Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
JADE
The verbal ping pong with Leo was starting to drive me absolutely insane.
One minute he was ignoring me like I was background noise, the next he was brushing hair off my face and inventing nicknames like he’d branded me. Then he’d go cold again, like I didn’t exist—unless Tristan touched me. Then he was all clenched jaw and silent rage.
Boys like Leo Holt were dangerous. Not because of what they did. But because of what they didn’t have to do to make you come undone.
And I was starting to come undone.
I needed a distraction. Something that wasn’t firelit glances and cocky smiles and the way he smelled like expensive pressed shirts and mint and ruin.
It happened overnight, the shift in the air.
Summer in New England hit the brakes. The warmth hung on in the afternoons, but the mornings were crisp, tinged with woodsmoke and the promise of sweaters.
The hydrangeas in my aunt’s garden were starting to go dull, and the cats took longer naps in sunny corners of the living room.
Back home, the school year had already started.
I knew because my mom said the local station ran a back-to-school segment, which somehow spiraled into the other thing.
Someone had tipped off a news crew. A rumor, a leak, something.
Now they were sniffing around, asking questions, trying to get a quote.
“Do they know where I am?” I asked her on the phone, curled up by the window, mug of tea in hand.
“No. No one’s told them anything. It’s just noise, baby. I promise.”
But the tightness in her voice said otherwise.
“Focus on your new life,” she added, softer now. “Don’t let the past keep dragging you back. It doesn’t deserve you.”
I stared out at the fog rolling across the lawn, curling like ghosts over the grass. She was right. I had to move forward. Not just survive. Reclaim.
And that’s when I saw it.
A poster on the cork-board outside the library. ROYAL OAKS GIRLS’ SOCCER: TRYOUTS THIS WEEK
Just seeing the word made my blood thrum.
I hadn’t played since last year. Since before…
everything. My cleats and shin guards had been stuffed in a duffel under my bed for months.
Shani had warned me off—told me the team was a fortress of Lulu-clad, private-coach-trained princesses who didn’t like competition. Especially not from girls like me.
But I wasn’t doing this for them.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my phone, opened the link, and filled out the Google form.
Name: Jade Bryan.
Grade: 12.
Position: Midfield.
Experience: 5 years competitive.
I hit submit.
Somehow survived two school days, then slinked to my bike still stashed on that dirt path where in the wicker basket was my bag.
I rode into town to the local Starbucks, locked up my bike and changed in the bathroom.
Started taping my cleats like it was game day.
Hair went up in a killer high pony. Face clean.
Eyes sharp. I biked over to a lot behind the fields, brought my school bag and laptop to the bench ignoring the side eye and hushed whispers.
The second I stepped onto the field, I felt it.
Eyes.
Word had spread. Of course it had. Apparently the scholarship girl signing up for tryouts was the most exciting thing to happen all week.
Half the student body showed up like it was a tailgate party. Phones out. Stories already uploading. TikToks half-drafted in their heads.
I heard the whispers. “She’s gonna get smoked.”
“Do you think she even owns real cleats?”
“The audacity.”
But I didn’t flinch.
Coach Roman was a lean, no-nonsense woman with a clipboard and a bionic glare. She looked me over, expression unreadable. "Midfield?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She nodded. "Prove it."
We started with conditioning. Cones, ladders, suicides. Some of the Lululemon girls were already winded. I wasn’t.
My legs remembered.
So did my heart.
When we moved into ball work, I settled into the pocket, directing traffic, sending clean passes and calling plays like I’d never stopped. A junior named Elise tried to body-check me during a scrimmage—I spun off her like she was made of tissue and sent the ball soaring into the back of the net.
The crowd gasped.
Somewhere near the bleachers, I spotted them. Leo. Tristan. Xavier.
Sitting behind three-thousand-dollar aviator shades like they were royalty on a throne, watching with veiled interest.
Leo’s elbow rested on his knee, one hand lazily draped over his thigh, but I could feel the tension from yards away. He tracked me with his eyes, unreadable and intense.
When I intercepted a pass and sprinted down the line, I felt it again. That pulse. That ache. That thing I didn’t want to name.
Shani was in the stands too, shouting like a proud parent.
The girls on the team weren't clapping. They were sizing me up. And I didn’t care.
I wasn't here to win hearts.
I was here to take back me.
After the last whistle blew, Coach Roman called us into a huddle. Her eyes landed on me last. "Tryouts continue tomorrow. Be on time. Bring the same energy."
As I slung my duffel over my shoulder and headed toward the gym, I passed the boys.
Tristan gave me a slow clap. "Damn, Bryan. Didn't think you had that dog in you."
Xavier whistled. "Midfield menace. Respect."
Leo didn’t say a word.
Just watched.
And that—somehow—said everything.
I walked past without looking back. But my pulse wouldn’t stop drumming.
Not this time.
But the win came with a cost.
The next morning, both my bike tires were slashed.
I stared at them, breath fogging in the cool air, and told myself not to cry.
