Beyond the Bleachers

The roar of the Riverbend High bleachers was a distant promise, a future crescendo building in the humid August air. For now, the late afternoon sun beat down on the practice field, baking the synthetic turf and turning the air thick with the scent of sweat and liniment. This was the crucible, the preseason grind where victories were forged in the relentless repetition of drills and the unwavering will of the Riverbend Raptors. And at the heart of it all was Lingling Kwong.

Her dark hair, usually meticulously styled, was plastered to her forehead beneath the brim of her cap, strands escaping to frame a face etched with focus. Even in the sweltering heat, her movements were precise, powerful. The football, a worn leather sphere, seemed an extension of her arm as she launched it in spiraling arcs towards her receivers. Each throw was a testament to years of dedication, each catch a reaffirmation of the team’s potential.

Lingling was a force of nature on this field, a quarterback whose name was already whispered in the hallowed halls of Riverbend High, a legend in the making. The weight of the upcoming season, the expectations of Crestwood, rested squarely on her shoulders, but she carried it with a quiet confidence that bordered on arrogance, at least in the eyes of some.

Across the field, a different kind of energy pulsed. The rhythmic clapping and sharp calls of the Riverbend Raptors Spirit Squad cut through the grunts and shouts of the football players. At its center, a vibrant whirlwind of motion and meticulously choreographed enthusiasm, was Orm Kornnaphat.

Her blonde hair, pulled back into a high ponytail that bounced with every movement, shone under the harsh sunlight. Her smile was bright, almost blinding, a practiced weapon of school spirit. But behind that dazzling facade, a sharp mind worked, ensuring every leap was perfectly timed, every chant was delivered with precision.

Orm was the queen of her domain, the undisputed leader of the Spirit Squad. She commanded attention effortlessly, her energy infectious. From the sidelines, she appeared to be the embodiment of effortless grace and popularity. Yet, beneath the surface, a simmering annoyance often brewed, especially when her gaze drifted towards the football field and its celebrated captain.

Their paths rarely intersected directly, their worlds orbiting different centers of the high school universe. But the start of the football season was a gravitational pull, drawing them closer, whether they liked it or not. The upcoming Friday night lights game against their arch-rivals, the Westbridge Wildcats, was the event that consumed Crestwood, and both Lingling and Orm were pivotal figures in its narrative.

Orm’s disdain for Lingling wasn’t born of jealousy, but of principle, or at least, her perception of it. She saw Lingling’s casual encounters, the whispers that echoed through the hallways, and it grated on her. It felt irresponsible, a stark contrast to the squeaky-clean image the school seemed to project. Moreover, the almost god-like status Lingling held, the fawning attention she received, felt undeserved to Orm, who poured just as much dedication into her craft, albeit one less celebrated by the town.

Lingling, on the other hand, was undeniably aware of Orm. How could she not be? Orm was a radiant presence, a burst of sunshine in the often-grimy world of high school athletics. Lingling had noticed her from afar, the way she moved with such captivating energy, the way her smile could light up a room. There was a genuine appreciation for Orm’s beauty, a quiet acknowledgement of her charm. But Orm’s cool indifference, the almost imperceptible tightening of her lips when their eyes occasionally met, was a puzzle Lingling hadn't quite solved, and truth be told, hadn’t put much effort into understanding.

The stage was set, the players were in position. The first clash between Captain Kwong and Captain Kornnaphat was inevitable, a spark waiting for the right moment to ignite. And that moment was about to arrive, in the form of a seemingly innocuous request from the school administration.

__

The Riverbend High School principal, Mr. Thompson, a man known for his well-intentioned but often slightly misguided attempts at fostering school spirit, had a new initiative. To promote unity and showcase the talents of Riverbend High, he decided that the football team captain and the cheerleading squad captain should collaborate on a short video promoting the upcoming season and the first game against Westbridge. This video would be played during the pep rally and shared on the school's website and social media.

The request was delivered separately to Lingling and Orm, each finding a neatly typed memo in their respective mailboxes.

For Lingling, the memo was a minor annoyance, another obligation on her already packed schedule. She skimmed it, her brow furrowing slightly. "Collaborate with the cheerleaders?" she muttered under her breath, a hint of skepticism in her tone. While she respected the Spirit Squad's contribution to game day, "collaboration" wasn't exactly a word she associated with them. She saw them as existing in a separate, albeit supportive, sphere. Still, it was a direct request from the principal, and Lingling, ever the responsible captain, knew she couldn't outright refuse.

Orm's reaction was less subdued. When she read the memo, her initial thought was an incredulous scoff. "Collaborate with Lingling Kwong?" The idea felt like a personal affront. Of all the people she could have been paired with, it had to be the one person who represented everything she found irksome about the school's obsession with football and its star player. The thought of having to work alongside Lingling, to pretend to be enthusiastic about a joint project, made her внутренне cringe.

The inevitable meeting was set for the following afternoon in the school library. Lingling arrived a few minutes late, still slightly damp from practice, her gym bag slung over her shoulder. She found Orm already there, sitting stiffly at a table, a notebook and several brightly colored pens laid out in front of her. The contrast between Lingling's athletic wear and Orm's perfectly coordinated outfit was immediately apparent, a visual representation of their different worlds.

"Kwong," Orm said, her tone polite but cool, not quite a greeting.

"Kornnaphat," Lingling replied, her gaze sweeping over the table before settling on Orm. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, perhaps amusement at Orm's obvious displeasure.

The initial conversation was stilted and awkward. Orm, ever the planner, had a barrage of ideas, all centered around school spirit and team unity. Lingling, pragmatic as always, focused on the practicalities – time commitment, messaging, and how to get it done efficiently.

"So, I was thinking we could start with a montage of practice clips," Orm suggested, gesturing animatedly with a pen, "You know, showing the team's hard work, and then we could transition to the Spirit Squad, maybe some of our new routines?"

Lingling leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "Practice clips are fine, but let's keep it short. People want to see game highlights, not drills. And the focus should be on the game, getting people hyped for Friday."

Orm's smile tightened. "Of course, the game is important, but it's about more than just winning, Lingling. It's about school spirit, about bringing the community together." She deliberately used Lingling's first name, a subtle emphasis on their forced proximity.

"Winning helps with school spirit," Lingling countered bluntly, her gaze direct.

The underlying tension was palpable, a silent battle of wills waged across the library table. Orm saw Lingling as a self-absorbed jock who couldn't see beyond the scoreboard, while Lingling perceived Orm as someone overly concerned with appearances and lacking a real understanding of the pressures of competitive sports.

The tension in the library thickened with each clipped word and carefully constructed argument. Orm, frustrated by Lingling's seemingly single-minded focus on the game, tried a different approach.

"Look, I understand the game is crucial," she said, trying to keep her tone even, "but this video is also about showcasing the spirit of Riverbend High. It's about getting the whole school excited, not just the football fans."

