Chapter 9
Chapitre 9
The hallway buzzed with early-morning chaos.
Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was playing the Mean Girls soundtrack from a backpack down the corridor.
But none of it cut through the static in Ling’s head.
She was already at her locker, mechanical in her movements. Open. Grab the books. Slam. Walk.
No good mornings. No teasing texts. No Orm at her side.
She hadn't spoken to her.
Not since Saturday.
Not a single message. Not a call. Not even a “seen” notification.
And now?
Now it was Tuesday.
And she hadn’t walked to school with Orm.
She hadn’t driven her.
Hadn’t waited at the curb where Orm always came running with that stupid soft smile and a fresh hair tie around her wrist.
Just silence.
Just that stupid message still burned into her memory:
I need space.Don’t try to find me.I’m safe.
Junji was already leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with narrowed eyes.
“Still no word?”
Ling shook her head. “Nothing.”
Milk sighed as she joined them. “She wasn’t at the gym either. Tess said she showed up late to practice. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even flip anyone off.”
“That’s... terrifying,” Junji muttered. “Orm not flipping someone off is like end-of-days energy.”
Ling cracked the tiniest smirk—but it faded fast.
“Her team knows something’s off,” Milk said gently. “Kary looked ready to cry during warmups yesterday.”
“Yeah, well…” Ling exhaled. “Orm made it pretty clear she doesn’t want me near her right now.”
Junji scoffed. “Then why did she look like she hadn’t slept in three days when she passed by our hallway? Girl’s walking like someone removed her spine.”
Ling didn’t answer.
She didn’t have one.
Because the truth was—she missed her.
Stupidly. Painfully. Every single second.
And every time she looked across the field, across the hallway, across the space between them, it felt like someone had carved a line into the ground and dared her to cross it.
But she wasn’t sure she’d be welcome on the other side.
Orm sat on the bleachers, water bottle clenched tight in her hand.
Practice hadn’t started yet, but the cheer squad was already stretching, murmuring quietly among themselves.
Tess kept glancing at her. Kary hadn’t even tried to fake casual. She just stood a few feet away, watching Orm like she might shatter at any moment.
And honestly?
She might.
She hadn’t looked at Ling. Not once.
She couldn’t.
Because if she did—if she saw her in that worn varsity jacket with her smirking mouth and tired eyes—she’d fall apart.
Again.
Harley had been outside her house every day since Sunday.
A reminder.
A threat.
She wasn’t free.
Not really.
And the only thing keeping her from collapsing completely was the single thought that Ling didn’t know. That she hadn’t seen the way her father had dragged her out of Kary’s apartment like she was an embarrassment.
That she hadn’t been pulled into the fire.
But God… it hurt.
It hurt like hell.
Because Ling hadn’t called.
She hadn’t texted again.
And it was what Orm asked for. But not what she wanted.
Not even close, but they kept drifting apart day after day.
__________
The sun was brutal today—unforgiving, relentless.
But neither of them complained.
Ling barked orders across the field, whistle swinging from her neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. The Raptors were sweaty, loud, and half-winded from their third set of sprints.
She didn’t care.
Friday was everything. A scout from one of the top universities was confirmed. Two others rumored. The biggest game of the season, the one that could flip scholarships and open doors. No one was allowed to slack. Not even for a second.
Not even her.
Which was why she didn’t let herself look across the field.
At the cheer squad.
At her.
At Orm.
Not often, anyway.
But when she thought no one was watching?
She glanced.
And instantly regretted it.
Orm was at the front of the formation, crop top clinging to her like a second skin, long legs on full, devastating display as she launched into a perfect tumbling sequence, landing with a hair flip and a flash of power that made every other girl on that field look like they were moving underwater.
Ling swallowed.
Hard.
“Focus,” she muttered under her breath, turning back toward her team—but not before her eyes flicked one last time to that perfect curve of Orm’s ass in her black spandex shorts.
Junji jogged by and elbowed her. “Girl. We see you.”
Ling didn’t even flinch. “Shut up.”
But the blush crept up anyway.
Across the field Orm was was laser-focused today.
She had to be.
Tess was off timing. Kary was low on energy. One of the newer flyers couldn’t stick a cradle if her life depended on it.
Orm handled it.
Sharp commands. Repetitions. Adjustments.
No distractions.
Except one.
She made the mistake of glancing across the turf during pyramid reset.
And there she was.
Lingling Kwong, glowing like a goddess in that sweat-slicked team shirt tied tight over her ribbed sports bra, six-pack abs on full display, sweat trailing down her neck like something out of a sinful Nike ad.
Orm nearly missed the count.
She whipped her head back around.
Too late.
Kary saw it.
“Jesus Christ,” Kary muttered as they reset, barely hiding her smirk. “You’re drooling. Again.”
Orm rolled her eyes. “She’s just... distracting.”
“She’s literally a walking thirst trap. But she’s your walking thirst trap.”
Orm didn’t reply.
Because Ling wasn’t hers right now.
And that ache? That absence?
It made every glance sharper.
Every second hungrier.
Later on, Ling stood by the cooler, sweat dripping, arms crossed as her team broke for water.
Her eyes flicked across the field again.
Orm had her hair up in a high ponytail now, legs flexing as she climbed into a formation demo. Her arms were wrapped around Tess's waist for balance. Her jaw was clenched in concentration.
She looked—
God, she looked unreachable.
Ling turned away before anyone could see the look on her face.
Junji passed behind her, whispering like a demon: “I bet her thighs could crack a watermelon.”
