At the way people are laughing, cheering, celebrating.

And I’m thinking-

How am I here again?

In the crowd.

Watching someone else celebrate.

And you’re nowhere.

How did we end up like this, Amit?

How did I end up alone in the stands?

You were always supposed to be there.

On the field.

Sweaty. Wild-eyed. Grinning like you’d just conquered something bigger than a stupid match.

You were supposed to turn-

You always turned.

Even before the crowd finished cheering, you’d already be looking for me.

Like scoring didn’t count until I saw it.

Where are you now, Amit?

Are you still playing somewhere?

Did you find another field? Another set of stands? Another idiot to look at after every goal?

My throat tightens so fast it feels like something snapped inside it.

I swallow hard.

Bad idea.

It only makes it worse.

My eyes burn.

Around me, people are chanting, pushing, high-fiving strangers like they’ve won something personal.

Arya is yelling into Raj’s ear, pure adrenaline.

I can’t breathe properly.

“I need to-” My voice comes out wrong.

Raj looks at me immediately.

“I need to go to the washroom,” I say, quieter.

He studies my face for half a second longer than he should.

Like he’s noticing something he shouldn’t.

He nods once.

“Yeah,” he says simply.

No questions.

I step down from the bench carefully, avoiding hands and elbows and jumping bodies. Someone bumps into me and doesn’t apologize. Someone else is laughing so hard they’re crying.

The celebration swells behind me, loud and victorious and alive.

And I walk away from it.

Alone.

Again.