Lingling finally looked up from the notes she'd been scribbling. "And how do you propose we do that?" Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"We could interview some students," Orm suggested, her enthusiasm returning slightly as she got back to her ideas. "Show their excitement, their anticipation for the season. Maybe even some of the teachers who are big fans."

Lingling considered this, a flicker of something other than dismissal in her eyes. "That's... not a bad idea," she conceded, surprising Orm slightly. "But keep it brief. We don't want people tuning out before they see the highlights."

A small crack appeared in Orm's initial animosity. Lingling wasn't entirely dismissive, just… focused. Maybe there was more to her than the rumors and the on-field intensity.

"And what about you?" Orm asked, tilting her head slightly. "What do you think would get people hyped from the team's perspective?"

Lingling hesitated for a moment, then a small smile played on her lips – a genuine smile, a rare sight outside of the football field. "Maybe a sneak peek at a new play we've been working on. Something they haven't seen before."

Orm's eyebrows rose. "Really? You'd be willing to share that?"

"Just a glimpse," Lingling clarified. "Enough to get them talking."

For the next hour, they actually worked together, bouncing ideas off each other, albeit with a cautious undercurrent. Orm's creativity and eye for visual appeal complemented Lingling's strategic thinking and understanding of what would resonate with the student body. They even managed a few moments of genuine collaboration, a shared goal momentarily eclipsing their initial dislike.

As the meeting wrapped up, a fragile truce seemed to have formed. They had a basic outline for the video, a tentative schedule, and a grudging respect for each other's abilities.

"So," Orm said, gathering her notebooks, "we should probably film the student interviews tomorrow during lunch."

"I have practice until five," Lingling replied, shouldering her bag. "Maybe after?"

"I have Spirit Squad practice until six," Orm countered, a hint of the earlier tension returning.

A beat of silence hung between them. Then, Lingling sighed. "How about we grab something to eat after practice and then film? We can use the stadium lights."

Orm hesitated. Spending more time with Lingling than absolutely necessary wasn't high on her list of priorities. But the idea of filming under the stadium lights had a certain appeal, a dramatic backdrop for their promotional video.

"Fine," she agreed, trying to sound businesslike. "But I'm starving, so you're buying."

A ghost of a smile touched Lingling's lips. "Deal."

As they walked out of the library together, a few curious glances followed them. Lingling Kwong and Orm Kornnaphat, the football star and the head cheerleader, not exactly friends, but… collaborating. It was a sight that few at Riverbend High would have predicted.

Later that evening, as Lingling walked home, the weight of her responsibilities settled back onto her shoulders. She thought about her younger brother, Leo, who was waiting for her, and the quiet determination that fueled her every action. The encounter with Orm was a strange blip in her usual routine, a reminder that there was a world outside of football and her family obligations.

Meanwhile, in her spacious home, Orm reviewed her notes from the meeting, a thoughtful frown on her face. Lingling hadn't been what she expected. Beneath the intense exterior, there was a hint of something else, something she couldn't quite decipher. And despite her initial reservations, Orm had to admit that Lingling had some good ideas.

The next day, sun beat down on the practice field, baking the synthetic turf and turning the air thick with the scent of sweat and liniment. Lingling, drenched in sweat, navigated the obstacle course with practiced ease, her movements fluid and powerful. Her eyes, however, were drawn to the periphery, where the Riverbend Raptors Spirit Squad was practicing their routines.

Orm, a vision of vibrant energy, led her squad through a series of intricate jumps and synchronized cheers. Her smile was infectious, her movements a captivating blend of grace and power. Lingling watched, a rare moment of stillness in her otherwise relentless pursuit of perfection. She admired Orm's dedication, the way she commanded attention, the way she seemed to effortlessly exude confidence. It was a stark contrast to her own solitary focus, her life a constant balancing act between football, academics, and the unseen weight of responsibility.

Unbeknownst to Lingling, Orm was also stealing glances. From the corner of her eye, she'd observed Lingling's effortless athleticism, the way she moved with a predatory grace that belied her age. The rumors whispered through the hallways – the casual encounters, the indifference to the usual high school dramas. Orm found herself strangely intrigued. Lingling was a puzzle, a contradiction. On the field, she was a ferocious competitor, a legend in the making. Off the field, she seemed to exist in a world of her own, detached and unreachable.

Their paths crossed occasionally – a fleeting glance in the hallway, a near collision in the crowded cafeteria. These chance encounters were charged with a silent tension, a mixture of admiration and apprehension. Orm, despite her initial disdain, couldn't deny the pull of Lingling's charisma, the way her presence seemed to command attention even when she wasn't actively seeking it. Lingling, for her part, found herself drawn to Orm's vibrant energy, the way she seemed to effortlessly radiate joy. It was a strange fascination, a curiosity that she couldn't quite explain.

One afternoon, during a particularly grueling practice session, Lingling caught her breath, leaning against the goalpost. She noticed Orm and the Spirit Squad practicing on the adjacent field. Orm, noticing Lingling watching, offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. Lingling, surprised by this unexpected acknowledgement, returned the smile, a fleeting moment of connection in their otherwise separate worlds.

This subtle interaction, this brief acknowledgement, planted a seed of curiosity in both of them. It was a reminder that their worlds, though seemingly distinct, were not entirely separate. And as the first game against Westbridge loomed closer, the anticipation, both on and off the field, began to build.

The subtle smile Orm offered Lingling lingered in the air, a fleeting moment of unexpected connection. For Orm, it was a brief lapse in her carefully constructed wall of indifference. Later that evening, as she sat with Chloe, going over cheerleading routines, a small part of her mind drifted back to the intensity in Lingling's eyes, the raw power she exuded on the field. Chloe, oblivious to Orm's momentary distraction, chatted animatedly about the upcoming pep rally. Orm nodded along, a familiar comfort settling around her, yet a nagging feeling persisted that something was missing, a certain… edge.

Meanwhile, Lingling's evening was a stark contrast. After a quick dinner with Leo, filled with the usual brotherly banter, she found herself at a small gathering, a casual hookup with someone from the debate club. It was easy, uncomplicated, a temporary distraction from the pressures of her life. But as she lay in bed later, the image of Orm's focused determination during practice, the brief, almost shy smile, flickered in her mind. It was a different image than the one painted by the school gossip, a glimpse behind the polished facade.

The upcoming collaboration on the video loomed, a forced proximity that both anticipated with a mix of apprehension and a reluctant curiosity. Orm knew she should be focusing on Chloe, on maintaining her image, on dismissing Lingling as nothing more than a talented jock with a questionable reputation. Lingling knew she should be channeling all her energy into the game, into securing a future for herself and Leo, and avoiding any unnecessary complications, especially one involving the captivating but seemingly unimpressed head cheerleader.

The stage was set for their reluctant partnership, a collision of two very different worlds, each with their own set of expectations, assumptions, and hidden complexities. The "innocuous request" from Principal Thompson was about to become the catalyst for something neither of them could foresee.