Ling choked on her water.
“Jesus.”
“Just saying.”
“You’re not helping.”
Junji grinned. “I’m not trying to.”
Practice ended late. The sun dipped low, casting shadows over the field.
Ling jogged toward the fence, towel around her neck, her bag slung low on one shoulder.
She didn’t look at Orm.
Not directly.
Orm didn’t look either.
But they both sensed it.
That magnetic hum. The pulse of something unfinished hanging between them.
Ling disappeared into the locker hall.
Orm exhaled slowly.
She didn’t even realize her hand had gone to her chest, fingers brushing the spot where her necklace used to sit—the one Ling had untangled from her hair two month ago after kissing her breathless behind the bleachers.
God.
What were they even doing anymore?
The echo of cleats and sneakers faded into the dusky quiet.
Orm stayed where she was, still at the edge of the turf, her squad dismissed, the last cheerleader rounding the corner toward the gym.
She could’ve left too.
But she didn’t.
Her legs wouldn’t move. Her chest felt too tight. That damn necklace ghosted against her collarbone like it wanted to remind her.
What were they even doing anymore?
“—and that, ladies,” a voice carried from behind the bleachers, “is what I call a perfect shoulder-to-hip ratio.”
Orm blinked. Head turned.
It was Carmen.
The Carmen. Tall. Cocky. Captain of the volleyball team. Her voice dripped flirtation and unearned confidence. She leaned against the fence, surrounded by her squad, all of them still in uniform, post-practice glow making them louder than they thought.
Another girl giggled. “No, seriously—Ling? With that core? Those abs? Are you kidding me?”
“She could bench press me and I’d say thank you.”
“I’d pay for her to yell at me,” someone added. “With that voice? That little ‘I run this field’ energy?”
Orm’s blood ran cold.
She knew Ling couldn’t hear. She was already gone, deep in the locker hall, probably showering off sweat and glory, completely unaware she was being publicly devoured by a pack of overconfident lesbians outside the girls' volleyball huddle.
“I heard she’s single now,” Carmen drawled. “Guess Riverbend’s MVP finally remembered how to have fun.”
Laughter erupted.
That was it.
Orm’s grip tightened on her water bottle so hard it crumpled.
Kary’s voice came beside her, cool and unsurprised. “They’ve been like this all week. You just haven’t stayed late enough to hear it.”
Orm didn’t answer.
Tess leaned around her, eyebrows raised. “You gonna walk over there or combust on the spot?”
“She doesn’t belong to me,” Orm said, low.
Kary snorted. “Right. And I’m straight.”
Orm turned to her slowly, a storm in her eyes.
“I told her to stay away,” she whispered. “I told her I needed space.”
“Yeah,” Kary said, “but I don’t think you meant ‘please let the volleyball team thirst over you in surround sound.’”
“She doesn’t even know they’re talking about her.”
“Oh, she definitely doesn’t,” Tess said. “Which makes this even better. Or worse. Depends on how much you’re spiraling.”
Orm didn’t say a word.
She just turned on her heel, walking toward the locker building with hard, even steps.
Kary called after her, teasing: “Where you going, your majesty?”
Orm didn’t turn around.
But her answer cut through the air like a blade:
“Anywhere that isn’t here.”
And as the sun dipped below the field, turning the sky bruised and gold, Orm disappeared into the hallway—heart hammering, throat tight, and every muscle in her body screaming for someone she swore she couldn’t reach anymore.
___
Ling was tying her shoelaces slower than necessary. Pretending to check her bag again. Pretending to stretch.
Waiting.
Not for anything in particular.
Except—
Orm.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it.
That flash of white hoodie. That familiar walk. Chin up. Spine straight. Every step too measured to be real.
Orm.
Ling didn’t turn her head. Didn’t want to make it obvious.
But her eyes followed her, subtly, hungrily. Like they always had.
Then—her breath caught.
A sleek black car pulled up at the edge of the lot.
Not her mother’s car. Not the usual soft-hued sedan with the slightly dented bumper and the quiet driver who always wore a blue scarf.
No.
This one was—
Shiny.
Taller.
Darker.
Driver in full uniform.
Her father’s car.
Ling’s brows drew together, heart skipping once.
Orm paused by the door. Didn’t glance around. Didn’t hesitate. She climbed in like she’d done it a hundred times before.
But she hadn’t.
Not since sophomore year.
Ling knew. Ling had noticed. Ling always noticed.
She used to secretly time her own exits to see when Orm would walk through the gates. She’d memorized the sound of that quieter engine. She knew the reflection of the scarf in the rearview. She’d wondered—quietly, privately—if Orm’s mom was always the one who picked her up for a reason.
But now?
Now her father’s car was back.
And Orm… looked smaller when she got in.
Ling stood frozen by the fence, heart beating loud in her ears, the tension in her chest wrapping tighter with every passing second.
Something was wrong.
Orm didn’t look up. Didn’t look back.
The car pulled away.
And Ling?
She stayed right where she was.
Watching the girl she loved disappear into a world she never wanted her to return to.
Again.
______
Wednesday
Ling shoved her math binder deeper into her backpack, earbuds in, jaw tight.
The hallway was packed, too loud, too bright. She hated mid-week mornings. Everyone walked slower. The teachers were crankier. And every second she didn’t see Orm made her chest ache.
She didn’t expect it.
Didn’t even realize her eyes had been searching until—
There.
Orm.
Turning the corner near the language wing. Hair tied up. Riverbend crest stitched perfectly into the shoulder of her cheer jacket.
