CHAPTER FIVE
Michael
The little hobbit slams the connecting gates. She’s mad that she trespassed my property. Unbelievable. I walk back to my house and notice something glistening on the grass. I go closer to see that it’s one of those e-book readers.
There are stickers on the back—three of which are quotes about reading, one is a drawing of a cake, and one says ‘Property of Kate Cruz.’ I turn it on, and I’m met with an assortment of books. I click on the book titled Murder Thy Neighbor.
Well that’s not comforting. This woman is a psycho.
I return to what she’s currently reading, a book titled Pinned on the Bookshelves. The cover is… suggestive. What an interesting contrast to the murder novel. I don’t read books like this, but I find myself scanning through the pages. Just to judge it properly.
And after a few minutes, scanning turns to reading.
One chapter turns to two, then five, then, the next thing I know, I’m in bed still reading through Kate’s dirty book.
I’m in the part where the male character is asking the female character to wear edible underwear when I hear rattling on my window.
Could that be a burglar? Cats?
I approach my window to see that pebbles are being thrown on it. I hesitate for a moment, until I hear a huff. When I finally open the window, I see Kate standing below.
“Well, well,” I say, propping my elbow on the sill. “If it isn’t the neighborhood gremlin.” I tease.
“Very funny. Give me my Kindle!” She whisper-shouts like we’re hiding from someone.
“Cute. You couldn’t go through the front door like a normal person?”
“And risk being seen by neighbors knocking on your door at midnight? No thank you! Just please toss me my Kindle. I’m sure I can catch it.” She extends her hands out. When I don’t budge, she looks down and mutters, “Please.”
“Nope.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.” I lean forward slightly. “I’m not giving it to you. And, honestly? I don’t think your current reading material is doing you any favors.”
“What?”
“Murder Thy Neighbor?” I exclaim, eyebrow raised. “What’s next? How to Bury a Body in Ten Easy Steps?”
“You went through my Kindle?!” she freaks out.
“Yes. And wow, quite the range you’ve got. Half smut, half true crime.” I wave her Kindle in the air. “Should I be worried?”
She sputters. “First of all, it’s romance.”
“Of course, the one with the edible underwear. Very swoony.” I put a hand to my chest for dramatic effect.
“Second,” she adds, ignoring me, “the true crime is just… research. For when people like you push me to the brink.”
I tilt my head. “Uh-huh. Psychopath Katie.”
She glares. “Don’t call me that.”
“Well, you do have psychopathic tendencies–” she cuts me off.
“I meant Katie. It’s just Kate,” she says with a smile.
“Okay, Katie. See you tomorrow.”
She shoots me a look before stomping toward the gap in the fence. I stay at the window, leaning on the sill, and watch her muttering to herself as she disappears from view.
I close my windows, my curtains, and my light. I can almost feel her plotting her revenge.
I sink back onto my bed and start scrolling through my phone.
I usually keep my notifications off since my social media is always flooded with comments, and I learned a long time ago that reading them is never a good idea.
But curiosity wins out today, and the moment I swipe down, the screen fills with a familiar mix of opinions.
It used to be different. The usual sea of praise, fire and heart emojis, and ‘GOAT’ comments have been drowned out by backlash.
There are still fans defending me, insisting I was misunderstood, that the ref provoked me.
I wish they wouldn’t. I don’t need anyone making excuses on my behalf.
I did what I did because, at that moment, I believed it was the right thing to do. I shoved him. I meant to.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the coffee table, leaning back against the couch.
I know I should stop checking. It’s not like any of this is new to me.
I’ve always been seen as the guy who doesn’t let things get to him.
Once, after losing a championship game, a reporter asked if I was upset.
My response? A shrug and a smirk. It made headlines.
‘Michael Lee Doesn’t Care About Losing.’ They ate that narrative up.
Soon after that, people just accepted that I’m more detached than my teammates.
They made memes, merch, statement shirts, and even fanfiction.
People have always had opinions about me—how I play, how I talk, how I act like I don’t care. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t care. Or maybe I just got tired of pretending that I do.
I was three when my parents died. Too young to remember them, too old for people to forget that I should.
Tricia and I stayed in Seoul for a while with our halmeoni, our other grandma.
But she died shortly after my parents did, so we were brought to Lola Gina, our only living relative here in the Philippines.