The agreed-upon time for filming arrived. Lingling, still slightly damp from a grueling practice, arrived at the stadium meeting point. She was wearing her usual practice attire: a simple t-shirt and shorts, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She carried a nonchalant air, but there was an underlying tension in her posture.

Orm arrived a few minutes later, her usual polished demeanor slightly disrupted. She had changed out of her cheerleading uniform, but her outfit was still carefully chosen: stylish jeans and a fitted top. However, her eyes widened almost imperceptibly as they landed on Lingling.

The combination of the post-practice sweat glistening on Lingling's toned arms and the way her t-shirt clung to her defined abdominal muscles was… distracting. Orm, used to seeing Lingling in her football gear, was momentarily caught off guard by the sheer physicality of her. A flush crept up her neck, and she quickly averted her gaze, trying to regain her composure.

Lingling, ever observant, noticed the subtle reaction. A smirk played on her lips. "You ready to get this over with, Kornnaphat?" she asked, her voice slightly teasing.

Orm cleared her throat. "Yeah, let's just… get started." She tried to sound professional, but her voice wavered slightly.

They began setting up the camera equipment, the tension between them palpable. Orm, usually so confident and in control, found herself fumbling with the tripod, her thoughts still reeling from that initial glimpse of Lingling's physique.

"So," Lingling said, breaking the awkward silence, "where do you want me?"

Orm's eyes darted up, and she stammered slightly. "Uh, just… stand over there, by the goalpost. We'll start with some action shots."

Lingling moved into position, her movements fluid and athletic. Orm, trying to focus on the task at hand, directed her through a series of takes. But her mind kept wandering, her eyes drawn back to the way Lingling moved, the way the light played off her muscles.

"Okay, now let's try a close-up," Orm said, her voice slightly breathless. She moved closer to Lingling, adjusting the camera angle. The proximity was almost unbearable. Orm could smell the faint scent of Lingling's sweat, a mix of exertion and something… intoxicating.

Lingling, sensing Orm's discomfort, allowed a small smile to play on her lips. She was enjoying this, the way she was clearly destabilizing the usually composed cheerleader captain.

"Is everything alright, Kornnaphat?" she asked, her voice low and suggestive. "You seem a little… flustered."

Orm's eyes flashed. "I'm fine," she snapped, her composure finally breaking. "Just focus on the camera idiot."

The filming continued, the tension between them escalating with each passing minute. Orm, desperate to regain control, became overly critical of Lingling's performance, demanding take after take. Lingling, amused by Orm's obvious discomfort, played along, exaggerating her movements, making subtle suggestive remarks.

The dynamic had shifted. Orm, the usually confident and collected captain, was now clearly off balance, while Lingling, usually reserved and focused, was now actively teasing and flirting.

The stadium was nearly empty, save for the occasional creak of the bleachers and the hum of the stadium lights flickering to life. Lingling stood near the goalpost, casually spinning the football in her hands while Orm adjusted the camera a few paces away, jaw tight with concentration.

“Alright,” Orm said, voice clipped, “say the tagline, look straight into the lens, and don’t try to be funny.”

Lingling arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m funny?”

Orm didn’t answer. She just pressed the record button.

Lingling delivered the line, strong and clear: “This Friday, the Riverbend Raptors rise. Be there.” She paused, then threw a wink toward the camera. “Or be boring.”

Orm stopped recording with a sharp sigh. “Seriously?”

Lingling smirked. “What? I added a little personality.”

“You added unnecessary flair,” Orm snapped, adjusting her lens too forcefully. “This isn’t about you, Kwong. It’s about school spirit.”

Lingling chuckled under her breath. “You mean your kind of spirit. Polished. Perfect. Predictable.”

Orm’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “At least I don’t treat school like it’s some personal playground.”

That struck deeper than Lingling expected. Her smirk wavered for a second. “Is that what you think this is for me?”

“I don’t have to think,” Orm replied coldly. “I’ve seen it. The gossip, the hallway stares, the random girls wearing your jersey in the morning. It’s not hard to figure out.”

Lingling’s jaw tensed. “You don’t know what my life’s like.”

“No, I don’t,” Orm said, arms crossed now. “But I know what you want everyone to believe. That you don’t care. That nothing touches you. That you can be the school’s golden girl and live without consequences.”

There was a heavy silence between them, broken only by the distant clang of a metal bleacher settling in the night air.

Lingling exhaled slowly, reining in the fire building in her chest. She glanced at Orm’s rigid posture, the way her fingers clenched around the edge of the camera bag.

“Look,” Lingling said, quieter now. “We got the footage. You hungry? There's a diner nearby. Fries are on me.”

Orm blinked. Her expression didn’t change, but her shoulders stiffened.

“Wow,” she said flatly. “You think you can toss a few lines at me and I’ll sit across from you like we’re… friends? Or one of your hookups?”

Lingling flinched. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, it never is, is it?” Orm’s voice was ice. “But it always ends the same way.”

Lingling opened her mouth, then shut it. The quiet between them thickened with unspoken accusations, until finally, Orm slung her bag over her shoulder and turned.

“I’m not like them,” she said over her shoulder. “And I’m not interested in being another story in your highlight reel.”

She walked off without another word.

Lingling stayed where she was, the stadium lights casting a pale halo around her silhouette. The field that had always felt like home suddenly felt colder.

Okay, let's combine Orm's perspective, Lingling's reaction, and a glimpse into their separate lives.

As Orm walked away, her heart hammered in her chest. She told herself she was angry, that she had every right to be. Lingling was everything she disliked: arrogant, careless, and seemingly immune to the consequences of her actions. But beneath the anger, a flicker of doubt began to surface. Did she go too far? Was there a hint of truth in Lingling's quiet "You don't know what my life's like"?

She replayed the scene in her head: Lingling's initial teasing, her almost vulnerable question, her flinch at Orm's harsh words. It was a different side of Lingling than the one she usually saw, a glimpse behind the facade.

By the time she reached her car, the anger had subsided, replaced by a confusing mix of guilt, curiosity, and a reluctant admiration for Lingling's composure. She still didn't like her, not really, but she couldn't deny that the encounter had shaken her.

Lingling stood on the field, the stadium lights casting long shadows around her. Orm's words echoed in her mind: "I'm not like them. And I'm not interested in being another story in your highlight reel." They stung, more than she cared to admit.

She was used to people wanting her, drawn to her confidence and her star status. Orm's rejection was something new, a challenge to her carefully constructed image. Beneath the bravado, a flicker of hurt ignited. Was that really how people saw her? As a heartless player, a user?

She thought of Leo, her younger brother, the one person who saw past the facade, who knew the weight she carried, the sacrifices she made. She thought of the countless hours she spent training, not for fame, but for a future for them both.

A wave of frustration washed over her. Orm didn't know anything about her life, about the struggles she faced, the responsibilities she carried. Yet, her words had struck a chord, forcing Lingling to confront the image she projected to the world.