They locked eyes.
Just for a second.
A flash of breathless silence.
Ling’s steps faltered. Her stomach flipped.
Orm didn’t stop walking. But her gaze lingered—longer than it should’ve.
Ling blinked.
Orm looked away first.
Gone. Ling exhaled sharply, yanking out one earbud.
Junji stepped beside her with a knowing look. “You good?”
Ling didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Practice was ruthless.
The sun was sharp. Coach was barking drills nonstop. The Friday game was all anyone could think about.
Ling was laser-focused—until she wasn’t.
Until her eyes strayed across the field again.
Until she saw him.
Ryan.
The smug bastard.
He stood by the Spirit Squad’s cooler, holding a Gatorade like he owned the place, sunglasses pushed into his hair, that easy, rich-boy grin plastered on his face.
And next to him?
Orm.
Standing stiffly. Barely speaking.
But he was close.
Too close.
His arm brushed hers as he leaned in.
Ling’s jaw clenched so hard her molars ached.
She couldn’t hear what he was saying—but she didn’t need to.
His body language was familiar. Flirtatious. Entitled.
He laughed. Orm didn’t.
Ling growled something under her breath and chucked the ball a little too hard during the next throw.
Milk caught it and winced. “Hey, chill.”
Junji followed her gaze. “Ohhhh. He’s back.”
Ling didn’t answer.
Ryan leaned in again—whispering something in Orm’s ear.
Orm flinched. Visibly.
And yet—she didn’t move.
Didn’t step away.
Ling’s hands balled into fists.
Junji muttered, “If you throw this ball at his head, I’ll back you up.”
“I won’t miss,” Ling said flatly.
Ling’s fingers curled tighter around the football in her hands.
She exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled.
Junji caught the shift instantly.
“Don’t do it,” she said calmly, stepping slightly closer. “You have two college scouts in the bleachers and an actual future. Don’t give Ryan the satisfaction of seeing you snap.”
“I’m not going to snap,” Ling muttered, her voice dark. “I’m just going to accidentally aim in the wrong direction.”
“Girl—”
Too late.
Ling pulled back her arm with the ease of muscle memory, aimed at her wide receiver’s general direction…
And launched the ball.
But it went a little wide.
Okay—a lot wide.
The football soared in a perfect, burning arc, slicing through the afternoon air.
Straight toward Ryan.
Junji hissed. “Oh my god.”
Ryan turned just in time to catch the ball square in the shoulder.
He stumbled back with a sharp “What the hell—?!”
Orm jolted. Her hand went up instinctively, catching Ryan’s elbow before he fell over completely.
The entire Spirit Squad paused mid-stretch.
Ling stood at midfield.
Expression flat.
Hands on her hips.
Junji leaned in again, eyes gleaming. “You definitely aimed at his head.”
Ling didn’t answer.
Across the way, Ryan straightened up, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. His eyes scanned the field, landing right on Ling.
She didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
Neither did Orm.
She stood frozen beside him, staring at Ling like she’d just lit a match in a gasoline storm.
Kary whispered something behind her—Orm didn’t move.
Ryan finally scoffed and muttered something in Orm’s ear before walking off, tossing the ball up and catching it like a trophy.
Orm stayed behind.
Still staring.
Ling exhaled slowly, her pulse thrumming through her throat.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss Orm or scream at her.
Maybe both.
But she didn’t look away.
Not this time.
Orm did.
Eventually.
The football cracked against Ryan’s shoulder with a thud that echoed louder than it should’ve.
He stumbled, cursing under his breath.
Orm’s hand shot out on instinct—caught his arm, steadying him before he totally faceplanted on turf. She shouldn’t have. She regretted it immediately.
Because the moment she touched him?
He smirked.
Like he thought it meant something.
Like he won something.
Like he’d just gotten away with sliding in close to her again without consequences.
“Guess your girlfriend’s got a bit of a temper,” he murmured.
“Shut up,” Orm snapped, dropping his arm like it burned.
Ryan rolled his shoulder, rubbing the spot where the ball had hit him. “I mean, I knew she was intense, but damn. That throw had feeling.”
Orm didn’t respond.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
She had seen Ling’s face.
Flat. Controlled. Dead center of a jealousy spiral.
And God help her—it was hot.
Orm’s skin was buzzing.
Every nerve in her body still alive from the moment their eyes met. Ling didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Just stared her down like Orm still belonged to her.
She did.
At least, her body believed it.
Her traitorous heart, too.
“Anyway,” Ryan said, too smug now, tossing the football up like a joke, “maybe warn her next time. I know she’s territorial or whatever, but it’s not like we’re back together. Yet.”
Orm’s entire body stilled.
Her voice was low. Dangerous. “Excuse me?”
Ryan leaned against the cooler like he hadn’t just said the worst thing imaginable. “Look, I get it. You’re in your rebellion arc. All those years of doing what Daddy said—you needed your own thing. I respect it.”
Her fists clenched.
“But when the dust settles,” he continued, “you’ll remember what’s expected. You and I—our families—this isn’t a casual situation. There’s a plan. And you’ll come back to it. You always do.”
She stepped closer.
Close enough that Ryan straightened just slightly.
“You think this is about rebellion?” she said, voice cold.
He blinked, thrown.
“You think she’s just a phase? A tantrum?” Her jaw tightened. “I would burn this entire school down before I let you talk about her like she’s an accessory to my storyline.”
He tried to speak.
She cut him off.
