Chapter 16
The Abbersett High soccer team had, as usual, clinched a spot in the district playoffs. But now, with all their top players
being seniors, tonight’s game was their last real shot to win districts and reach the regional championship.
The stadium throbbed: five thousand students, parents, and alumni packed the bleachers; the field was slick from rain and
twinkling under the floodlights. Coordinating volunteers, food trucks, ticketing—it had been a logistical nightmare, but somehow,
Riya had done it.
The cheerleading squad had just finished their final stunt as Niko Voss, an enthusiastic—and enthusiastically sweaty—junior
paraded onto the field in a falcon mascot costume.
Riya stepped up to the mic beside Quin.
It had been Quin’s idea to give a pep talk before kickoff. Emotional support from Student Council is a key responsibility, they’d said. And as much as Riya could think of a dozen better uses of her time, she actually agreed.
“Let me just say how proud we are of our soccer team,” Quin told the crowd, grinning. Riya stood a step back. “But I refuse
to say ‘good luck.’ Because one thing’s clear: We don’t need it!”
Right on cue, Niko Voss let out a booming “Caw CAW!”
The crowd exploded in wild, earsplitting cheers as the brass band began to play.
After Quin finished riling up their audience, Riya switched off the mic, and together, they walked off the pitch.
“I still don’t understand why we caw,” she observed. “We’re the Abbersett Falcons, not the Abbersett Crows.”
“Use that giant brain of yours, Riya,” Quin replied, tapping their skull. “A real falcon call is literally a shriek. Just loud, high-pitched shrieking. You want that to be our call?”
“No, thank you. You’re annoying enough as it is.”
Quin laughed.
Riya peeled off toward Mel, who’d saved her a seat with her lavender cardigan.
“It’s starting, it’s starting!!” Mel bounced.
The brass band’s instruments gleamed under the fading sunlight, sending booming notes through the stadium as the soccer team
jogged onto the field.
Mel grabbed Riya’s arm. “It’s Andrew!”
Bringing up the rear, Andrew wore the same white-and-gold jersey as the rest. To Riya, he looked the same as always—but Mel’s
excitement made him seem larger somehow. More significant.
Riya blinked. She didn’t understand how simply looking at someone—someone you weren’t even dating—could bring such happiness.
Especially when love seemed to hurt Mel just as often. Was it truly worth it?
Shaking off the thought, Riya pulled out her notebook from her backpack. She had bigger things to worry about.
Mel frowned. “Wait, what are you doing?”
“Working on my Caltech essay. May as well get some work done if I have to sit here.”
It was already October 9. The application deadline was looming, and lately, it felt like she was making no progress. On anything.
“But the game! You have to watch! That’s how we support them!”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Riya muttered, scrawling a single word at the top of her page: Caltech.
She scowled. The word practically inked on her eyelids, haunting her every blink. Just write what you love! That’s what all the college essay tip books said. Easier said than done, though. How was she supposed to focus when everything
around her was unraveling?
Suddenly, a guitar strum echoed through the stadium speakers, making her jump. Her pen slipped from her fingers, clattering
down the bleachers.
She looked up—and felt the blood drain from her face.
“Abbersett! Pardon the interruption.”
Kian stood dead center on the pitch, haloed in stadium light.
Holding a guitar.
The players froze. Murmurs rippled through the stands. Feedback crackled through the speakers as Kian strummed again.
“While I have your attention,” he said, grinning up at the crowd, “I’d like to take this opportunity to perform a little something
for a special, special girl. Hit it, Eric!”
Down by the new video board, Eric from the AV Club knelt by a laptop, looking like a deer braced for an eighteen-wheeler. The scoreboard flickered and the display vanished. A night sky swelled across the black screen, before a smattering of stars locked into silvery letters:
Riya
“This one’s for you, Riya.”
A hush fell. The cheer squad jogged back onto the field and formed a wobbly two-line block behind him. Then came the music—an
unshakably confident melody spilling across the field like fog.
No. This wasn’t happening. Not here, not now. Not in the middle of the playoff game she’d spent weeks organizing, on top of
everything else. She’d have almost preferred he ripped out all the flowers from the school flower bed again. Hell, spontaneous
combustion would be preferable.
“Maybe it’s some kind of halftime show? ” someone whispered.
A sharp whistle cut through the air—the referee, storming forward before Coach Reese overtook him, his face a furious shade
of red.
“Da-da-da, da-da-da,” Kian sang, “let it never be said that romance is dead. . . .”
Shouting broke out.
What the hell is this?
Get off the pitch!
A half-empty soda bottle sailed through the air and splashed up his jeans. The cheer squad paused their routine, their faces contorted in disgust—as if whatever Kian had offered them to perform as his backup dancers wasn’t worth it.
Meanwhile, Riya’s pulse was a roaring drumbeat. The crowd was turning fast—no longer confused but furious. Worse, faces were swiveling toward her.
“Damn, Riya,” Michael Woodward called. “What did you do to him?”
A chorus of kissy noises. Hey, someone put Riya on the pitch, too!
Riya forced her face stony even as her vision tunneled.
Beside her, Mel ducked as a popcorn bag flew overhead. “Okay, I know you hate this,” she whispered, stricken. “B-but I mean,
it’s clear Kian means it. Maybe it’s kind of . . . romantic?”