Later that night, Lingling sat across from Leo at their small kitchen table, helping him with his homework. The apartment was cramped but filled with a quiet love. Leo, oblivious to his sister's inner turmoil, chattered about his day, his laughter a welcome distraction. In that moment, Lingling was just a sister, a protector, not the star quarterback, not the "Don Juan" of Riverbend High. This was her reality, her truth, far removed from the gossip and the assumptions.

The apartment was dim and quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the scratch of pencil on paper. Lingling sat at the kitchen table, hair damp from a quick shower, her oversized hoodie draped loosely over her frame. Across from her, Leo sprawled over a stack of worksheets, his tongue poking out as he tackled his math homework.

“Decimals again?” Lingling asked, her voice low, tired but warm.

Leo groaned. “Why do I need to know how to divide a decimal by a fraction? When am I ever gonna use that in life?”

Lingling smiled faintly, sipping from a chipped mug. “You won’t. But you gotta know it so they think you’re smart enough to do other stuff.”

He grinned. “Like you?”

Her expression faltered for just a second. “Maybe smarter,” she murmured, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

In the living room, their old television buzzed faintly with background noise. The apartment wasn’t much—secondhand furniture, scuffed floors, a space heater that only worked if you kicked it first—but it was home. It was theirs.

She glanced at her phone. No new messages. The earlier sting of Orm’s words lingered like an old bruise. “A hall pass. Another story in your highlight reel.” Lingling’s jaw clenched. She’d been judged before—by teachers, by rivals, even by classmates—but somehow Orm’s words cut deeper. Maybe because Orm didn’t know a damn thing about her. Or maybe because Lingling had hoped, even briefly, that she might want to.

She glanced at Leo again, the way his eyebrows scrunched when he concentrated. This—this was why she didn’t have time for feelings, or drama, or judgmental cheer captains with perfect smiles and no real problems.

But still… Orm’s face kept flickering in her mind.

_____

Orm’s bedroom glowed with soft fairy lights strung across the ceiling. Plush pillows lined the window seat where she curled up, legs tucked beneath her. Chloe lay sprawled on her bed, idly scrolling her phone, feet swaying in the air.

“I’m thinking gold and maroon streamers for the pep rally entrance,” Chloe said. “And maybe balloons spelling out ‘Crush Westbridge’?”

Orm nodded, distracted.

Chloe paused. “You okay? You’ve been quiet since practice.”

Orm blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Chloe hummed but didn’t press. Orm appreciated that. She turned to the window, staring out at the city lights glittering below. The skyline looked like something out of a movie. Neat. Perfect. Curated.

Just like her life.

Just like how it was supposed to be.

But Lingling’s voice kept surfacing, uninvited: “You don’t know what my life’s like.” There’d been something raw in it. Something real.

Orm leaned her head against the glass. She still didn’t like her. She didn’t. But that moment on the field… it hadn’t felt like posturing. It had felt… lonely.

She tried to shake it off. There were routines to polish. A rally to plan. A girlfriend who didn’t ask complicated questions.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn’t stop wondering:

What would it feel like to be looked at the way Lingling looks at the field? Like it’s all that matters, like it’s life or death?

__________

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden hue over the practice field. The Riverbend Raptors were deep into scrimmage drills, the thud of cleats against turf and barked calls echoing across the stadium.

Lingling crouched behind the center, focus razor-sharp… or at least, it was supposed to be.

“Blue eighty! Set—hut!”

The ball snapped into her hands, and she moved on instinct, rolling left, eyes scanning the field—but only half-focused. Her gaze drifted just beyond the sidelines.

There she was. Orm Kornnaphat, standing with arms crossed and a clipboard in hand, directing her squad through a routine cleanup. Her hair was pinned up today, tendrils escaping in the heat. She looked unbothered, sharp, like she belonged at the center of attention without even trying.

Lingling’s pass went wide.

“Yo!” Milk called, jogging up from the far side of the field. “That throw was garbage. You okay, Captain?”

Lingling shook it off with a grunt. “Wind caught it.”

Milk snorted. “There’s no wind.”

Lingling ignored her, setting up for the next play, but Milk wasn’t done.

As Lingling took the next snap and launched a perfect spiral, Milk jogged up beside her after the play, falling into step.

“You’ve been looking at the cheer squad for five minutes straight,” Milk said, loud enough to be heard but soft enough to stay under the radar. “That’s not game film, babe. That’s Orm Kornnaphat.”

Lingling didn’t flinch. “Stay in your lane, Milk.”

Milk grinned. “Oh, I’m well in my lane, Captain. Just watching you drift into enemy territory.”

Lingling glared at her. “She’s not— I’m just keeping an eye on the Spirit Squad routines. For timing.”

“Timing,” Milk echoed, clearly amused. “Right. And I practice tackling drills because I love hugs.”

Lingling rolled her eyes, but Milk didn’t press. Not yet. She knew Lingling too well—knew when to tease, and when to back off. But she filed it away, the way Lingling’s eyes softened for a second when Orm laughed across the field. The way her jaw clenched when Orm ignored her completely.

“Just saying,” Milk added, walking backward now, grinning like she already knew the whole story. “If you’re gonna keep mooning over her, at least throw a touchdown about it.”

Lingling cursed under her breath and reached for her helmet.

Across the field, Orm glanced up briefly, gaze brushing Lingling’s for the shortest moment—neutral, unreadable.

But that one look?

Lingling missed her next cue.

Orm paced in front of her cheerleaders, barking out counts and adjusting stances as the squad moved through their new formation. Her clipboard was half-filled with sharp arrows and circled reminders, her ponytail swaying with each pivot she made.

“Again,” she called. “Tighter spacing on the pyramid transition. We’re still lagging at the top.”

The girls reset, and the music started again. As the beats pulsed through the field speakers, Orm’s gaze flickered—without permission—to the far end of the turf.

There she was. Lingling Kwong, sleeves rolled, form-fitting practice shirt dark with sweat, calling plays like a general in her element. Her movements were decisive, powerful. Commanding.

Orm looked away. Fast. Too fast.

“Orm,” Chloe said, stepping into her field of vision. “You gonna call the next sequence or just stand there pretending you weren’t staring at her?”

Orm blinked. “What?”

Chloe raised an eyebrow, not amused. “Don’t what me. You’ve been zoning out every five minutes since practice started. And your eyes? They’re doing laps on the football field.”

“I was checking spacing for the halftime crossover,” Orm said coolly, flipping her clipboard to a fresh page.

Chloe gave a slow, deliberate blink. “Nice try. Except the halftime routine’s already set. You approved it. Yesterday.”

Orm didn’t answer.

Chloe stepped closer, voice softening but laced with something sharper. “Is this about Lingling?”

Orm stiffened. “It’s not.”

“It’s not not, either,” Chloe said, folding her arms. “You’ve been… weird since that video meeting.”

Orm’s jaw tightened. “I’m just tired. I’m juggling grades, routines, and a rally. Excuse me for blinking too long.”