“You will never touch me again. And if you ever talk about Ling like that—like she’s just a placeholder for your daddy-approved life plan—I’ll make sure the only thing you’re holding at our graduation is a restraining order.”
Ryan’s jaw tensed.
But he didn’t speak.
Smart boy.
Orm turned on her heel, heart pounding, still furious, still shaking—still turned on by the fire she saw in Ling’s eyes across the field. That possessiveness. That heat. That silent I see you. You’re still mine.
God.
She hated how much she wanted it.
Tess appeared like a shadow from the sidelines, clutching two water bottles.
She blinked. “Whoa. You look like you just committed a felony.”
“Almost did,” Orm muttered, snatching the bottle and chugging it.
Tess glanced over her shoulder. “Is Ling glaring over here?”
Orm didn’t check.
Didn’t need to.
She could feel it.
“…Yeah,” she breathed. “She is.”
And when she turned to walk toward the locker hall, she didn’t check if Ling was still watching.
She already knew.
She was.
_______
“Again!” Ling shouted, sweat slicking down the curve of her spine.
The sun was lower now, throwing long shadows across the grass. Half the team looked dead on their feet. But no one dared argue.
Not when Ling was in this mood.
Junji side-eyed her as she jogged back into position. “You okay, Coach Terminator?”
“I’m fine,” Ling growled, adjusting her gloves.
Junji didn’t buy it.
None of them did.
Milk let out a long, theatrical sigh. “We’ve done sprints, tackling drills, passing drills, and full routes—twice. Are you training for scouts or for vengeance?”
Ling didn’t respond.
Not really.
She just tightened the straps on her gloves and muttered, “Formations. From the top.”
Milk groaned. “I’m gonna die on this field. Tell Orm she owes me a funeral.”
That name almost made Ling flinch.
Almost.
But she was good at hiding it.
Mostly.
Except when she wasn’t.
Because the truth was—she’d seen Orm after the throw. She’d seen the way Orm looked at Ryan. The way she’d spoken to him. That fire. That fury. That storm in her eyes.
And then?
She turned and walked away.
Didn’t come find Ling.
Didn’t say anything.
Just… disappeared again.
Like every time Ling thought they were about to collide, Orm slipped back into the fog of her world, all secrets and silence and safety.
Ling hated it.
She hated how much she missed her.
How much she still looked for her in every hallway.
How much her body still remembered the shape of Orm’s under her hands.
And now?
Now she had to pretend she wasn’t unraveling under the weight of it all.
She didn’t even realize she’d stopped moving until Milk waved a hand in front of her face.
“Earth to Kwong.”
Ling blinked.
Everyone was staring.
Junji crossed her arms. “Do we keep running or do you wanna cry into my shoulder for five minutes?”
Ling blew out a breath. “Sorry. Just—lost focus.”
Milk whispered to Junji, “That’s new.”
Junji whispered back, “It’s giving heartbreak and denial.”
Ling pointed at both of them. “Run the pattern again before I make you carry tires.”
They groaned. But they listened.
The drills continued.
But Ling’s eyes kept flicking across the empty end of the field, where the Spirit Squad had been just minutes ago.
Orm was gone now.
And Ling felt it.
In her chest.
In her gut.
In the places Orm had once touched and made soft.
The final whistle cut through the air like mercy.
“Hit the showers,” Coach barked. “No one dies before Friday.”
The team groaned in unison. Helmets were unstrapped, water bottles drained dry, cleats dragging toward the lockers.
Ling dropped to one knee, catching her breath, forehead damp under the band of her headgear. She was soaked—sweat clinging to every line of muscle, her shirt riding up slightly over her ribs. She could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips.
“Kwong.”
Coach’s voice snapped her upright.
She stood, adjusted her gloves, and jogged over.
“Yes, Coach?”
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her.
Really looked.
Ling stood straighter, bracing herself.
“Stay a minute,” he said, glancing around as the field emptied. “We need to talk.”
She nodded, heart thudding.
He led her toward the bench near the cooler, the sky behind him a hazy orange bruise. The lights buzzed overhead, casting pale gold across the field like a stage.
“You’re running hard,” he said once they sat. “Leading hard.”
Ling stayed quiet.
He nodded toward her teammates in the distance. “They’d follow you off a cliff. They’d bleed for you.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“But you?” His eyes narrowed. “You’re bleeding already. And trying real hard not to show it.”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m fine.”
He raised a brow. “You threw a ball at Ryan Anderson’s smug face with sniper precision. I’d call that impressive if I didn’t see the look in your eyes right before you did it.”
Ling looked away.
He sighed. “Kwong. You’ve worked too damn hard to let whatever this is derail you three days before recruiters come to town.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
She didn’t answer.
Coach leaned back on the bench, arms crossed. “You’ve got presence. Fire. You’re the best damn quarterback this school’s ever had—and not just because of your arm. It’s because people believe in you.”
Ling’s hands curled into fists in her lap.
“But belief is fragile,” he added. “You’ve got a shot on Friday. A real one. D1 scouts. Maybe national.”
“I know,” she said again, sharper this time.
He turned toward her. “Then tell me—whatever’s going on… with Orm, with Ryan, with whatever drama’s bleeding into your focus—can you keep it off the field?”
She flinched at Orm’s name. Just a flicker.
But Coach caught it.
“I’m not asking you to stop feeling,” he said, quieter now. “I’m asking you to remember what you’ve built. You think she’d want to be the reason you missed your shot?”
Ling shook her head slowly. “No. She wouldn’t.”
