Chapter Twelve: Flying Footballs & Bruised Egos
(Zaria's POV)
If there was one thing Alderbridge High loved more than pop quizzes, it was sports.
And if there was one thing I was terrible at, it was being anywhere near them.
The bell had barely rung for lunch when Emma begged, "Come on, Ria! Just ten minutes on the field. The weather's too nice to hide in the library again."
The sun was warm, the air smelled like freshly cut grass, and I figured — fine. What could go wrong?
Answer: everything.
Because ten minutes later, I was standing by the bleachers, sipping orange juice, when something hard and round came flying straight at my face.
The world tilted. My drink splashed. My vision blurred.
"Holy— are you okay?!"
A tall boy sprinted toward me, football in one hand, panic written all over his face. He had messy brown hair, sun-tanned skin, and eyes the color of storm clouds.
He winced. "I swear I didn't mean to— I was aiming for Jake, not—"
"Not my face?" I managed, holding my forehead.
"Yeah, that."
Emma was trying not to laugh. "Oh my god, Ria, you just took a football for science!"
"Not helping, Emma."
The boy ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, seriously, you need to see the nurse."
"I'm fine," I muttered. But the dizziness betrayed me.
"Right," he said, catching my arm before I stumbled. "You definitely look fine."
He walked me to the nurse's office, awkward silence filling the air. I could feel him glance at me every few seconds — probably making sure I didn't collapse or sue him.
"I'm Miles," he said finally. "Miles Patel."
"Zaria," I replied. "The girl you almost concussed."
He had the nerve to smile. "You've got a good sense of humor for someone who might have a mild concussion."
I rolled my eyes. "Do you always nearly kill people before introducing yourself?"
"Only on weekdays."
The nurse made me sit with an ice pack for twenty minutes. Miles waited outside the whole time. When I stepped out, he was leaning against the wall, spinning his football in one hand.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, more softly this time.
"I'll live," I said. "But if I forget my homework tomorrow, I'm blaming you."
He grinned. "Fair enough. I'll sign your excuse note."
That was the first time I noticed the tiny scar on his jaw, the kind you only get from falling hard and laughing about it later.
When Emma met up with me after school, she whispered, "He's on the football team, you know. Kind of the golden boy."
"Good for him," I said, pretending not to care. "Maybe he should learn how to aim."
But that night, while telling Ma about my day on the phone, she gasped.
"Ria! You got hit by a ball?!"
"Yes, Ma," I groaned. "But the boy said sorry."
"Was he handsome?"
"Maaa!"
She laughed so hard I could hear Baba in the background asking what was so funny.
I didn't tell her about the way Miles had waited outside the nurse's office, or how he'd said, "See you around," like he meant it.
Because that would've sounded like something else entirely.
The next morning, my forehead still throbbed slightly — and my pride a little more.
But when I passed the field, a familiar voice called out, "Hey, Zaria!"
Him again?
Miles stood there, football tucked under his arm, wearing that same storm-eyed grin.
"Don't worry," he said, raising a hand. "I'm not aiming at you today."
I glared. "Good. I'm out of ice packs."
He laughed. "Guess we're even then."
And just like that, something small — something dangerous — started to spark.