But Chloe didn’t let up. “You’re usually locked in. Focused. Lately? You’re off. And when you’re off, it’s usually because someone’s under your skin.”

Orm stared at her for a beat too long, clipboard held like a shield.

“Don’t do that thing,” Chloe added. “Where you pretend you’re fine and shut everyone out. Just talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about her.”

“So it is her.”

Orm exhaled sharply. She hated how Chloe could always thread the needle like that. She turned back to the squad. “We’re done for today. Clean up your spots. We’ll run through everything again tomorrow.”

Chloe watched her in silence, but the judgment lingered like humidity in the air.

As Orm gathered her things, she looked once—just once—across the field.

Lingling was laughing at something Milk said, the edge of her smile softer than usual. She looked… real. Human.

Orm caught herself and looked away fast.

Again.

The hallway lights buzzed faintly as Orm tossed her duffel bag over one shoulder, her clipboard tucked under her arm. The Spirit Squad had long since filtered out, chatter and laughter fading behind the closing locker room doors.

Chloe waited by the back exit, sipping from a neon-pink smoothie and leaning against the wall like she owned the place. Her gaze slid to Orm as she approached.

“Ride?” she asked.

Orm nodded, wordless.

The drive was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that wasn’t peaceful—it was loaded.

At a red light, Chloe broke the silence. “You’re not talking.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About Lingling?”

Orm’s jaw clenched. “No.”

Chloe laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t even lie like you used to.”

“Chlo—”

“No, really,” she said, eyes still on the road. “I’ve seen that look before. When you get quiet. When something’s burrowing under your skin and you can’t shake it.”

Orm turned toward the window. “It’s not like that.”

Chloe tightened her grip on the wheel. “Isn’t it?”

A pause.

“I saw the way you looked at her during practice,” Chloe said, more gently now. “It wasn’t just annoyance anymore. It’s… something else.”

Orm didn’t reply.

“She gets to you,” Chloe continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “Even when she’s not trying to. Even when you hate it. Even when you hate her.”

That last word hung in the air, heavy and hollow.

“I’m with you,” Orm said finally, staring straight ahead. “I chose you.”

“I know,” Chloe whispered. “But sometimes… I wonder if that choice was just easier.”

Orm’s head snapped toward her. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” Chloe said. “But it’s honest.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was something worse.

It was honest, and sad, and unfinished.

Chloe pulled into Orm’s driveway and parked. She didn’t move to get out.

Orm didn’t either.

Finally, Chloe glanced at her. “I’m not mad. I just… I see it happening. And I don’t think you do.”

Orm opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Chloe leaned across and kissed her softly—slow and familiar. The kind of kiss that used to ground them both.

Orm kissed her back, but her eyes were already drifting… to a shadow that wasn’t there.

______

The post-practice buzz echoed in the Riverbend Raptors locker room—cleats thudding against tile, the hiss of shower steam, the occasional smack of a towel whipping through the air.

Lingling sat at her open locker, towel draped over her neck, hair damp and sticking to her cheeks. She was mid-lace-up when Milk plopped down beside her, her energy way too smug for someone who just ran drills in ninety-degree heat.

“I’m just gonna ask,” Milk said, peeling a protein bar open with unnecessary theatrics. “Are you into Orm Kornnaphat, or are you just trying to win the World Staring Championship?”

Lingling didn’t flinch. “Don’t be annoying.”

“Oh, come on,” Oom chimed in from across the row, leaning out of her locker cubby like a nosy aunt. “She’s not being annoying. She’s being observant. And correct.”

“I’m not into her,” Lingling replied, maybe a little too quickly.

“Sure,” Milk said, nodding solemnly. “That explains the way your head turns every time her ponytail swishes.”

“Or how you haven't flirted with anyone since that ‘collaboration’ started,” Oom added. “Which is suspicious. You’re Lingling Kwong. You used to have a rotation.”

Lingling shot her a look. “I did not have a rotation.”

“Fine,” Milk said, holding up her hands. “Let’s call it a… fluid roster.”

Oom snorted. “A very hydrated roster.”

Lingling groaned and tossed her towel at Milk’s face. “You two need hobbies.”

Milk caught the towel and flung it back. “We have one. It’s watching you try—and fail—to act normal around the cheer captain.”

“I’m fine,” Lingling said, voice clipped.

“Yeah, that’s what people say right before they fall in love,” Oom added, grinning.

Lingling froze.

Even Milk blinked. “...Okay, we were mostly joking, but that hit a nerve.”

“I’m not in love,” Lingling muttered, standing and grabbing her gym bag like the conversation physically repelled her. “She hates me.”

“Sure,” Milk said, grinning. “And yet you haven’t made out with anyone in three weeks. That’s a record. I checked.”

Oom gave a mock-gasp. “Oh my god. You’re emotionally constipated and celibate.”

“Shut up,” Lingling said under her breath, but she was blushing—just faintly.

“Hey,” Milk added, more gently now. “We’re just teasing. But for real… if there’s something going on in your head, you don’t have to tank it alone.”

Lingling didn’t answer. Just nodded and walked out.

____

The apartment was quiet except for the gentle bubbling of water on the stove. Lingling stood by the counter, chopping scallions with mechanical precision. Behind her, Leo sat at the small table, hunched over a comic book, his legs swinging with idle energy.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Lingling said without turning.

Leo flipped a page. “Smells good. Did you put extra soy sauce?”

“I always do.”

They settled into dinner easily—ramen, soft-boiled egg, and the scallions scattered on top like confetti. It was a familiar routine, the kind that had kept them tethered through everything. But tonight, the rhythm felt slightly… off.

Leo glanced up mid-slurp. “You okay?”

Lingling blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re quiet.”

She shrugged. “Practice was long.”

“You’re always at practice.” He tilted his head, chewing slowly. “But today you seem… I don’t know. Like your brain’s somewhere else.”

Lingling looked down at her bowl, stirring the noodles slowly. “Maybe it is.”

Leo leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Is it school stuff? College apps?”

“No.”

“A test?”

“No.”

“A girl?”

She choked slightly.

Leo raised his eyebrows, amused. “That was a joke.”

Lingling cleared her throat and tossed a napkin at him. “Eat your food.”

But her cheeks were warm, and she could feel the weight of her silence sitting between them like another chair at the table.

Leo grinned and went back to eating, clearly satisfied that he’d struck a chord—even if he didn’t know exactly what it was.

Lingling, meanwhile, pushed her noodles around, her thoughts slipping back to the field. To Orm’s eyes. Her voice. That kiss with Chloe she hadn’t meant to see.

It wasn’t just about being tired. Something was shifting inside her. And she didn’t know how to stop it.

______

The sky was still tinted with blue-gray as Lingling pushed open the back gate of the school. Her breath fogged slightly in the crisp morning air, and her duffel bag thudded softly against her hip. The school building loomed quiet and shadowed, the world not yet awake.