“Then don’t let her be.”
He stood, clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ve got two more days to get your head right. Do what you gotta do.”
And then he walked off, whistling low, the sound fading with the last of the sunlight.
Ling sat there.
Alone.
The field quiet around her.
And all she could hear in her chest was the echo of Orm’s voice—laughing at Leo, whispering “goodnight” into her hair, kissing her like she meant it.
She clenched her jaw.
She wouldn’t let Ryan take that from her.
She wouldn’t let this be the end.
Not like this.
_________
Orm was now everyday back home after practice, he father sending a car after each event, leaving her with no freedom at all.
She shut the door behind her too hard.
The lock clicked with finality.
Orm leaned her forehead against it, exhaling like she could push the day out with her breath.
The walls were too quiet. The air too still. Her body still buzzed from practice—tight muscles, sore thighs, the faint sting of turf burn on her knee. But it wasn’t the drills that made her feel like she might burst.
It was Ling.
That throw.
The look in her eyes.
That raw, unguarded, protective fury.
And God, the way it made her feel.
Seen. Claimed. Wanted.
It had lit something in Orm’s chest she hadn’t felt since the night they first kissed in the dark behind the bleachers. Like maybe—just maybe—Ling wasn’t giving up on her, even if she was barely holding on.
And then Ryan—
Her stomach turned.
The audacity. The arrogance. The belief that she was still his to win. Still part of the legacy plan. Like her father hadn’t already scripted the rest of her life and handed it off to a boy in expensive shoes with nothing behind his eyes.
Orm stormed across the room, yanking her cheer jacket off, tossing it onto the chair.
She sat on her bed, breathing fast. Shaky.
Her phone lit up on the nightstand.
Just a name.
Ling 🏈
Not a call. Not a message. Just the name, sitting there, like it wanted her to be the one to reach out.
Her fingers hovered over it.
She wanted to text.
She wanted to say:
You saw him, didn’t you?
I saw you.
I miss you.
But instead, she turned the screen over.
Buried it under a pillow.
Orm pressed her hands into her thighs, grounding herself.
She’d made this choice.
Pushed Ling away to protect her. To protect Leo. To stop her father from ever learning where they lived, how close they were, how precious they were to her.
It was smart.
It was necessary.
It was killing her.
She leaned forward, face in her hands, elbows on her knees.
And still—
In the silence, she swore she could feel Ling’s stare.
From across the field.
Across the night.
Across the distance she’d put between them.
Orm sat back.
And whispered to herself, like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep—
“Just hold on a little longer.”
_______
Thursday
Orm was running late.
Her shoelaces were a mess, her bag was half-zipped, and her heart was already racing. Not from stress. From knowing she might see her.
Ling.
The last time they’d been this close was yesterday. Across the field. Not speaking. Ling’s rage blazing through that football like a firecracker. Orm had replayed that moment at least twenty times in her head. She could still feel the way Ling looked at her—like she mattered. Like she was still hers.
Orm shoved the locker room door open.
And collided—hard—with something solid.
Someone solid.
Someone warm and fast and—
Her breath caught.
Abs.
Her face was suddenly right up against a bare, sweat-slicked stomach.
A crop top.
Ling.
Oh no.
She stumbled back, blinking hard.
Ling was already reaching out—strong hands bracing Orm’s arms instinctively, like muscle memory.
“You okay?” Ling asked, voice low, eyes searching.
Orm’s throat closed up.
She nodded, barely.
Ling’s brows furrowed, her hands still gently on Orm’s biceps like she wasn’t ready to let go yet.
But she did.
And then she took a step back.
And turned.
And ran.
No explanations. No eye contact.
Just gone.
Like she couldn’t trust herself to stay still another second.
Orm stared at the spot where she’d been.
Her heart was pounding in her ears.
Kary’s voice sang out behind her, smug and delighted.
“Oh my GOD.”
Orm flinched.
Kary was leaning against the wall by the water fountain, arms crossed, grinning like she’d just watched a telenovela kiss scene in slow-mo.
“That was—” she pointed dramatically, “—full abs. Full chest-to-chest. I saw the sweat. That was intimate.”
Orm closed her eyes. “Please shut up.”
“Nope,” Kary said brightly. “You just got body slammed by your ex-girlfriend's abs. That's a holy experience. I’m lighting a candle.”
“She’s not my—”
Kary arched a brow.
Orm groaned. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Kary smirked, then mimicked dramatically: “‘Are you okay?’” She clutched her chest. “Ling, don’t do this to me. I just recovered from seeing her in leggings on Tuesday!”
“Can you not—”
“She didn’t even say hi!” Kary gasped. “She just touched you, made sure you weren’t dead, and sprinted. That’s so gay.”
Orm turned and walked toward the field without a word.
Kary skipped after her.
“Wait. Wait. Do you think she did it on purpose? Like—crop top strategically chosen?”
“Stop talking.”
“Can’t. Too much serotonin from this whole moment. I’ve already texted Tess.”
She hadn’t meant to touch her that long.
When they collided, her body had moved before her brain. Hands on Orm’s arms. Steadying her. Just enough to remember how she felt under her palms.
Strong. Warm. Familiar.
And then she ran.
Because if she hadn’t?
She might’ve kissed her.
Right there. In the hallway. In front of everyone.
Now she was stomping across the field, barking orders at her team like they were rookies, sweat already beading at her temples before warm-up even finished.
“Again!” she shouted. “Tighter angles this time! And someone get me a clean route on the left, or we’re doing suicides!”