The cheer line faltered and stalled, unsure. The wall of noise rose: yelling, laughing, booing as Kian just barely dodged
the ref again, smiling like this was all choreography.
“Please explain what exactly is romantic about any of this,” Riya forced through gritted teeth.
Mel winced. “Yeah, I’ll shut up now.”
“KIAN KHO,” Coach Reese bellowed. “GET OFF THE DAMN FIELD!”
“ ’Cause there’s so little else”—Kian juked past an Abbersett defender—“occupying my head.”
He yanked the guitar cord taut as he ran, and the defender tripped, like something out of a Looney Tunes bit. The crowd roared in boos. A water bottle sailed through the air and narrowly missed Kian’s guitar, smacking Kian’s thigh. Half-eaten hot dogs began to litter the grass.
Get outta here, you creep!
Kian flinched. For a moment, he paused. No strumming, no singing. Just blinking, like someone waking from a dream.
His tired eyes swept the bleachers until they found hers—a lighthouse in the storm.
And somehow, his smile returned. As if, despite everything, this was all just part of the beautiful love story in his head.
“Hey, VP,” Michael Woodward sneered. “You gonna stop your man, or are you just as much a freak as he is?”
Riya’s throat tightened. Leave him alone, she wanted to say. He’s not—he’s not himself right now. But that meant admitting the truth. That it wasn’t his fault.
That it was hers.
“Nah, man, remember dodgeball? She’s into it,” Akash Kumar jeered.
People were pointing at her now. Whispering. Deciding she’d wanted this, like some love-starved fool who craved grand, humiliating spectacles.
“Riya, Riya, Riya, Riyaaa! Do you, do you—ow! Stop with the hot dogs!—do you, do youuu!” Kian’s voice cracked as he sang louder.
Riya stood, her body a live wire. She pushed through the bleachers, ignoring Mel’s hand on her arm, the taunts nipping at
her heels.
By the time she reached the edge of the pitch, Kian had just dodged Coach Reese again. He turned to her, face flushed, eyes wild with devotion. Smelling vaguely like soda.
Riya yanked the cord free from the amp. The music cut.
The crowd’s jeers fell into a dead, ringing silence.
Kian blinked, breathless. “Riya! They tried to stop me, but I—”
“You need to stop,” she hissed.
Kian’s smile faltered. “I don’t understand. I just wanted to show you—”
“I know!” Riya snapped. Her breath was coming too fast. “I know. But look around you. People are angry, Kian.”
He looked. At the field. The crowd. A chant started somewhere in the bleachers: Lo-ver-boy! Lo-ver-boy!
Kian looked back at her. “So . . . ? Who cares what they think?” he said. “Only you matter. This. Us. That’s all.”
“Kian,” Riya managed, pressing a hand to her temple as if she could press the world back into place, “you’re ruining the game.
You’re—you’re ruining yourself.”
His fingers tightened around the neck of his guitar. “I don’t care,” he said, calm. “What I’m doing is how people show their
love. Big things. Loud things. To make sure you don’t ever forget.”
A humorless laugh escaped her. Of course. If one grand gesture hadn’t worked, his curse-addled brain had convinced him to go bigger.
“I never asked for this,” she replied. “Love isn’t a performance. You can’t throw your feelings at someone and expect them to stick.”
Kian flinched. His bravado twisted into something smaller.
“Then tell me what to do instead,” he said, voice breaking. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
For a second, she saw it: the crack in him. Something fragile behind all the noise.
Riya shut her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. When she finally spoke again, her voice was tight.
“I don’t know, Kian. Maybe you prove it by knowing when to stop.”
Coach Reese barreled toward them, his face the color of a stop sign. “Kian Kho, what the hell do you think this is? Your own personal stage?”
Players from both teams had gathered midfield, pacing impatiently. Even Andrew let out a loud exhale. “What a mess.”
Kian’s shoulders sagged, his guitar dangling limply at his side. For a second, something gold flickered behind his eyes.
Then he swayed.
Riya’s heart stopped. “Kian?”
He staggered, color draining from his face. Riya’s hand lifted toward him, instinctively. Almost reached him. But Kian caught
himself.
“I’m sorry, Riya. You’re right. I’ll—I’ll stop,” he said, smiling weakly.
The referee’s whistle shrieked. Coach Reese cursed and waved security forward. He grabbed Kian’s shoulder. “You and I are
going to have a long talk.”
Kian didn’t argue. He just stood there, swallowed by bright, pitiless lights. Lost.
For one breathless second, Riya thought: maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could fix this. Miss Justice Junkie. That’s what he’d called her. A jab at the time, but true. She was someone who spoke up. Who stepped in.
But if she moved now, the questions would start. About why he did this. About her. And once adults got involved, there’d be
meetings, reports, statements. Her spotless record, the looming shadow of Caltech, her future stacked like a house of cards—all
of that would be at risk. No way to protect the secret. No way to fix the curse quietly.
She met Kian’s bruised, bewildered eyes as security began to drag him off the pitch, and something inside her fractured. Kian
didn’t deserve to be left alone.
She stayed where she was.
Then she turned and walked. Didn’t stop until the noise of the crowd thinned, until the field was only light behind her.
For the past ten days, she’d watched Kian, afraid of what her mistake was making of him.
Tonight, though, she feared something else:
who she was becoming.