The next morning, the house felt different. It was stripped of the warmth I had projected onto it for years. My bags were packed by the door—two sleek, matte-black suitcases. I wasn't taking much. Just my boots, my training gear, a few changes of clothes, and the laptop that held my acceptance to the Valencia Sports Academy.
I left the trophies. I left the photos. I left the boy who desperate for approval in that bedroom.
I drove to school one last time. The engine of my car purred, a stark contrast to the churning in my stomach. I wasn't nervous about leaving; I was nervous about the final performance I had to give.
The campus of First High was buzzing. Students milled about, complaining about exams and gossip. I walked through the crowd like a ghost. I was wearing my team tracksuit, but it felt like a costume now.
I went straight to the administration building.
Mr. Henderson, the principal, adjusted his glasses as he looked at the document I placed on his desk. He was a stern man who usually looked at me with disappointment—a waste of talent, he'd called me once when he heard rumors of me transferring to Haleswood.
"Valencia," Henderson said, the word rolling off his tongue with reverence. He looked up, his eyes wide. "The international program? In Spain?"
"Yes, sir," I said, standing at ease, hands clasped behind my back. "I need the exit visa stamped and my transcripts released to their admissions office immediately."
A slow smile spread across Henderson's face. He uncapped his fountain pen. "I was prepared to lecture you today, Mr. Chase. I had the transfer papers for Haleswood right here in my drawer, ready to deny them on the grounds of insanity. But this..."
He stamped the document. Thump. The sound was heavy, final, and satisfying.
"This is where you belong," he said, handing me the folder. "Go show them how we play."
"Thank you, sir."
I walked out of the office, the folder tucked under my arm. The weight of the secret felt good.
I made it halfway down the main corridor before my luck ran out.
"Harry."
The voice was unmistakable. I stopped, taking a deep breath before turning around.
Lena stood by the lockers, her arms crossed. She was wearing a soft blue cardigan that brought out her eyes—a trick she used whenever she wanted something. Beside her, leaning against the metal locker like a wilted flower, was Michael.
"I called you three times this morning," Lena said, her tone sharp but laced with that familiar, possessive familiarity. "And the door code? Seriously, Harry? I brought breakfast, but I couldn't get in."
"I told you," I said, my voice flat. "I'm moving. The house is locked up."
Lena rolled her eyes, stepping closer. "You're being dramatic. Just because we had a little fight yesterday doesn't mean you have to shut me out. We have to coordinate the transfer. Did you get the Haleswood forms stamped?"
She looked at the folder under my arm. She reached out to take it.
I shifted the folder to my other hand, stepping out of her reach. "It's handled."
Lena's hand hovered in the air, rejected. Her eyes narrowed. "What is with you? You're acting like a stranger."
"Maybe I am," I said.
Michael cleared his throat. He was holding a stack of notebooks—Lena's notebooks. "Harry... look, I know you're mad about the hoodie. You can have it back if you want. I don't want to cause trouble between you and Lena."
He held out the imaginary olive branch, his eyes darting around to see if anyone was watching his performance. A few students had stopped to listen.
"Keep it," I said. "It doesn't fit me anymore."
Lena huffed, annoyed that I wasn't following the script. "Harry, stop being difficult. Michael is trying to be nice. Actually, while you're here, you need to apologize."
I raised an eyebrow. "Apologize for what?"
"For yesterday," Lena said, her voice rising so the onlookers could hear. "You scared him. You were aggressive in your own home, making him feel unwelcome. He couldn't even focus on our tutoring session last night because he was so shaken up."
"I was really anxious," Michael added, looking at the floor. "My chest hurt."
The audacity was breathtaking. It was a tactical foul, committed in the penalty box, expecting the ref to look the other way.
I looked at Lena. I looked at the girl I had protected from bullies, from rain, from loneliness. I saw the calculation in her eyes. She didn't care about Michael's anxiety. She cared that her control over me was slipping. She needed me to bow my head so she could feel tall.
"You want an apology?" I asked, stepping into her space.
Lena lifted her chin, expecting submission. "Yes. It's the least you can do if you want us to go back to normal before we transfer."
"Normal," I repeated. The word tasted like ash.