Junji, jogging past her, whispered, “Crop top’s making you aggressive.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up,” Junji muttered, then added with a grin, “but seriously, your form is impeccable today. Must be the post-contact adrenaline.”
Ling bit the inside of her cheek and didn’t answer.
Because if she turned her head just slightly—
She’d see her.
Orm.
Across the field.
“Up again, pyramid reset!” Orm called, clapping her hands. “No lazy jumps. I want commitment in your landings!”
Her squad was sweating. Flushed. Focused.
So was she.
But not on what she should be.
Because Ling was moving like sin in a sleeveless crop, arms flexing, core sharp, her voice cutting through the air like command wrapped in sex.
Every now and then—just out of sync with her own breath—Orm looked.
Quick glances.
Tiny cracks in her armor.
She saw the way Ling adjusted her gloves. How her braid slapped against her back mid-sprint. How her abs caught the last light of the sun like gold, sweat glinting off muscle like someone had sculpted her out of war and hunger and heartbreak.
She looked—
And looked away.
Kary leaned in mid-stretch. “Are you drooling again?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Tess landed beside them, wiping her brow. “You two good?”
“Fine,” Orm said, catching her breath. “Formations again in five.”
But her eyes?
They were already drifting back.
To Ling.
She turned to shout something to Tess—
And then froze.
Out of the corner of her eye, just past the edge of the field, near the bleachers—
A girl stood watching the football team.
Not watching the team, actually.
Watching Ling.
She was tall. Sun-kissed skin. Legs for days under an expensive tennis skirt. Blonde hair twisted into a sleek, lazy bun. Her sunglasses were perched halfway down her nose, and her mouth was curled into something dangerously close to a smirk.
Ling didn’t notice.
She was too busy running a drill—spinning out of a pass with her braid flying behind her, abs flexing with every perfect motion.
But the girl?
She noticed everything.
And she was enjoying the view.
Orm’s mouth went dry.
“Hey,” she muttered, low and sharp. “Kary. Who the hell is that?”
Kary, mid-stretch, followed her gaze—and immediately groaned.
“Oh no.”
Orm whipped toward her. “What do you mean ‘oh no’? Who is she?”
Kary flopped dramatically onto her side, sighing. “Her name’s Noa. With an a. She used to go here, two years above us. Now she’s at one of the Ivy prep academies across town. You know—insanely rich, hotter-than-thou, makes professors stutter when she raises her hand.”
Orm’s stomach twisted. “Why is she staring at Ling?”
“Because she always gets what she wants,” Kary said grimly. “And right now? She wants to undress your ex with her eyes.”
Orm turned back.
Noa was still there.
Still staring.
Still smirking.
Ling hadn’t looked once. Oblivious. Focused.
Which somehow made it worse.
“She doesn’t even go here anymore,” Orm hissed.
“She doesn’t need to,” Kary replied. “Trust me. Her Instagram’s got more reach than a national magazine. If she’s sniffing around Ling, it means she’s already heard about her.”
“Heard what?”
Kary shrugged. “I dunno. Probably that she’s a hotshot captain with abs made of sin and a soft spot for heartbroken cheerleaders.”
Orm’s eyes narrowed.
She hated how fast her jealousy flared. Hated how her chest went tight with the thought of someone else touching Ling. Someone older. Someone smoother. Someone with nothing to lose.
“She’s twenty-one,” Kary added casually. “My older brother had a crush on her for like a year.”
Orm’s jaw locked.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared.
Because Noa was now casually walking the edge of the field.
And as she passed the end zone, she waved.
At Ling.
Ling, still in motion, didn’t even see it.
Didn’t wave back.
But that didn’t matter.
The message was clear.
And Orm?
She was losing her mind.
________
Ling yanked off her gloves and let them fall into her bag with a soft thud. Her sports bra was damp, her body humming from exertion, and her core was still tight from the last round of sprints. She rolled her shoulders, wiped her face with a towel, and exhaled.
She should’ve felt good.
Practice had been solid. The team looked sharp. Her throws were clean. Her plays were on point.
But something buzzed under her skin. Something unsettled. Like eyes she hadn’t seen were on her the whole time.
She leaned over the bench to grab her hoodie when a voice said, “Soooo… how’s it feel to be famous?”
Ling didn’t even flinch. “Junji, if this is about the crop top again—”
“Oh, babe,” Junji said, flopping down on the bench dramatically. “This isn’t about the crop top. This is about the blonde bombshell from Mount Olympus who was mentally licking your six pack from the bleachers.”
Ling blinked. “What?”
Milk slid in behind her, holding a protein bar like it was evidence in a murder trial. “She waved at you. Right at the end. Straight-up smiled like you already belonged to her.”
Ling’s brow furrowed. “Who even—what are you talking about?”
“Her name’s Noa,” Junji said, way too smug. “Two years older. Disgustingly pretty. Smells like Chanel and elitism. And apparently has a type.”
“Which is…?” Ling asked cautiously.
Junji grinned. “Hot captains with commitment issues.”
“I don’t have commitment issues.”
Milk gave her a look.
Ling sighed. “Okay, I’m working on it.”
“She looked at you,” Milk added, “like she was already naming your future children.”
“I didn’t even see her,” Ling muttered.
“Exactly!” Junji threw her hands up. “That’s what makes it worse! You ignored her. You’re basically irresistible now.”
Ling shook her head, grabbing her water bottle. “You two are out of your minds.”