It wasn’t just a prank. It was a message. A warning.
So I walked.
Miles home.
And back to school the next morning. At least the air was crisp enough that I didn’t sweat my makeup off or show up looking like a heatstroke victim.
Inside Royal Oaks, the air was even colder.
The silence cut deeper than whispers ever could.
Girls who used to ignore me now bumped me with their shoulders in the hallway, legs stuck out like snares as I passed. One sneered loud enough for me to hear, "Charity case thinks she’s making varsity now."
Coach Roman expected us all in the locker room before tryouts continued.
It was a war zone.
Glares. Eye rolls. Side comments. More than a few phones pointed my way.
Still—I laced up my cleats, tied my ponytail, and walked out like I belonged.
And then I killed it.
Again.
When Coach Roman blew the final whistle and said cuts were coming, the claws came out.
Parents called the school. How dare a scholarship girl take a varsity spot. They wouldn’t stand for it.
Coach Roman and the admin met them with tact and steel. "You can’t preach inclusion, diversity, and equity and then panic when it’s delivered."
The parents backed off—but not quietly.
And I knew this was only the beginning.
Shani met me after practice, brows raised, arms crossed. "Told you so. You’re poking the princesses."
"They started it," I muttered.
"Yeah, well, they play dirty."
I started the long walk back alone. Again.
Until a sleek Rivian slowed beside me.
The window rolled down. Tristan grinned. "Need a ride, Bryan?"
Leo was behind the wheel.
"No thanks."
"C’mon," Tristan said. "Better us than them."
He pointed behind them.
A Mercedes SUV full of girls from the team cruised behind, their windows cracked, eyes narrowed like they were planning my demise.
Leo raised a brow behind his shades. "Unless you want a slow drive-by hazing, might wanna hop in."
I sighed.
And opened the door.
I climbed in.
“This again?" I asked, voice cracking. "I’m really not in the mood for country club bullshit."
But we drove past the Club and straight out of town. I didn’t care at this point. There was nothing for me at my aunt’s house tonight but binging Netflix with the cats.
He took a turn off the main road, climbing higher and higher until we reached a windswept bluff above the cliffs. The whole town was below, just rooftops and ocean.
The breeze whipped my hair. Seagulls coasted the thermals. For the first time in weeks, I breathed.
Leo didn’t smirk. He just watched me.
I stepped out. Sat on a rock. Let the wind rip the tension from my chest. A few tears slipped. I didn’t hide them.
Then I pulled out my phone.
And I left a voicemail.
"Hi Coach Roman… this is Jade. I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. But I think I need to step away. It’s not the right time. Thank you for letting me try."
I hung up.
Tristan grabbed my arm. "Don’t let them win."
"Why not?" I snapped. "You are them. You all are. You’ve won since birth. Why keep fighting it?"
Leo spun me around. Tugged me closer.
"You’re not quitting. Don’t deny me the pleasure of watching you destroy them on the field."
"It’s too late," I said. "I left the voicemail."
He smirked. Pulled out his phone.
"Coach Roman never got that voicemail. Not on her school line. I had it erased."
I stared.
He winked.
"Told you, Gitanilla. I’ve got connections."
And I hated how much I didn’t hate that.
I stared at him, heart hammering like a snare drum.
“You what?”
Leo just shrugged, casual like he hadn’t just reached into my life and rearranged the pieces. “Coach Roman never got your voicemail.”
My stomach sank. “You erased it?”
“I had it erased.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, wind ruffling his shirt as the seagulls screamed overhead. “Technically.”
“Why?” I snapped. “Why do you even care? Is this just another one of your power trips?”
His jaw tensed.
Tristan looked like he was doing everything in his power not to jump in again, but thankfully, for once, he stayed silent.
I took a step toward Leo, needing the space but also needing the answers. “Why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?”
His eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before finding mine again. I saw the flicker—of heat, of something I couldn’t name—and it made my breath catch.
“Why do you care?” I pushed. “You don’t even like girls like me.”
Leo didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Just stepped closer, the space between us charged and crackling like an exposed wire.
“There’s something about you,” he said softly, head lowering until his forehead nearly touched mine, “that makes me care.”
I should’ve pulled away.
Should’ve screamed at him, or at least demanded a real explanation.
But my body betrayed me.
And so did his.
Because the next thing I knew, his hand was cupping my jaw, tilting it up just enough for his mouth to find mine.
And when Leo Holt kissed me—it wasn’t like before.
It wasn’t showy.
It wasn’t for content or to make a point.
It was slow. Hot. A searing imprint of emotion I didn’t know he had in him.
My knees wobbled. My breath hitched. His thumb brushed along my cheekbone and I swore my heart forgot how to beat.
And then, like a switch, he pulled back—just far enough to look me dead in the eye.
“That’s why, Gitanilla,” he whispered.
My stomach twisted at the sound of that name on his lips.
And just like that, I wasn’t tired anymore.
I wasn’t broken or invisible.
I was wildfire, lit and burning.
And Leo Holt? He was gasoline.