As Gabriel walked toward the locker room, the faint echo of footsteps bounced off the empty corridor walls. The short burst of adrenaline from his race had run its course, replaced by a quiet sense of relief. He'd made it through the race without transforming.
Just as he was about to turn the corner, a voice called out from behind him.
"Gabriel, wait up."
Gabriel stopped and turned — and there he was. Harry, jogging toward him, a smug look plastered on his face. Too smug for Gabriel's liking.
Every corner of his body was on edge. He knew immediately to be on guard, because whatever Harry had to say, Gabriel knew it wouldn't be good. Because if history between them had shown anything, it's that Gabriel always took the hits.
"Nice run out there, man," Harry said, falling into step beside him.
"Thanks… I guess," Gabriel replied, guarded and ready for whatever Harry had brewing.
The pair continued toward the changing room in silence, the only noise the sound of their sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. Gabriel's mind raced, his heart beating violently out of control. He was alone with Harry—no one in sight—and Harry was being civil. Harry being civil… he didn't even know the meaning of it. That alone made Gabriel uneasy.
Then Harry spoke again, his voice calm and calculated.
"Don't let today's victory get to your head and cloud what's on the horizon. Because it's not always about being the fastest, the strongest, or who hits the hardest. It's who's the smartest—who stays consistent throughout the season and makes it to the finish line. Everyone takes a loss now and then, it's part of the game. But the smart ones? They learn from it."
Gabriel shot him a confused look. "And what did you learn?"
Harry smiled wickedly—too wicked.
"To never underestimate my opponent. Especially the ones that fly under the radar. Because when the dust settles and the season ends… it's not the noise that counts, it's the record."
There it was—something buried deep beneath his words, just out of Gabriel's grasp.
"Is there a point to all this, or are you just going to keep talking in riddles?" Gabriel asked bravely.
Harry chuckled, but there was an edge to it.
"Just saying, we win some, we lose some. What matters is coming back better. But you might want to stay sharp during trials, that's all I'm saying. The biggest hits don't always come from straight ahead."
Gabriel slowed, his instincts kicking into overdrive. "What's that meant to mean?"
Harry raised both his hands in a mocking surrender, a cheeky grin still playing on the corner of his mouth.
"Chill, chill—you're always thinking there's something behind the curtain you can't see. I'm just saying football's an unforgiving sport, that's all. And I'm just looking out for you."
He tapped Gabriel on the back, then turned to walk off.
"Aren't you going to get changed? Miss Barkley's not going to let you into class dressed like that."
Harry laughed.
"A star like me doesn't need class. See you out on the field, Gabriel."
He continued down the hallway, footsteps fading.
Gabriel stood there for a moment, watching Harry disappear down the corridor, unsure whether to feel relieved or more on edge.
As he turned into the locker room and quickly scanned the room, he quickly realised—there was no sign of David.
That's when the knot began forming in his stomach, and the paranoia kicked in, causing every hair on his body to stand up. Something was off. Every last word Harry said played on repeat in his mind like a broken cassette stuck on an endless loop. The echo of his voice clung to him like prey caught in a spider's web.
There'd been no shove. No insult. No clear threat.
But his mind was torn.
Did beating him garner new respect…
Or was this part of some bitter game he was playing?
Time passed in a blur, and Gabriel was still sitting there—head leaned back against the locker, eyes closed… lost in his own thoughts.
Then the bell rang.
His eyes shot open. His head snapped forward.
"Physics!" he shouted, jumping to his feet.
He quickly threw his bag over his shoulder and sprinted out of the changing room.
Gabriel came flying down the corridor, catching himself at every turn, sneakers squeaking against the floor. As he reached Room 102, he slowed, hand on the door handle, and opened it gently.
There stood Miss Barkley, in full flow of her lesson, firing off another equation to the class.
Everyone's head turned, all eyes locking on Gabriel.
"Well, I'm glad you decided to join us today, Gabriel," said Miss Barkley, arms crossed.
The room erupted into laughter.
"Quiet, please!" she shouted, her tone sharp and controlled.
The class fell silent instantly.
"Take a seat. You've distracted us enough."
Gabriel nodded, head low, and made his way to his seat. As Miss Barkley returned to the board, her voice picked up—vibrant and energetic, a complete opposite to the tsunami raging inside Gabriel's head.
He sat there, eyes fixed on the whiteboard, but none of it registered. Not really.
He tried to focus. He really did. But the harder he tried… the further his thoughts drifted.
What did Harry's words mean?
Did I actually earn his respect… or was this just another one of his games?
I should be celebrating—I didn't get caught when I transformed. I won. For once, I actually won.
But still…
"The biggest hits don't always come from straight ahead."
That line stuck with him.
Not like a memory.
Like a warning.
And no matter how hard he tried to figure it out, he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
But he knew one thing for sure—
Letting his guard down wasn't an option.
"Gabriel? Gabriel?"
His head snapped up.
Miss Barkley stood directly in front of his desk now, eyebrows raised.
"Nice to have you back in the real world. So… what's the answer?"
Gabriel blinked. Looked at the board. Then at her.
Mouth open.
"I… I'm not sure, Miss."
She sighed and turned back toward the whiteboard.
"Try to stay with us, okay? These questions are going to be on your end-of-year exam."
Gabriel nodded, cheeks burning. Embarrassment clung to him like a second skin.
As his eyes scanned the room, they locked onto David—
Sitting a few rows away.
Staring right at him.
Dead in the eyes.
David leaned toward another student and whispered something, his gaze never wavering.
Gabriel's head snapped back to the front.
His heart kicked into overdrive.
He gripped his pen and stared at his notebook, pretending to read, like he'd written something. But he could feel it.
That stare.
Burning into the back of his head.
What was his motive?
Was David in on this with Harry?
Was this the perfect chance to strike back?
Gabriel's imagination ran wild—good scenarios, bad ones.
But the only problem was…
Every single one of them felt possible.