Junji leaned in. “Noa’s not. Word is, she’s in town for a few weeks. And when Noa wants something?”
Milk nodded. “She gets it.”
Ling laughed. “I’m not a car. Or a designer bag.”
Junji shrugged. “Try telling her that.”
Ling tossed her towel into her bag. But the weird part?
She was thinking about Orm.
Not Noa.
About the way Orm looked this afternoon. How flushed her face was when they collided. How she didn’t say a word.
How she didn’t pull away.
And if she saw that wave?
Ling didn’t know what would hurt more—Orm being jealous...
Or not caring at all.
________
The room was silent.
Too silent.
Orm lay back on her bed, hair still damp from her shower, phone screen burning her eyes as she scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.
@noa.aura
820k followers.
Every post like a dagger.
Noa with her arm draped over a luxury car.
Noa at fashion week in Milan.
Noa in a black bikini at a private beach resort.
Noa in a Riverbend uniform two years ago—captioned: “Captains don’t chase, darling. They’re chased.”
Orm stared at it.
Then at the most recent post.
A photo of today’s field. Ling visible in the background, slightly blurred. Mid-play. Muscles sharp. Head turned.
The caption?
👀
Orm locked her phone like it burned.
She sat up straight, hand to her forehead, breath caught in her chest.
What was she even doing?
Ling wasn’t just hot. Ling wasn’t just talented. Ling was heart and loyalty and midnight soup and blankets on the couch and Leo’s laugh and God, those damn hands that always knew when to hold her—
She didn’t deserve to be watching from behind a screen while someone else tried to claim what she wasn’t brave enough to fight for.
She buried her face in her hands.
And that’s when the knock came.
Soft.
Gentle.
Not her father’s.
“Orm?”
Mae.
Orm didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice.
The door creaked open.
Her mother stepped in slowly, holding a small cup of tea. Her shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, her heels swapped for quiet slippers. She walked to the nightstand, set the tea down, then sat on the edge of the bed without asking.
For a moment, they both sat in silence.
Then—
“I used to think your father was the only one who could make you look like this,” Mae said softly. “But I think this is something else.”
Orm’s hands fell from her face.
She didn’t speak.
Mae reached for the phone still clutched in her lap. Didn’t even need to see the screen.
“Noa,” she said with a sigh. “Of course it’s Noa.”
Orm looked up sharply. “You know her?”
Mae’s mouth tugged into a tight line. “I’ve seen her at galas. She’s very good at pretending she’s the most important person in every room.”
Orm scoffed quietly. “She waved at Ling. Like she was already winning.”
Mae tilted her head. “And do you think she is?”
A beat.
Then Orm’s voice cracked—just slightly.
“I don’t know what I am to Ling anymore.”
Mae reached out, brushing a hand over Orm’s hair. “You’re the girl she waited for behind the bleachers. The one who made her pancakes. The one who made her believe this could be real.”
Orm blinked fast, her throat tight. “I thought pushing her away was the right thing. To protect her. To keep her safe.”
“And maybe it was,” Mae said gently. “But sweetheart… that kind of love? It’s not something you protect with silence. It’s something you fight for with your whole damn heart.”
Orm looked at her mother, eyes wide and glassy.
Mae smoothed her hair back again, like she had when Orm was a child. “Don’t let a pretty girl in designer shoes be braver than you.”
Silence.
Then—
“I miss her,” Orm whispered. “So much it feels like I’m unraveling.”
Mae nodded. “Then it’s time to start stitching yourself back together.”
And with that, she stood. Pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. And left her with the tea, the silence, and the storm inside her chest.
Orm reached for her phone again.
And this time?
She didn’t open Noa’s profile.
She opened Ling’s.
And hovered.
Because maybe tomorrow?
She’d finally stop watching from a distance.
On the other side of the city, Junji and Milk had left with soft hugs and sleepy yawns, promising to scream if anything “Orm-related and sexy” happened at practice tomorrow. The door clicked shut behind them.
And Ling?
She turned back to the living room, where Leo was already stirring under the blanket.
One eye cracked open.
“You’re back,” he mumbled.
Ling smiled faintly, kneeling beside him. “Didn’t go far, bug.”
He blinked. “Is it too late?”
“For what?”
He sat up slowly, hair wild, eyes hopeful.
“Board game night.”
Ling’s heart did that soft, broken thing it always did when he looked at her like that.
She hesitated just a second. Then: “Nah. Let’s do it.”
Leo whooped softly, already scrambling for the little box tucked between the bookshelf and the couch.
It wasn’t fancy. Just a makeshift board game they’d built together two years ago. Drawn squares with colored markers. Little trivia cards in Leo’s handwriting. Hand-cut paper tokens shaped like dragons and footballs and stars. A rule sheet that said: “You only win if you laugh 3 times. Minimum.”
He slid the board out onto the floor and set the cards down with ceremony.
Ling grabbed two juice boxes from the fridge like they were fine wine.
They sat cross-legged, toes brushing, tokens in hand.
“Roll to see who starts,” Leo said seriously.
“Ladies first,” Ling grinned.
“Okay. So me.”
She laughed—first one down.
They moved through the game slowly. Trading trivia and dares and sibling roasts that made Leo giggle so hard he almost spilled his juice.
Halfway through, he pulled a card that read: “Name something that makes you feel safe.”
He looked at it. Then at her.
And said, “You.”
Ling blinked. The smile that broke over her face was soft and stunned.
Then Leo added, matter-of-factly, “Even when you’re sad. I still feel safe.”
