Beyond the Bleachers

The buzz in the hallway was louder than usual.

Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked. Laughter rang out in clusters. But underneath it all, like a steady drumbeat, was the whisper.

Not about the game.
Not about the Spirit Squad’s performance.
Not even about the win that had made Riverbend history.

No.

They were all talking about Orm and Ryan.

“Did you see them at the gala?”

 “She looked like she was into it.”

 “Power couple energy for real.”

 “I thought she liked girls??”

 “Nah, she’s too classy for that.”  

“But wasn’t she with that Chloe cheerleader?”

Orm walked through the hallway like a ghost in designer armor.

Uniform perfect. Collar crisp. Hair sleek and pinned.
Every step measured. Every look deflected. But her eyes? Frantic.

She scanned the halls like she was searching for air.
For safety.
For Ling.

She passed groups of people mid-whisper. Phones out. Screens flashing her own face. They smiled at her like they knew her.

But no one really did.

Not the way Ling had.

Then—

She saw her.

Across the hallway, by the second-floor lockers.
Leaning back, arms folded, headphones dangling from one ear, bag slung low like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Ling.

Unreadable. Controlled. Almost… indifferent.

Orm slowed. Her stomach turned.

She remembered what it felt like to hold her in the quiet. To wake up next to her. To kiss her in the shadow of the gym, where no one could see.

But now?

Ling didn’t look up.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.

Even as Orm stood there, motionless in the chaos, people instinctively moving out of her way—because something about her felt ready to break.

And then— Ling turned. Shouldered her bag.

And walked away. As if Orm had never existed.

_______

It was the first joint practice since the game.

Ling stood on the field with her team, barking orders, eyes sharp. There was no trace of hesitation in her voice.
She looked unbreakable.

But Orm could see it.

The slight tension in her shoulders.
The way she didn’t meet Orm’s gaze once.
The way she didn’t laugh with Milk or nudge Junji back when they teased.

She was holding herself too tightly.

And Orm knew—She had broken her.

Kary tossed her phone onto the bench, disgusted. “I’m gonna punch Ryan. Or whoever started the damn hashtag.”

Orm sat on the floor in a corner, knees pulled in, water bottle unopened by her side. Her ponytail was too tight. Her heart tighter.

“I didn’t even want to be there,” she said, barely audible. “I didn’t even want to stand near him.”

Kary sat down across from her, quiet now.

“Then tell her,” she said gently.

“She won’t talk to me,” Orm whispered.

“Then make her listen.”

Orm looked up, eyes red, blinking hard.

“She already believes it,” she choked. “I saw it in her face. She thinks I’m just like him. Like—like everyone else who only ever wanted her for the story.”

Kary leaned forward. “Then show her she’s the story you choose. That she’s not just someone you want… she’s someone you want to know.”

Orm’s breath shook.

“I want to know everything,” she murmured. “Why she only ever smiles when she’s home. Why she never lets people in. What she thinks about before falling asleep. What she dreams about when she finally does.”

She swallowed.

“I want to know how she survived losing so much and still finds the strength to love someone like me.”

Kary’s voice was softer now. “Then don’t give up.”

“I won’t,” Orm said.

And for the first time that morning—she meant it.

________

The sun beat down on Riverbend’s field.
Whistles blew. Sneakers pounded. The echo of Go Raptors! rang in waves.

On one side, the football team ran drills. Sharp. Fast. Precise.

At the center of it all—Lingling.

Commanding.
Focused.
Not smiling.

She called out plays like she was trying to outrun her own heartbeat. Like if she moved fast enough, it wouldn’t hurt.

But her eyes?

They kept drifting to the other side of the field.

Where Orm stood, ponytail flying, voice clear as crystal as she led the Spirit Squad through full-stunt routines.

Orm was perfect.

Too perfect.

Every move hit with power. Her feet never faltered. Her voice never cracked.

But inside?

She was watching.

Ling.

Helmet off. Sweat clinging to her brow. Eyes locked on the field like it was the only thing holding her together.

And when their gazes met—
Just for a second—
Orm felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Ling looked away first.

And Orm hated how much that stung.

“Damn,” Milk muttered under her breath, eyeing Ling from the side. “She’s running us like we’re training for the Olympics.”

Junji raised an eyebrow. “That’s heartbreak cardio, babe. She’s trying to sweat Orm out.”

On the cheer side, Kary whispered to another flyer, “If she throws one more double without blinking, I swear I’m calling a coach.”

Another girl added, “She’s not even here. She’s watching her.”

Eyes flicked back and forth between captains like the field was a battlefield. Everyone felt it.

But neither Orm nor Ling broke their rhythm.

Because they couldn’t.

Because if they did—

It would all come pouring out.

The sun had started to dip.

Sweat-drenched. Breathless. Tension buzzing in the air.

Orm watched Ling walk toward the locker rooms with her helmet under one arm, teammates surrounding her, but none of them close enough to touch the truth beneath her silence.

Orm didn’t move.

But she wanted to.

God, she wanted to.

Just to say: I saw the photos too. And I hated them. And I need to fix this.

_____

The Kornnaphat estate was immaculate as always.

Marble floors. Crystal lighting. A silence so pristine it echoed.

Orm sat at the dining table, still in her uniform, hair tied back too tightly, fingers wrapped around a glass of water she hadn’t touched.

Her parents were already mid-discussion when she walked in. Now, they sat on either side of the long table, opposite her like some kind of board meeting.

Her father glanced up from his tablet.

“Orm,” he said, tone clipped. “The photos with Ryan trended for twelve hours. Strong media pull. Clean, attractive pairing. It’s good.”

