The rumours at First High didn't die; they festered.
When Lena Shaw walked back through the glass double doors of First High in January after 6 months, she expected a coronation. She had spun a story about how Haleswood was "academically insufficient" for her talents, forcing her to return. She wore a new cashmere coat and her signature confident smile.
But the hallway didn't part for her.
"Isn't that the girl who dragged Harry Chase out of school and then came back alone?" a junior whispered loud enough for Lena to hear.
"Yeah. heard Harry dumped her and went pro in Europe. Talk about a fumble."
Lena tightened her grip on her books. Her return hadn't been triumphant; it had been expensive. Her father had been furious about the re-enrolment fees and the embarrassment, cutting her allowance in half as punishment.
She walked to her locker—no longer the prime location near the cafeteria, but a bottom-row locker near the science labs.
"Hey, babe."
Michael leaned against the wall, scrolling on his phone. He didn't look up, didn't offer to carry her bag, didn't have a coffee waiting.
"You're late," Lena said, her voice sharp. "We were supposed to study for the midterms."
Michael shrugged, finally pocketing his phone. "Relax. I was gaming until 3 AM. Besides, I need to copy your notes for History. I slept through class."
He held out his hand, expecting the notebook.
Six months ago, Lena would have found his reliance on her charming. She would have thought, He needs me. Now, she just saw a leech.
"I need my notes, Michael. You should have paid attention."
Michael's face dropped. The "gentle, sensitive" mask slipped, revealing the petulant child underneath. "Wow. Okay. I thought you supported me. Harry would have given you his notes."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
"Harry isn't here," Lena snapped. "And if he were, he wouldn't have needed to copy notes because he actually did the work."
Michael scoffed, pushing off the wall. "Whatever. You're always so uptight lately. I'm going to hang out with Sarah. She said she'd help me."
He walked away without looking back.
Lena stood alone in the crowded hallway. She reached into her pocket to check her phone, a reflex born of loneliness. She opened Instagram.
The algorithm knew what to show her. It was a fan account for the Valencia Academy.
A video clip. Harry Chase - The American Architect.
She watched, mesmerized and horrified.
Location: Valencia Sports Academy, Spain
The air in the gym smelled of chalk and iron. It was 5:00 AM.
Harry Chase was doing pull-ups with a 20kg plate chained to his waist. His muscles screamed, his veins popped against his skin, but he didn't stop until he hit twelve reps.
Clang. The weights hit the floor.
He dropped down, wiping sweat from his eyes. His body had changed. The bulk he carried for American football contact was gone, replaced by lean, whip-cord muscle designed for speed and endurance.
"Chase! Vamos! Video session in ten minutes!" Coach Alvaro yelled from the doorway.
Harry grabbed his water bottle and jogged out.
The first three months had been hell. The language barrier, the speed of play, the isolation. In America, Harry was a god because he was faster and stronger than everyone else. In Spain, everyone was fast. Everyone was strong.
To survive, he had to become smarter.
He sat in the dark film room, surrounded by teammates who had become brothers. Mateo, the winger from Brazil; Lucas, the center-back from Germany.
"Look at this," Alvaro said, pausing the footage of their last match. "Here. Chase drops deep."
On the screen, Harry didn't run toward the goal. He ran away from it, dragging a defender with him.
"This movement," Alvaro tapped the screen. "This creates the hole for Mateo. This is selfless football. This is the False Nine."
"Si, Coach," Harry said, nodding.
"You are not just a striker anymore, Chase," Alvaro grinned. "You are a playmaker. Tonight against Sevilla U-19, you start."
A murmur went through the room. Starting against Sevilla was huge. Scouts from the senior team would be there.
Location: First High School
Lunchtime.
Lena sat at a table with Michael and two of his "friends"—guys who only hung around because Michael sometimes bought them snacks with Lena's money.
"So, Lena," one of the guys smirked. "Is it true Harry is dating a Spanish model now?"
Lena choked on her water. "What?"
"Yeah," the guy laughed, showing her his phone. "Some tabloid blog. Said the 'American prodigy' was seen leaving a restaurant with Sofia Ruiz. She's, like, an influencer in Madrid."