Ling didn’t speak for a second.
Just reached out, curled a hand into his hair, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
“I love you, bug.”
“I know.” He paused, then grinned. “You wanna say it again though?”
She snorted. “I love you.”
He leaned dramatically against her shoulder. “I win.”
“You cheated.”
He grinned. “I’m charming.”
They played until the clock ticked toward midnight, the board scattered, tokens half-asleep beside their crumpled score sheets.
Leo yawned and laid his head in her lap.
“Do you think Orm will come back?” he mumbled, already half gone.
Ling’s hand stilled in his hair.
Then moved again.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I think she wants to. I just don’t know if she believes she can.”
Leo didn’t respond.
He was already dreaming.
Ling leaned her head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut.
And for a moment, there was peace.
Not because everything was okay.
But because this—this little world—was still hers. Still theirs.
After a few plays, The board game was packed away.
The lights were dim.
And on the TV, an old football match replayed—nothing too intense, just background noise. The kind of comfort they’d both grown used to over the years. The low rumble of the crowd, the sharp whistle calls, the crisp commentary.
Leo leaned into her side, hugging a pillow to his chest, legs kicked up on the coffee table. Ling sat beside him with a bowl of popcorn balanced on her knee, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.
They weren’t talking much.
They didn’t need to.
She handed him a juice box mid-play and he took it without looking, straw already half-chewed.
Then—quietly, during a slow motion replay of a touchdown—he asked:
“Are you scared for tomorrow?”
Ling paused.
Popcorn halfway to her mouth.
She looked down at him.
His face wasn’t teasing or curious—it was open. Honest. Just her little brother asking if his hero was ever afraid.
She set the bowl aside, leaning back into the cushions.
“Yeah,” she said. “I think I am.”
Leo blinked. “Really?”
Ling nodded. “It’s the biggest match of the season. And recruiters are coming. And our defense still isn’t syncing right. And—” she hesitated “—I haven’t exactly been focused lately.”
“Because of Orm?”
Her breath caught.
But she didn’t lie.
“Yeah. Because of Orm.”
Leo turned fully toward her now. “You’re still the best, you know.”
She blinked. “You haven’t even seen me play in weeks.”
He shrugged. “Don’t have to. You’re always the best. Even when you’re sad. Even when you think you’re not.”
Ling let out a quiet, broken laugh, brushing a hand over his hair.
“You make it sound like I’m some kind of superhero.”
“You are,” he said simply. “You’re mine.”
Ling’s eyes stung. She tilted her head back against the couch, trying not to blink too fast.
“You think I’ll win?”
Leo nodded, serious now. “I think you’ll win even if you don’t score. Because you never stop trying. And you don’t give up. And… you always come home.”
That one hit her hard.
Because she did always come home.
To him.
To this.
To popcorn and juice boxes and late-night replays where no one was judging how she looked in a crop top or if she was rich enough to belong.
Just Leo.
Believing in her with everything he had.
Ling leaned down, kissed his forehead, and whispered:
“I’m scared. But I’m ready.”
Leo smiled sleepily. “Good. ‘Cause I wanna wear my ‘Kwong 12’ shirt again and brag.”
Ling snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
She tousled his hair, eyes still glinting, voice warm now. “Yeah, bug. I really do.”
The apartment had gone still again.
Leo was in his bed now, curled beneath his dinosaur blanket, snoring softly like a tiny tractor. The TV was off. Dishes done. Pads packed. Cleats by the door. Everything ready.
Everything but her heart.
Ling lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her phone rested on her chest like a second heartbeat. The dim blue light flickered softly with every blink of her screen saver.
She hadn't opened her messages in thirty minutes.
Because nothing was there.
And still, her fingers twitched every few minutes—just to check. Just to hope.
She knew it was stupid.
She knew.
Orm had been quiet for days. And they weren’t… they weren’t anything anymore, were they?
But still—
Tomorrow was the game.
The game Ling had talked about for weeks. The one she’d dreamed of since freshman year. The one she thought Orm would be cheering her on for, from the sidelines or behind the fence, grinning with that soft glint in her eyes that said I see you.
But her inbox was empty.
No good luck.
No I believe in you.
No you’ve got this, baby.
Nothing.
And somehow, that silence hurt worse than any tackle.
Ling closed her eyes, holding the phone like it was still holding her.
But it wasn’t.
Not tonight.
On the other side of the city, in a room too pristine and cold, Orm sat at her desk, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, face lit only by the glow of her phone.
A message hovered on her screen.
[To: Ling]
I know tomorrow’s important. I’m proud of you. I always am.
Her thumb hovered above the send button.
She stared at it.
Heart hammering.
Just do it, she told herself. Just let her know.
But something stopped her.
Fear?
Guilt?
Shame?
She wasn’t there tonight. She hadn’t been there all week. And after everything—after pushing Ling away, after sending that cold message, after being dragged from Kary’s house by her father’s bodyguard—
What right did she have to pretend like she still got to be a part of Ling’s victory?
What right did she have to send a message when she didn’t even have the courage to show up?
Orm’s chest tightened.
Her finger hovered for another beat—
Then she backspaced.
Deleted it.
Turned off her phone.
And sat there in the silence, alone, hands shaking softly in her lap, whispering into the dark:
“I’m sorry.”
But there was no one there to hear it.
Tomorrow would come.
The stadium would fill.
The teams would run.
The cheers would roar.
But for now?
They both stayed in their own silence.
Together.
Apart.
Still hoping. Still waiting.
Still aching.