The win
Chapter 51
Lorenzo
I storm into the main building, fury burning white-hot through my veins.
The coaches forced me out of the game because of one stupid, heavy impact. Now my hand is throbbing, far more injured than it already was before kickoff.
"Useless medical staff," I growl under my breath, making my way down the quiet, echoing hallway toward the locker room bathrooms.
Yes, my hand hurts like hell, but I can still play. I'm the one who carried us out there, driving the ball down the field play after play. Now that we are up on points in the final quarter, they decide to bench me like I'm some kind of joke.
I slam my weight around the corner, completely blinded by my own anger, and collide straight into a small body.
Instantly, the person gasps, dropping a handful of soaked, crumpled papers that scatter across the floor. She bends down frantically, trying to scoop them up with trembling fingers.
"Watch where you..."
The aggressive words die in my throat. I crouch down, my uninjured hand reaching for a wet, torn piece of paper. I stop completely and look up.
Sophi?
She looks absolutely shattered. Her chest is heaving as she tries to choke back a sob, looking completely lost in her own mind. Her eyes are red, and tears are streaming down her face.
"Please... just let me past," she whispers, her eyes staring firmly at the floor, refusing to look at me.
Like a robot, my body moves out of her way. I watch her rush past me and disappear out the heavy exit doors. Something sharp and painful twinges inside my chest. I want to shout after her, to demand to know who did this to her, but she's already gone, leaving me spinning in the silent corridor.
"There you are!" Vivien's high, piercing voice cuts through the quiet, snapping me right out of my thoughts.
Ignoring her completely, I push into the restroom. I step up to the sink and splash freezing water over my face to cool my temper. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the floor. Shreds of wet paper, bleeding charcoal, and a ruined black binder cover lie in the trash.
Vivien steps in right behind me. The look on her face tells me exactly what she wants, and it isn't to help.
"I can help you with that," she says, gesturing to my arm.
"Thanks, but I've got this," I tell her coldly, ripping the old, bloody bandage off my hand and shoving it into the bin.
"What actually happened that night?" she asks, her voice shifting into a hesitant, probing tone. "I mean... rumors are going around the school that you punched Santos because of her."
"It's true," I say bluntly.
I don't even bother to turn around as I tightly wrap a fresh bandage around my split knuckles.
"What?! But why?" Vivien steps closer, her voice rising, sounding angry and deeply hurt all at the same time. "I thought you hated her! Why would you ever care about a girl like her ?She is a nobody"
I look at the trash bin, then back to Vivien's smug expression. Suddenly, the pieces connect. The wet paper. Sophia's tears.
"Is this an interrogation?" I hiss, spinning around to face her
Vivien immediately softens her posture, forcing her nicest, fakest cheerleader smile onto her lips. "No, babe, of course not." She reaches out to touch my arm, but I sharply snap my arm back, breaking her grip.
"Good. Because we're done, Vivien. Don't touch me."
I turn on my heel and stride out, heading back toward the stadium doors. With every step my cleats take on the concrete, one thought burns crystal clear in my mind, Vivien is dead to me.
Back out on the field, the bright stadium floodlights blind me for a second. My eyes immediately scan the packed bleachers, searching the crowd, but Sophia is nowhere to be seen. I take my place on the sideline, my jaw clenched as I watch the clock tick down.
Maik, our backup running back, takes the handoff for the final play of the game. He breaks through the defensive line, sprinting across the turf, and the entire stadium erupts. He throws the football into the air as the buzzer sounds.
"Weststar wins! It's a touchdown!" the commentator screams over the loudspeaker, his voice echoing across the town.
A massive weight lifts off my chest. I start clapping, a fierce smile finally breaking across my face as the adrenaline rushes through me. I throw my hand up, high-fiving James as he jogs back, covered in mud and glory.
"Bring it in, boys! Bring it in!" Coach shouts, gathering us into a tight circle in the middle of the field.
The school principal steps into the center of the ring, holding up the massive silver championship trophy that catches the glare of the lights. The crowd in the stands goes absolutely wild, stomping on the metal bleachers until the ground vibrates beneath our feet.
"I'm proud of you, boys," Coach barks, his infamous post-game speech ringing out proud and loud. "You put everything on the line tonight. You made Weststar proud!"
The team erupts into cheers, raising our hands as the trophy is lifted into the sky. It's a perfect victory but as the confetti starts raining down on my shoulders, my eyes drift back to the empty space in the stands.
And the victory suddenly feels a little less sweet.