It was a blurry photo. It was just Harry walking next to a girl with dark hair, laughing. He looked... happy. He looked lighter.
"It's probably fake," Michael said, shoving fries into his mouth. "Harry has zero game. He was obsessed with Lena for ten years. He's probably just trying to make her jealous."
Michael put his arm around Lena, his fingers greasy. "Right, babe? He's still pining for you."
Lena looked at Michael's greasy hand on her cashmere sweater. She looked at the cheap cafeteria pizza on his tray that she had paid for because he "forgot his wallet" for the fifth time this week.
She remembered Harry taking her to that Italian place downtown. She remembered how he would pull out her chair. How he would listen to her talk about her day for hours without looking at his phone.
She looked at the photo of Harry in Spain. He wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking at the future.
"I need to go to the bathroom," Lena said abruptly, standing up.
"Hey, can I borrow twenty bucks for the movies later?" Michael asked, not even looking up from his fries.
Lena walked away. She locked herself in a stall and cried, silent, heaving sobs that echoed in the tiled room.
Location: Estadio Jesús Navas, Seville
The floodlights were blinding. The noise of the crowd was a rhythmic drumbeat.
Valencia Academy vs. Sevilla U-19.
The score was 1-1. Eighty-eighth minute.
Harry's lungs were burning. His legs felt like lead. The Sevilla defenders were dirty—pinching, stepping on toes, whispering insults in rapid-fire Spanish.
"Go home, Yank," the center-back hissed, elbowing Harry in the ribs.
Harry didn't respond. He checked his shoulder. He saw the space.
Focus. geometry.
Mateo had the ball on the wing. Harry made a sprint toward the goal, screaming for the ball. The center-back bit, turning to chase him.
Harry stopped dead.
The defender slipped, his momentum carrying him away.
Harry drifted back into the pocket of space at the top of the box.
"Mateo! Atrás!"
Mateo cut the ball back. A perfect, rolling pass.
The ball came to Harry. He had a split second. The goalkeeper was rushing out. The defenders were scrambling to block.
He didn't smash it.
He saw Lucas making a blind-side run at the back post.
Harry wound up for a shot—the keeper froze—and then Harry gently dinked the ball over the defense, a soft, looping pass that defied gravity.
Lucas met it with a diving header.
Boom.
The net rippled.
GOAL.
The stadium erupted—half cheers, half groans. Lucas sprinted toward the corner flag, but he pointed both fingers at Harry.
The team swarmed him. Harry felt the weight of bodies, the smell of sweat and grass, the pure, unadulterated joy.
"Assist of the season!" Mateo screamed in his ear. "Magic! You are magic!"
The final whistle blew moments later. 2-1. Valencia won.
As they walked off the pitch, Coach Alvaro grabbed Harry's shoulder. Standing next to him was a man in a sharp suit with the Valencia first-team crest on his lapel.
"Chase," Alvaro said, his face serious but his eyes dancing. "This is Mr. Garcia. He wants to talk to you about a contract extension. And the B-team."
Harry looked up at the stars above the stadium.
He thought about the transfer form he had ripped up. He thought about the ginger tea in the trash can.
"I'm listening," Harry said.
Location: Lena's Bedroom
It was 2 AM. Lena couldn't sleep.
She lay in bed, the blue light of her phone illuminating her tear-streaked face.
She had found the highlights. She watched the goal. She saw Harry, her Harry, orchestrating a victory in a country thousands of miles away.
He looked strong. He looked dominant.
She scrolled down to the comments.
User1: Who is this #10? His vision is insane.User2: Harry Chase. Remember the name.User3: He's going to the top.
And then, a comment from Harry's official account, pinned by the team.
@HarryChase10: Just getting started.
Lena typed a message.
Harry, I miss you. Michael is... nothing like you. I made a mistake. Please call me.
Her thumb hovered over the send button.
She pressed it.
(!) Message Not Delivered.You have been blocked by this user.
The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor.
In Spain, the sun was just beginning to rise on a new day. In Lena's room, it had never been darker.