The morning of September 1st dawned grey and humid, the kind of weather that made clothes stick to skin and moods sour before the day had even begun.
Lena Shaw stood at the bus stop, clutching her designer bag to her chest as if it were a shield. She checked her watch for the tenth time. 7:45 AM.
Usually, at 7:45 AM, a sleek, charcoal-grey sedan would pull up to her curb. The passenger seat would already be heated, a thermos of oat milk latte sitting in the cup holder, and Harry would be there, smiling that soft, eager smile that she had secretly grown to despise.
Today, the curb was empty.
"He's late," Lena muttered, tapping her manicured nails against the strap of her bag. "He's doing this on purpose. Punishment for the argument."
She had transferred to Haleswood High. She had committed to the bit. The narrative she had spun—that she was being ruthlessly bullied at First High and needed a fresh start—required her to actually leave. If she had stayed after making such a scene, her reputation would have crumbled.
The plan was perfect: She would go to Haleswood, the "rough" school. Harry, her loyal, guilt-ridden protector, would inevitably follow her into the trenches. There, isolated from his elite social circle and his football glory, he would be entirely hers to command—a buffer against the harsh reality of Haleswood, and a bank account to fund her weekends with Michael.
A screech of brakes snapped her out of her thoughts. It wasn't a luxury sedan. It was the city bus.
Lena wrinkled her nose as the doors hissed open. The driver, a man with a tired face, stared at her. "You getting on, princess?"
She stepped up, the smell of stale rain and unwashed bodies hitting her immediately. She scanned the bus for a seat. It was packed. She ended up standing, gripping a sticky handrail, jostled by a group of loud students wearing the Haleswood colors—a drab maroon and grey.
Just for today, she told herself, swaying as the bus lurched forward. Harry will be there when I get to school. He probably drove himself to make a point. I'll cry a little, tell him I was scared on the bus, and he'll apologize.
Haleswood High School looked less like a place of learning and more like a minimum-security holding facility. The chain-link fence was bent in places, and the main building was a brutalist block of concrete stained by decades of exhaust fumes.
Lena walked through the front gates, keeping her head high. She was Lena Shaw. She could dominate any room she walked into.
She scanned the student parking lot. She looked for the familiar customized license plate, the shine of expensive wax.
Nothing. Just rusted pickups, dented Hondas, and motorcycles.
A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. She pulled out her phone and dialed Harry again.
"The subscriber you have dialed is not available..."
"Fine," she hissed, shoving the phone into her pocket. "Be that way."
She navigated the crowded hallways. The noise was deafening—shouting, slamming lockers, music blaring from portable speakers. No one moved out of her way. At First High, the sea parted for her because Harry was usually walking point, his broad shoulders clearing a path.
Here, she was just another body in the crush. A boy with a nose ring shoulder-checked her, hard.
"Watch it," he grunted, not even looking back.
Lena stumbled, indignation flaring. "Excuse me?"
He kept walking.
She reached the administration office, smoothing her hair. This was where the game would end. Harry would be inside, probably arguing with the staff about his schedule, making sure their classes aligned.
She pushed the door open. The office smelled of cheap coffee and dust. A secretary with bright purple glasses was typing slowly on a computer.
"Name?" the woman asked without looking up.
"Lena Shaw. I'm a transfer."
The woman typed, then pointed to a stack of papers. "Shaw. Here's your schedule, locker combo, and map. First period is barely started. Room 204."
Lena took the papers, flipping through them. "And Harry Chase? Did he pick up his packet?"
The secretary paused, looking at a second pile of unclaimed transfer packets. She thumbed through them. "Chase? No Chase here."
"Check again," Lena said, her voice rising. "He transferred with me. Harry Chase. Freshmen year."
The woman sighed, annoyed. She typed into the computer, the keys clacking loudly. She stared at the screen for a long moment.
"I have a transfer request initiated for a Harry Chase two weeks ago," the secretary said flatly. "But it was withdrawn yesterday. He never completed enrollment."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
"Withdrawn?" Lena gripped the counter. "That's impossible. He has to be here. Where else would he go?"
"Honey, I don't keep track of students who don't go here," the woman said, snapping her gum. "Now move along, you're blocking the line."
Lena walked out of the office in a daze. She stood in the middle of the hallway, the bell ringing overhead.
He hadn't come.
He actually hadn't come.
For the first time in ten years, she looked to her left, and there was no one there.
Lunch was the breaking point.
The cafeteria at Haleswood was a war zone. The food was unrecognizable sludge served on styrofoam trays. Lena sat alone at a small, wobbly table near the trash cans—the only spot available.
She picked at an apple she had brought from home. Across the room, a group of girls were whispering and looking at her. Not with envy, as she was used to, but with predatory curiosity.
She pulled out her phone and FaceTimed Michael. He answered on the fourth ring.