Orm blinked. “Good?”

He nodded. “Strategic.”

“Strategic?” she echoed, heart rising into her throat.

Her mother looked at her gently. “Sweetheart…”

But Orm didn’t let her speak. Her eyes were locked on her father now.

“You think it’s strategic that people believe I’m dating someone I don’t even like? That they’re dragging my name all over social media without even asking what’s true?”

Her father didn’t flinch. “You’re a public figure. That comes with expectations. It’s not about what’s true. It’s about what works.”

“Works for who?” Orm snapped. “You? Your company? Your stupid golf club friends?”

He frowned. “You’re overreacting. You’re young. You’ll settle. Ryan is—”

“I’m not settling,” she cut in. “And I’m definitely not settling for Ryan.”

A heavy silence.

Her father leaned back, unimpressed. “People want to see stability. You’re eighteen. Soon, university. You should be thinking about the future. About who you’ll build it with.”

“I am,” Orm whispered. “You just wouldn’t understand her.”

That stopped everything.

Her mother’s eyes softened.

Her father’s hardened.

“Him,” he corrected automatically.

“No,” Orm said clearly. “Her.”

Her mother reached for her hand across the table, squeezing it gently.

“I know,” she said softly. “I knew before you did.”

Orm blinked. Her throat tightened. “You did?”

“A mother always knows.”

Her father stood. “This conversation is over.”

“No,” Orm said. “It’s not.”

He turned toward the hallway, and her mother stood too, voice quiet but firm. “She’s not asking for your permission, darling. She’s asking for respect.”

He didn’t answer.

Just left.

Leaving Orm and her mother alone in the vast dining room.

Orm crumbled into her seat, finally letting the tears gather in her eyes.

“I didn’t even do anything wrong,” she said, voice cracking.

Her mother wrapped her in a hug. “I know.”

“She thinks I don’t care. That I lied.”

“She’ll know the truth soon,” her mother whispered. “Because you’re going to tell her.”

Orm nodded into her shoulder.

“I have to.”

_____

The warm smell of pizza filled the apartment, mixing with the hum of Leo’s giggles and the familiar jingle of the cartoon playing on the TV.

Ling sat on the couch in her sweats, legs crossed, one arm wrapped around Leo who was already on his second slice. Junji was sprawled on the other side, holding her crust like a mic and singing off-key to the show’s theme song.

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” she said, mouth full. “That was Grammy-level.”

Leo laughed. “You’re soooo bad.”

Ling smiled softly, resting her cheek on his head. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Bold words from someone who burned microwave popcorn last week,” Junji shot back.

That made Leo giggle harder. “She made the whole house smell like sad!”

Ling chuckled too, but it faded quickly.

Because even as she laughed, her eyes drifted to her phone screen.
Still dark.
Still quiet.
No messages.

Not even from her.

Junji noticed.

She always did.

She nudged Ling’s foot with her own. “Still nothing?”

Ling shook her head, trying to keep her face unreadable.

Junji didn’t press.

Not until Leo ran to grab juice boxes.

Then she turned fully, voice low. “Okay. Real talk. You gonna tell me what happened at school?”

Ling’s jaw tensed. “She didn’t say a word. Not during practice. Not in the hall. Nothing.”

Junji tilted her head. “But you wanted her to.”

Ling hesitated.

Then whispered, “I wanted her to fight.”

Silence.

Junji watched her carefully. “Ling…”

“I know it’s stupid,” Ling muttered, folding a napkin until it tore. “But I kept thinking… maybe if it mattered, if I mattered, she’d say something. She’d chase after me or—anything.”

Junji’s voice was softer now. “She looked like hell in the hallway. You know that, right?”

“She looked flawless.”

“No, babe. She looked wrecked.”

Ling didn’t answer.

She just leaned back into the couch cushions, blinking up at the ceiling.

“She kissed me like I was the only girl she’s ever wanted,” she whispered. “But then she let the world believe it was him.”

Junji moved closer, bumping their shoulders. “And that hurts.”

Ling’s voice cracked. “Yeah.”

The last slice of pizza sat half-eaten on the coffee table.

Ling stood in the kitchen, stacking plates, wiping down counters, quietly humming to herself—except she wasn’t really humming. Just making a sound so the silence didn’t swallow her.

Her eyes were tired. Her movements slow.

She didn’t know if she was angry or heartbroken or both.

Behind her, on the couch, Leo was curled under his favorite blanket, his head resting on Junji’s shoulder as they watched some silly kids’ show that had long lost its charm.

Junji wasn’t really watching. She was half-scrolling, half-worried—keeping an eye on her best friend who hadn’t really laughed since Friday night.

Then Leo spoke.

Voice small. Honest. Like he’d been holding it in all night.

“My sister is sad.”

Junji looked down at him, caught off guard.

Leo blinked up at the screen, but his voice was firm. “She says she’s fine. But she’s not.”

Junji tucked the blanket closer around him. “She’s just tired, baby.”

“No,” he said. “Not tired. Sad. It’s different. She doesn’t even hum the right songs when she cleans.”

Junji bit her lip.

Leo snuggled in closer, voice even softer now. “I think she misses someone.”

Junji blinked. “Do you know who?”

Leo nodded. “The girl from the phone.”

Junji smiled a little, even though it made her heart ache. “Yeah. Who’s that?”

Leo yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Her cheerleader. The beautiful one. She needs her back”

Junji’s chest tightened.

She didn’t say anything for a second.

Then gently—fingers brushing through his hair—she whispered,

“She will, Leo. Her cheerleader’s just finding her way back.”