She liked mornings like this—before the noise, before the eyes. Just her, the silence, and the grind.

Lingling headed toward the gym entrance, key card in hand. As she opened the door, the faint echo of movement made her pause.

Someone was already inside.

She stepped in, the rubber soles of her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. The gym lights were half-lit, casting long, sleepy shadows.

And there, at center court, was Orm Kornnaphat—stretching, alone, her AirPods in and her ponytail already tight. She wore a Riverbend hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing toned arms and focused eyes locked on the mirror across from her.

Lingling froze mid-step.

Orm didn’t notice her at first, but when she turned for her water bottle, their eyes met.

A flicker of surprise crossed Orm’s face—then, like always, it disappeared behind cool neutrality.

“You’re early,” she said, pulling out one AirPod.

Lingling stepped closer, tossing her duffel to the bleachers. “Captains’ meeting prep. Wanted to get a lift in before.”

Orm raised an eyebrow. “Weight room doesn’t open until seven.”

Lingling smirked. “I have keys.”

Of course she did.

Orm rolled her eyes, half-turning away. “Figures.”

Lingling walked onto the court slowly, her eyes scanning the familiar lines on the floor. She could feel the tension already creeping in—not the usual sharp, combative tension. This was quieter. Heavier.

“I didn’t know you came this early,” Lingling said, voice softer than usual.

“I like the quiet,” Orm replied. “No music. No noise. No people pretending to be something they’re not.”

Lingling flinched, just barely. “That aimed at me?”

Orm met her eyes. “If it fits.”

A pause.

“I’m not pretending,” Lingling said, tone low.

Orm laughed under her breath, not cruel—but tired. “You think I don’t see it? The smirks. The winks. The constant jokes like nothing matters. Like you don’t feel anything.”

“And you think walking around like a perfect glass sculpture makes you better?” Lingling shot back, sharper now. “At least I don’t fake being above it all.”

Orm’s breath caught. “I don’t fake—”

“You do,” Lingling said, stepping closer. “You act like none of this touches you. Like the pressure doesn’t get to you. Like Chloe’s the only thing that matters—”

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“I’m not,” Lingling snapped. “You are. Every time you act like you’ve already figured out your life, it’s because you have someone. You have a house, a future, parents who still help you with college apps and prep courses. You don’t have to carry anything alone.”

Orm’s expression shifted. The insult hadn’t landed—something else had.

“You really think that’s what this is?” she asked quietly. “You think I’m… untouchable?”

Lingling didn’t answer.

The air between them was thick now. Too still. Too close.

Orm looked at her, really looked at her—and for the first time, saw the exhaustion around her eyes. The weight in her shoulders. The loneliness she tried to hide under every smirk.

Something in her chest tugged.

“I don’t hate you,” Orm said, her voice barely a whisper.

Lingling blinked, caught off guard. “You sure about that?”

“No,” Orm admitted. “But I don’t think I like the version of me when I’m around you.”

Lingling laughed once, dry. “Because I make you lose control?”

Orm’s jaw clenched.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe because you make me feel things I don’t want to deal with.”

They stood there, two captains in a gym not meant to hold this much silence.

And just before Orm could stop herself, she added, “Don’t look at me like that during practice.”

Lingling tilted her head. “Like what?”

Orm exhaled shakily. “Like you’re trying to figure out what it would be like to kiss me.”

Lingling’s gaze darkened, her voice low. “What if I am?”

Another pause.

Then, just as suddenly, Orm turned away, grabbing her bottle, her heartbeat in her throat.

“Then don’t.”

And she walked off the court, leaving Lingling standing in the quiet.

Later that day, Orm couldn’t shake off her morning encounter.

Her chest was tight, like something had cracked open during that conversation and was now bleeding out slowly beneath her skin.

Don’t look at me like that during practice.

What if I am?

Lingling’s voice wouldn’t stop replaying in her head. Low. Controlled. But beneath it—something dangerous. Something real.

Orm had meant to shut her down. To be firm, composed, above it all. But that one look—that flicker in Lingling’s eyes—had cut right through her. It hadn’t been about the game. It hadn’t been a challenge.

It had been honest.

And worse, it had shaken her.

By the time she arrived at school again, the rest of the Spirit Squad had trickled in. She forced herself into captain mode—calling formations, counting beats, adjusting positions. But her voice wasn’t as crisp. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Five, six, seven—Orm, you’re off.”

She turned sharply at the sound of Chloe’s voice.

“What?” she snapped before catching herself. Chloe stood a few feet away, arms folded, gaze gentle—but not unaware.

“You’re off,” Chloe repeated quietly. “You’re usually counting by instinct. Today it’s like you’re guessing.”

Orm’s throat went dry. “I’m fine.”

But Chloe didn’t answer. Not right away. She just stepped closer and said, softer now, “Did something happen this morning?”

Orm swallowed. She thought of saying no. Of brushing it off. Of blaming sleep or stress or heat.

But Chloe was looking at her like she already knew.

And in a way, she did.

Orm’s voice cracked the silence. “We were both in the gym. Early. Alone.”

Chloe didn’t react, not visibly.

“We didn’t do anything,” Orm added quickly. “We didn’t even touch. It was just—words.”

But the way she said “words” made Chloe flinch.

“I didn’t ask what happened,” Chloe said, her voice suddenly quiet. “I asked if something happened.”

Orm looked at her then, really looked—and saw it. The sadness. The understanding. The fear of the answer she already knew.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Orm admitted. “She gets under my skin. I hate it. I hate that I think about her when I shouldn’t. I hate that she looks at me like she sees me, and I don’t know why that matters.”

Chloe nodded. But she didn’t smile. She didn’t hold her hand.

She just said, “I know you love me, Orm. But I don’t think it’s the kind of love that can grow.”

And that… that hurt.

____

The media room at Riverbend High was small, tucked between the library and the auditorium. At this hour—two days before the big Westbridge game—it was deserted, save for the soft hum of old computers and the flicker of a single overhead light.

Lingling arrived first. She sat at the editing station, arms crossed, watching the project timeline scroll across the screen. Her heart wasn’t in it. Not really. She just didn’t want to seem late.

When the door opened, she didn’t look up.

But she felt it. The shift. The pull.

Orm stepped in, arms full—camera bag, laptop, a half-empty iced coffee with her name scribbled in sharpie. She looked… tired. And beautiful. And distant.

“Hey,” she said, like it was just a meeting. Like her voice hadn’t been haunting Lingling’s thoughts since that morning in the gym.

Lingling nodded. “We’re nearly done. Just need to drop in the intro clip and balance the sound.”

Orm didn’t answer. She set her things down beside Lingling and slipped into the seat next to her.

Their arms almost touched.

The silence stretched.

Lingling cleared her throat. “How’s Spirit Squad prep?”

“Sharp,” Orm replied. “Tight routines. Everyone’s hyped.”

“Good.”

More silence.

Orm clicked open her laptop, dragging the intro clip into the project folder. “I re-exported the audio. Cleaned up the hiss.”