"Hey babe," Michael said. He was sitting in the courtyard at First High—a lush, green space with teak benches. The sun was shining there. "How's the trenches?"
"It's horrible," Lena whispered, tears prickling her eyes. "Harry isn't here, Michael. He didn't transfer."
"Wait, really?" Michael chuckled, taking a bite of a sandwich. "Man, he actually grew a spine? I didn't think he had it in him."
Lena stared at the screen. "Michael, you don't understand. I'm here alone. People are rude. The food is gross. I had to take the bus."
"Well, yeah, that was the plan, right?" Michael shrugged. "You said you needed to make it look real. You're doing great, Lena. Just stick it out for a semester, then transfer back saying you're 'healed' or whatever."
"But... Harry was supposed to be here to handle things," Lena said, her voice trembling. "He was supposed to drive me. He was supposed to... pay for lunch."
Michael's expression cooled. "Lena, I can't come over there. My attendance is already shaky. Besides, isn't this better? No Harry hovering around us. We can hang out this weekend without him breathing down my neck."
"But I'm miserable now!" Lena snapped.
"Look, I gotta go, the bell's ringing," Michael said, looking distracted. "Just... stay low. Don't talk to the weirdos. Love you."
The screen went black.
Lena stared at her reflection in the dark phone screen. She saw the panic in her own eyes.
It wasn't just that Harry was gone. It was that without Harry, Michael didn't seem as interested. Michael liked the idea of stealing the princess from the knight. Without the knight, the princess was just a girl complaining about the bus.
She opened Instagram, needing a distraction.
Her feed was flooded. Everyone from First High was sharing a post.
She clicked on it.
It was Harry. But not the Harry she knew—the one in the school blazer, looking stoic and bored.
This was a photo of a view from an airplane window, looking down at the Mediterranean coast. And in the foreground, resting on the tray table, was an acceptance letter with a crest she recognized from Harry's father's study.
The Valencia Sports Academy.
Lena froze. Her thumb hovered over the caption: New Season. New League. Adios.
He hadn't just gone to a different school in the city. He hadn't just run home to cry.
He had gone to Europe.
He had chosen a future of stardom, sunshine, and elite status over her.
"No," Lena whispered, the denial tasting bitter. "He can't leave me. He promised."
A crumpled napkin hit her in the side of the head.
Lena jumped, looking up. A table of boys nearby was laughing.
"Welcome to Haleswood, fresh meat," one of them jeered.
Lena looked down at her phone, at the photo of the blue Spanish sea. Then she looked around at the grey walls, the flickering fluorescent lights, and the hostile faces.
She had built a cage to trap Harry, but she had forgotten to check if the door locked from the inside. Now, he was flying free, and she was holding the key to an empty cell.
[Meanwhile, 1,000 miles away]
The heat in Valencia was different. It was a physical weight, dry and demanding.
Harry stood on the sideline of Pitch 3 at the Academy complex. He was wearing the training kit—a lightweight, breathable fabric in bright orange and black. It fit him perfectly, highlighting the muscle he had built over years of discipline.
"Chase!"
Harry snapped to attention. The U-18 Head Coach, a man named Alvaro who had played in three World Cups, was walking toward him.
"You're the American transfer," Alvaro said, his accent thick but his English precise. He looked Harry up and down, not with disdain, but with calculation. "The striker."
"Yes, Coach," Harry said.
"We don't play 'hero ball' here," Alvaro said, tapping his temple. "In America, you are the big fish. Here? You are plankton. You understand?"
"I understand," Harry said, his chin lifted.
"Good. We are short a man for the scrimmage. Blue team needs a center forward. Show me you belong."
Harry jogged onto the pitch. The grass was immaculate, cut to millimeter precision. The other players were looking at him—boys from Brazil, France, Germany, Spain. The best of the best. They looked hungry. They looked fast.
Harry took his position. The whistle blew.
The ball came to him almost immediately—a sharp, drilled pass from a midfielder named Mateo. The pace was ferocious.
Harry controlled it with his chest, the ball dropping dead at his feet. A defender, a towering boy with thighs like tree trunks, was instantly on his back.
In the past, Harry would have looked for Lena in the stands. He would have hesitated.
Now, he saw the geometry. He felt the defender's weight shift.
Harry spun. A Cruyff turn, smooth as silk. The defender bought the fake and stumbled.
Harry was through. He saw the keeper off his line. He saw the winger making a run.
He didn't shoot. He chipped the ball—a delicate, floating arc that landed perfectly in the winger's path.
Goal.
"Nice vision, Yank!" Mateo shouted, giving him a thumbs up.
Harry smiled. The sun was hot on his face. The air smelled of victory.
He didn't look at his phone. He didn't think about the grey skies of home. He adjusted his shinguards and got ready for the restart.
This was just the warm-up.