I looked at Michael, then back at Lena. A cold smile touched my lips.
"I am sorry," I said clearly.
Lena's shoulders relaxed. She smirked. "See? Was that so hard?"
"I'm sorry," I continued, my voice hardening like concrete, "that I spent ten years thinking you were worth the effort. I'm sorry I didn't see you for what you really are—a selfish, manipulative manager of a team that's destined for relegation."
The hallway went silent. Lena's smirk froze.
"And Michael?" I turned to him. "You're not anxious. You're just a substitute player terrified that the starter is back on the pitch. Don't worry. I'm leaving the league."
"Harry!" Lena shrieked, her face turning a violent shade of red. She reached out to grab my arm, her nails extended. "How dare you speak to me like—"
I didn't slap her. I didn't push her. I simply sidestepped. A body feint.
She stumbled forward, grasping at empty air, catching herself on the locker with a loud clang.
I didn't look back. I walked toward the exit, the sun pouring through the glass doors at the end of the hall.
"Harry Chase!" she screamed after me. "If you walk out now, don't think I'll talk to you when we get to Haleswood! You'll be alone!"
I pushed the doors open. The fresh air hit me.
Haleswood. She still thought I was going to Haleswood.
I checked my watch. My flight to Valencia was in four hours.
The First Class lounge at the airport was quiet. I sat by the window, watching the planes taxi on the tarmac. I had a sparkling water in one hand and my phone in the other.
I opened my contacts.
Lena Shaw.
I hovered over the name. For years, she had been my emergency contact. My speed dial. My priority.
I pressed Block.
Then I went to my social media. I archived all the photos of us. Then, I posted a single new picture: a view of the runway with my passport and the Valencia Academy acceptance letter clearly visible.
Caption: New Season. New League. Adios.
I turned my phone off.
The boarding call for Flight IB310 to Valencia chimed over the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now boarding..."
I stood up, grabbing my bag. I walked down the jet bridge, the tunnel narrowing just like the entrance to a stadium pitch. My heart was pounding, not with fear, but with adrenaline.
I found my seat, 1A. Wide, comfortable, private.
As the plane accelerated down the runway, pushing me back into the seat, I felt the last tether to this city snap. The G-force was a physical release. We lifted off, the city shrinking below us until the high school, the Blue Velvet, and Lena's house were nothing but insignificant specks in the grid.
I closed my eyes and slept for the first time in weeks without dreaming of her.
I landed in Spain under a sky that was a deeper, richer blue than I had ever seen. The air was warm and smelled of dry earth and citrus.
A driver was waiting for me at arrivals, holding a sign: CHASE.
"Hola, Mr. Chase," the driver said, taking my bags. "Welcome to Valencia. The Director is excited to meet you."
"Hola," I replied, the word feeling strange but right on my tongue.
We drove through the city, past ancient architecture and modern stadiums. We arrived at the Academy complex—a sprawling fortress of green fields, glass buildings, and floodlights. It was paradise.
I was shown to my dorm—a private suite overlooking the main training pitch. I unpacked quickly. My predator boots went on the shelf. My kit was hung up.
I turned my phone back on to check the time.
Immediately, it vibrated. A voicemail.
I hesitated. It was from an unknown number, but I knew who it was. One of Lena's friends, probably.
I pressed play, putting the phone to my ear as I walked out onto the balcony.
"Harry?" It was Lena. She sounded breathless, panicked. The background noise sounded like a school cafeteria. "Harry, pick up! I saw your post. What is Valencia? People are talking. I went to the admin office to get your file for Haleswood, and they said... they said you're gone."
Her voice cracked.
"Harry, which class did you transfer into at Haleswood High? Why is everyone saying they've never seen you? Stop joking around! We have a deal!"
I looked out at the pristine green pitch below me. A group of players were running drills, the ball moving between them with hypnotic speed.
"Harry, answer me!"
I ended the call.
I looked down at the pitch. A ball rolled loose near the touchline. A coach looked up at me on the balcony and blew his whistle, waving me down.
"Chase! Get down here! We're starting rondo!"
I smiled.
"Coming, Coach!" I shouted back.
I left the phone on the balcony table and ran out the door. The game had officially begun.