Lingling nodded, eyes still on the screen. “Thanks.”

They worked in quiet sync for a few minutes. Fingers tapping. Files shifting. Lingling leaned forward to scrub through the final cut, and Orm leaned too—close enough to smell the faint scent of her shampoo.

Too close.

Lingling’s voice broke the quiet. “After this… we’re done, right?”

Orm’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

“Yeah,” she said. “Done.”

It should’ve felt like relief.

It didn’t.

Lingling turned her head, slowly. “So… we just go back to ignoring each other?”

Orm met her gaze, and it was like neither of them could breathe.

“That’s what we’ve always done.”

“I’m tired of that.”

Orm blinked.

“I’m tired of pretending,” Lingling said, voice low, raw. “Of acting like none of this matters. Like I don’t care. I do.”

Orm swallowed, her throat tight. “You shouldn’t.”

“Too late.”

The words hung there, suspended in all the space that used to hold silence.

Lingling leaned back, pressing her palms to her knees, forcing herself to breathe. “Look… I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what you want. But I can’t keep acting like I don’t feel something every time you look at me.”

Orm didn’t move. But her voice was quieter now. Shaken. “You scared me.”

Lingling looked over. “What?”

“That day,” Orm said, eyes fixed on the keyboard. “In the gym. You looked at me like you knew me. Like you weren’t scared of what you saw.”

Lingling’s voice softened. “I wasn’t.”

“That’s what scared me.”

Orm finally turned to face her, and her eyes—so guarded before—were wide open now. Vulnerable.

“You break things, Lingling.”

“I know,” Lingling said. “But I don’t want to break you.”

Another pause.

Then Orm whispered, “Then don’t.”

The air cracked.

It was slow—so slow—how Lingling reached for her hand. Not to pull, not to kiss, not to trap.

Just… to hold.

And Orm let her.

For one long moment, they sat there—two girls with nothing figured out, too much unsaid, and one shared truth humming quietly between their fingertips.

The final video exported.

The moment didn’t.

The stadium felt different now.

Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was the knowledge that the Westbridge game was tomorrow. Maybe it was the fact that every time Lingling ran a play, she found herself searching the sidelines for a flash of blonde hair and a tight ponytail.

And when she saw it—saw Orm commanding her squad like a queen in her kingdom—something twisted deep in her stomach.

She hated it.

She hated how her heartbeat sped up when Orm laughed at something Chloe whispered in her ear. She hated the way Chloe’s hand casually brushed Orm’s arm. She hated how Orm didn’t pull away.

Lingling threw a perfect pass.
It still wasn’t enough.

“Your throws are sharper,” Coach yelled. “Keep that up tomorrow, Kwong!”

She nodded, grabbing her water bottle, trying to focus. But her eyes wandered again.

Orm was stretching now. Chloe hovered beside her, animated, but Orm was half-listening, her posture rigid, her smile absent. Chloe bumped her shoulder, trying to tease something out.

Lingling narrowed her eyes. Something was off.

_____

“Stop fidgeting,” Chloe said, swatting Orm’s knee. “You’re always jumpy before rallies, but this is something else.”

Orm adjusted her sock again, refusing to meet her gaze. “Just thinking about the routine.”

“No, you’re not,” Chloe said, folding her arms. “You’re thinking about her.”

Orm stilled.

Chloe gave a small, breathy laugh—tired, not bitter. “You don’t even deny it anymore.”

“It’s complicated,” Orm murmured.

“It’s only complicated because you let it be,” Chloe shot back. “I stood by while you figured it out. I told myself I was okay with the silence, with being second to your ambitions. But I didn’t think I’d end up being second to her.”

Orm looked down at her shoes. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Chloe asked. “You’re here. But you’re not here. Your head is always somewhere else. And I know exactly where.”

Orm didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Chloe sighed. “You love her.”

Orm’s throat tightened. “I don’t know what I feel.”

Chloe’s voice cracked. “But it’s not me anymore. Is it?”

Orm closed her eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”

_____

Lingling tossed her helmet into her locker a little too hard.

Milk raised an eyebrow. “You okay, Cap?”

“Fine.”

“Mm-hmm,” Oom said, dragging out the sound. “So that glare you’ve been aiming at the Spirit Squad all practice was just… what? Sun in your eyes?”

Lingling yanked off her jersey. “I’m not glaring.”

“Babe, your eyes have been on Orm and her girlfriend the entire time,” Milk said. “Which is fine. But you’re starting to look like you want to sack Chloe instead of a quarterback.”

Lingling paused. “It’s none of my business.”

“Right,” Oom muttered. “And I’m abstaining from gossip this week.”

Milk gave her a look. “Ling. You like her.”

Lingling ran a hand through her sweaty hair. “She has a girlfriend.”

Milk leaned against the lockers, her voice gentler now. “Yeah, but… it doesn’t mean it’s good. People stay in the wrong relationships all the time. Maybe because it’s easy. Or familiar. Or safe.”

Oom nodded. “And no offense to Chloe, but Orm hasn’t looked ‘safe’ in weeks. She looks like she’s trying not to combust every time you’re around.”

Lingling stared at the floor.

“You can keep pretending you don’t care,” Milk said, “but eventually, it’s gonna come out. One way or another.”

The school was nearly silent by the time Orm stepped into the gym, the heavy door closing behind her with a soft click. The pep rally was over, the team had cleared out, and Chloe was already gone—having accepted Orm’s soft smile and lie about staying to finalize Spirit Squad details before her chauffeur picked her up.

She wouldn’t be going home.

Not tonight.

She needed the quiet. She needed the space. She needed… something she couldn’t name.

And then—like the universe had plans of its own—Orm heard footsteps echo down the hall behind her.

She turned.

Lingling.

Still in her practice gear, hair damp at the roots, a hoodie thrown on over her shoulder pads like she hadn’t bothered to change. She paused in the doorway when she saw Orm, just breathing for a second too long.

“You forgot something?” Orm asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Lingling stepped inside. “Was gonna shoot around. Burn off some energy before tomorrow.”

Orm nodded. “Can’t sleep either?”

Lingling let out a soft, dry laugh. “Who can?”

The lights were dim. Just the bleachers humming under soft yellow glow. Orm sat on the bottom step, her elbows resting on her knees. Lingling crossed to the far wall, grabbed a basketball, and started dribbling—slow, rhythmic.

They didn’t speak for a while.

It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—it was loaded. Lingling sank a shot. Then another.

Finally, Orm broke it. “You jealous?”

Lingling missed the third.

She caught the ball and turned, slowly. “What?”

“Earlier. At the rally.” Orm didn’t look at her. “When Chloe kissed me.”

Lingling tossed the ball aside. It rolled off toward the shadows.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Because,” Orm said softly, “you’ve been looking at me like I belong to someone else. And you hate it.”

Lingling crossed the gym, stopping just in front of her. “Do you?”

Orm looked up. “Do I what?”