And growing up, I learned quickly that grief made people uncomfortable.
If I was too quiet, too sad, adults gave me pitying looks.
If I acted out, they told me to be grateful for my sister, the family I had left.
So I figured out the easiest way to make it through was to act like it didn’t bother me.
By the time I got to basketball, I already embodied that attitude. When I played well, they called me unshakable. When I played badly, they called me arrogant. When I didn’t react the way they wanted, they called me cold.
I could never win, so I stopped trying to.
But this time, it’s weirdly different. It isn’t about a bad game or a missed shot. It’s not even about me getting into a fight on the court. This is about my career, my reputation, my future. And unfortunately, I care a lot now.
“I can’t even use my car?” I put the phone on speaker and place it on the table as I put a shirt over my head.
“You mean, your ultra attention-grabbing, obnoxiously noisy sports car? Obviously,” Heather replies.
I sigh. It’s not like I bought the damn car to show off. I just like cars—customizing them, tweaking their performance, making them stand out. It’s a perfectly wholesome hobby, but for some reason, people always assume I’m just trying to be flashy.
“Fine. Can I get a rental? Something subtle?”
“No. The last thing we need is someone spotting you at a rental agency and turning it into a ‘Michael Lee Broke?’ headline. Use the tricycles. They’re everywhere.”
I make a face. Technically, the school is within the village, and I could probably just jog there if I really wanted to. But that would mean arriving sweaty and gross, and let’s be honest, that’s not happening.
“Or,” Heather continues, a devious tone in her voice, “you could hitch a ride with your neighbor. That teacher you need to be chummy with if you want that glowing recommendation.”
I freeze mid-motion, my fingers pausing on my watch strap. “What?” I take the phone from between my ear and my shoulder.
“You heard me.” There’s a pause, then the unmistakable sound of her clicking away on her keyboard.
Probably answering emails while simultaneously talking to me.
“That Miss Kate. She’s overseeing your hours, right?
You could kill two birds with one car ride.
Get to school, build rapport, make her not hate you. ”
“Well…” I hesitate, running through our limited interactions.
Heather groans. “Michael. Don’t tell me you already pissed her off?”
“I mean, I may have—playfully—teased her?”
There’s silence on the other end. A long, heavy silence. Then, Heather mutters, “For the love of God, please tell me you didn’t insult her.”
I wince, remembering that I just called her a gremlin, stole her Kindle, and mocked her for using cigarettes. “I wouldn’t say ‘insult.’ More like… established an entertaining dynamic.”
“Established a—” She cuts herself off with an audible inhale, like she’s physically restraining herself from beating me up through the phone. “Michael, I swear to you, if you ruin this—”
“I won’t ruin it,” I say quickly. “I’ll do damage control.”
“Good! Let me know how it goes.” She ends the call, and I’m left staring at my own reflection in the mirror.
I rub my temples, already dreading the idea.
It’s not that I can’t be nice—I just have a habit of rubbing people the wrong way.
And Kate? She seems like the type to be naturally skeptical of guys like me.
Hell, if I’m being honest, she seems like the type to be naturally skeptical of guys in general.
I exhale and glance at the clock. I should head out soon. Begrudgingly, I grab my bag, rolling my shoulders like I can shake off the heaviness settling there.
Speaking of Kate, I see her the moment I step out of my house.
She’s carrying stacks of books in one arm—teacher books, I assume, with titles like The Power of Sharing and Manners Matter—while the other clutches a clear bag filled with pastries.
And because that apparently isn’t enough, she’s also got a pair of sock puppets slung over her shoulder, their googly eyes bouncing with every step.
She’s wearing another one of those floral dresses that look uncomfortable, the fabric floating down to her ankles.
White sneakers peek out beneath, already speckled with paint stains from whatever art project her kids made her suffer through yesterday.
But this time, unlike the first day I met her, there’s no sweater draped over her shoulders. Just bare, slightly tan skin.
She’s already frowning as she struggles to close her front gate behind her.
Then, with a deep breath, she turns toward her comically tiny car, which is barely big enough to fit one of my duffel bags, let alone me.
It looks like something a circus clown would roll out of, which is fitting. It’s about as tiny as she is.
This is my time.
“Good morning, Katie,” I say.