“Belong to someone else.”

Orm opened her mouth—then closed it.

She stood.

They were close now. Too close. Breathing the same shallow, terrified air.

“No,” Orm said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Lingling didn’t smile. She didn’t touch her. But her voice dropped, a whisper against the echoing stillness. “Then stop pretending like I’m the only one who feels this.”

“I tried,” Orm said, her voice trembling. “I tried so hard.”

Lingling stepped even closer. “Then stop trying.”

Their eyes locked. Everything they’d buried rose to the surface—all the glances, the biting remarks, the restraint. The fear. The want.

Orm’s voice cracked. “If we do this, everything changes.”

Lingling leaned in, just slightly. “Good.”

And then she kissed her.

Soft.

Slow.

Terrified.

And Orm kissed her back.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was thunder. It was years of pressure released in a single breath. It was aching and desperate and right.

When they broke apart, Orm kept her forehead resting against Lingling’s.

“We’re not ready,” she whispered.

Lingling nodded. “I know.”

“But I don’t want to lie anymore.”

Lingling closed her eyes. “Then don’t.”

The gym was still. The lights hummed overhead.

And for the first time since this began, neither of them ran. Ling didn’t wait for another second before gripping Orm’s waist and bringing her closer, kissing her deeply again, Orm returned it without hesitation.

The kiss still lingered between them, like static in the air.

Neither of them spoke much after. They just… stood there. Lingling had pulled away first, lips parted, breath uneven, like she couldn’t believe what she’d done—or that Orm had let her.

Orm hadn’t said anything either.

But she hadn’t walked away.

Now, they pushed open the gym doors together, the cool night air rushing against their flushed skin. The parking lot was mostly empty, silent except for the rhythmic hum of the stadium lights cooling down behind them.

Orm walked a few steps ahead, keys jingling in her hand. Lingling followed, her hoodie now zipped, hands shoved deep in the pockets.

“I could’ve walked alone,” Orm said, her voice low, glancing sideways at her.

Lingling gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Didn’t want you out here alone. It’s late.”

Orm stopped by the car—sleek, black, expensive. Chauffeur still in the front, engine idling.

She turned, crossing her arms. “So what about you?”

Lingling blinked. “What about me?”

“How do you get home?”

Lingling looked away. “I walk.”

Orm frowned. “At this hour?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“That’s not the point.”

Lingling met her gaze, something unreadable behind her eyes. “It’s not your job to worry about me, Orm.”

“I’m not trying to—” Orm paused. “Wait, no. I am worrying about you. Because that walk’s long. And it’s dark. And—dammit, Ling, just take a ride. I’ll tell him to wait. I’ll sit in the back.”

Lingling’s mouth twitched, a sad smile threatening to appear. “And tell Chloe what? That you dropped off the girl you kissed at the gym?”

Orm’s expression faltered.

“I’m fine,” Lingling added softly. “Really.”

“You always say that,” Orm whispered.

Lingling looked at her for a long second. “Because no one ever lets me be anything else.”

That silence again—the one that cuts deeper than words.

Orm opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“Will you text me when you get home?”

Lingling’s eyes widened slightly. “You want me to?”

Orm nodded, barely. “I’ll sleep better.”

Lingling hesitated. Then: “Okay.”

She turned to go, but Orm’s voice stopped her.

“Ling.”

She looked back.

Orm’s face was half-lit by the car’s headlights. “I meant what I said. About not lying anymore.”

Lingling’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

Then she turned, pulled her hood up, and disappeared into the night.

Orm watched her go until she couldn’t see her anymore. Her hand shook when she reached for the car door.

he car pulled into the long driveway, headlights washing over the manicured hedges and polished white stone of the Kornnaphat estate. The chauffeur stepped out, opened the door, and Orm slid out silently, school bag in one hand, hoodie still zipped tight to her collarbone.

The house was quiet, like always. Silent in that expensive, echoing kind of way.

But tonight, everything felt louder. Her footsteps on the marble. Her breath in her chest. Her pulse in her throat.

She barely made it two steps into the front hall before a voice called gently from the sitting room.

“Orm, sweetheart?”

Her mother.

Orm froze.

Mae Kornnaphat stood at the edge of the light, silk robe tied elegantly around her waist, a cup of tea in her hand. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, flicked to her daughter—and paused.

“You’re home late,” she said, voice casual.

“Just… finishing the rally video,” Orm answered, too quickly.

Her mother smiled faintly. “Of course.”

She took a sip, then narrowed her eyes slightly. “You’re glowing.”

Orm blinked. “I—what?”

“Your face,” her mother said. “There’s something different. A light I haven’t seen in… years.”

Orm swallowed. “It’s just the game tomorrow.”

Mae tilted her head, unconvinced. “If you say so.”

Orm started to walk past, but paused. “Have I ever made you proud?”

Her mother looked surprised. “Always. Why would you even ask that?”

Orm looked down at her shoes. “Because I think I’m about to change everything. And I don’t know if it’s right.”

Mae set down her tea. “Orm…”

Orm looked up.

“Sometimes,” her mother said gently, “what feels wrong at first is just the beginning of something real.”

Orm nodded, eyes glassy. “Goodnight, Mae.”

She walked upstairs to her room. The moment her door clicked shut, she collapsed onto her bed.

She stared at the ceiling.

Then at her phone.

Her fingers hovered. Text to Lingling: 

Did you make it home?

She stared at it. Hit send. Then waited.

______

The apartment lights were on when Lingling climbed the stairs, the air thick with the smell of popcorn and cheap laundry detergent. She shoved her key into the door and pushed it open.

“Hey!” Leo called from the couch. “You missed the end of the movie!”

He was curled up in a blanket burrito, eyes wide with post-action-movie energy. The television flashed bright behind him.

Across the room, the nanny—Nok—was gathering her bag, already halfway to the door.

“I stayed a little longer since practice ran late,” she said gently, voice kind.

Lingling smiled at her, tired. “Thank you.”

Nok nodded. “Get some rest. Big day tomorrow, hm?”

“Yeah,” Lingling muttered.

When the door clicked shut, Lingling dropped her duffel bag, kicked off her shoes, and let out a long, slow exhale.

Leo turned the volume down. “You okay?”

Lingling walked over, collapsed onto the couch beside him.

“I’m good,” she said softly.

He paused. “You look different.”

She blinked at him. “Different how?”

Leo shrugged. “I don’t know. Like… you’re not sad.”

Lingling didn’t answer.

Her phone buzzed.

She checked it.

Text from Orm:

Did you make it home?

Lingling stared at it.

Then, slowly—her lips curved into the smallest smile.

Lingling: Yeah. Just got in. Thanks for checking.

She hit send.

Leo glanced over. “Who’s that? You smile”

“No one,” Lingling said, standing and tousling his hair. “Go to bed soon. Love you”

“I will, football hero.”

Lingling grabbed a bottle of water, walked into her bedroom, and closed the door behind her.