David slammed his locker hard enough to make the metal sing its hurt. The echo shot down the corridor, sharp and hollow—the sound of something finally breaking.
The hallway was nearly deserted now—just the fading footsteps of a few stragglers and the dull buzz of fluorescents overhead. The building had that post-bell emptiness, the kind that made everything feel louder and more exposed.
He pressed his forehead against the cool metal for a second, bracing himself against something he couldn't name.
"You always slam it that hard when it's not his name on your mind?"
He didn't have to turn to know it was Michelle.
She leaned against the lockers beside his, blazer folded over one arm, her tie undone. She looked composed but coiled—like she'd rehearsed this conversation a dozen times and still wasn't sure she'd get it right.
"It's Johnny's final game," she said. "You should be there."
He didn't flinch, just exhaled through his nose.
David peeled himself off the locker. "I wasn't planning on it."
"I know." No judgment. Just certainty. "That's why I'm telling you."
"Isn't it tomorrow?" David asked, brow furrowed.
"Pretty sure I'm already booked,' David said, his voice edged with something sharp. "Scheduled for heroics and probable arrest.'"
Michelle nodded once, then shook her head. "Was. Monday now. Jez had to push it back—forty-eight hours. Something got flagged in a city report—inspection window, or some excuse she slid in without tipping anyone off."
"Don't ask me how. Just know she's got our backs."
David crossed his arms. "Monday's cutting it close."
His voice tightened. "You know what Tuesday is."
Michelle's expression darkened. "Your intake assessment. I know."
"Mandatory counseling evaluation," David said, the words bitter. "Dad got the letter yesterday. Show up voluntarily or they'll send their church goons to collect me."
"'Lucky timing with the raid,' Michelle said, but her eyes said it might not be luck at all. 'One way or another, you won't be making that Tuesday appointment.'"
David let that sink in. Either they'd succeed Monday and expose everything, or he'd have to run.
No third option.
"You think me showing up to Johnny's game is going to change anything?" The question carried new weight now. "I think not showing up is going to haunt you," she said simply. "This is it, David. His last game. Your last chance to see him before..." She didn't finish.
David looked away. "He told me to stay away."
Michelle stepped forward, lowering her voice. "And you actually believed him?"
David didn't answer.
Michelle continued, her voice low but tight with pressure. "He's holding on by routine and muscle memory. But he's slipping. I see it in how he walks, in how he doesn't talk anymore. You used to be the one thing that got through."
David didn't argue. Couldn't.
She tilted her head. "He's unraveling. I see it. Doug sees it. He's halfway to gone. And if nobody who really knew him shows up... that might be it. That might be the day he disappears for good."
Her voice caught slightly, and David hated how much that scared him.
"You were the last real thing that mattered to him," she said. "Even now, he's watching for you. You think he's not, but he is."
David stared down the hallway like he might still find some way out of this.
David's throat tightened. "I don't even know who he is anymore."
"Then come remind him," Michelle said. "Even if all you do is sit there."
She let that hang. Then added, quieter: "If you're not in those stands, I think it'll break something neither of you can come back from."
She touched his sleeve—briefly, firmly.
"We've got two days," she said. "It's his last game at Stricton. After that... it's whatever comes next."
She gave him one final look—neutral, unreadable—and turned away, her footsteps quiet against the tile.
Michelle hesitated. Then, softly: "He needs someone there who remembers who he was."
"Go," she ordered gently. "Even if it's just to remember who he used to be."
He hesitated. Her words were landing—too well.
David stayed where he was, staring at the scarred locker door in front of him, feeling like something inside had just been pushed off a ledge. The hall had gone quiet again, like the school itself was waiting to see what he'd do.
David slipped into the bleachers like smoke—head, down, hood up, eyes scanning for teachers, security drones, anything that looked like it might be watching. He took the familiar spot behind third base, two rows up and half in shadow. From here, he could see everything without being seen. In theory.
The scoreboard—dead since February—suddenly blazed perfect digital blue. Fixed overnight, just in time for whoever was watching. Saul's money speaking in LED.
He told himself he was just here to watch. Nothing more.
But his heart had other ideas.
On the mound, Johnny stood tall in his white uniform, cap pulled low. He moved like someone executing code—precise, perfect, dead behind the eyes.
Windup—mechanical.
Release—flawless.
Strike—inevitable.
The crowd applauded, distracted. Someone whistled. But David heard none of it over the riot in his chest—his heart throwing itself against his ribs like something caged.
He watched Johnny's shoulders rise and fall, the tightening of his grip between pitches, the way he blinked too hard after every throw.
The Johnny he remembered—the real one—used to grin when he caught David watching, like it was their secret, always looking for someone in the stands. Used to squint and laugh about the sun conspiring against his curveball. Used to smile, even on bad days.
That version was gone.
But then, between plays, Johnny turned. Just a flick of his gaze toward the third-base line.
And he saw him.
For one heartbeat, the world stopped. David sat paralyzed—caught between raising his hand and vanishing entirely, between hello and goodbye.
Johnny's face stayed stone—but something flickered. Recognition? Regret? Relief? He looked like he wanted to say something. Then the mask went back on. Just like that.
He turned back to the plate, jaw set.
"He's tight today," someone muttered from the row behind David. Just loud enough to carry.
David didn't look back. He was already leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The words escaped like a prayer, "Come on, Johnny. Just see me."
He wanted to shout something. Anything. Just to remind Johnny he was still here. We're still here.
David exhaled, slowly, like letting go of something sharp.
A teammate called out something David couldn't catch. Johnny didn't answer. He was already winding up again, posture perfect, muscles taut like wire.
David leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Whispered under his breath, "You're still in there. I know you are."
He wasn't sure if it was a plea or a challenge.
Another pitch. Another strike. The mechanics were flawless—but it didn't feel like Johnny pitching. It felt like watching someone else wear his skin.
The next ball flew just a little high. Not by much—just enough for David to catch it. The batter didn't swing. The crowd didn't notice. But Johnny's follow-through was too fast, his recovery a second too sharp.
David's eyes sharpened.
He knew that kind of perfection never lasted.
Something was wrong.
Johnny still carved the air with sharp lines and clean angles—but now each motion arrived a beat late, like his body was arguing with his brain.
His shoulders twitched between pitches. His glove dropped too low between throws. He turned away from the catcher's signals once.
Just once.
But David saw it.
A runner made it to second on a wild swing and a misfire. The next pitch escaped low and vicious, cracking off the catcher's shin guard like a gunshot.
The crowd flinched.
Johnny just stood there, staring at home plate like it had transformed into something unrecognizable.
"Reset!" the coach called from the dugout.
Johnny didn't move.
Then, something flickered—just behind his eyes. A flicker of his brow. A breath through gritted teeth.
He rebuilt himself on the mound—vertebra by vertebra, plank by plank—assembling the armor from memory.
He wound up and fired—a fastball so hard the catcher staggered a half-step from the impact.
Not a pitch—a declaration. I'm still here. I'm still in control. I'm still perfect.
A few people in the stands whistled. Someone cheered.
David didn't join in.
Because David caught what everyone missed: fingers trembling like struck tuning forks, breath fracturing in his chest, the way throwing that hard had torn something loose.
Like the throw had cost him something.
David hunched forward until his ribs pressed against his thighs, making himself smaller, like he could will Johnny steady from here.
Johnny rolled his shoulders and stepped back, barely nodding at the catcher. He wound up again. Too fast. Too tight.
Another pitch broke free—wider, wilder—slamming the backstop hard. The batter flinched even though it missed him by a foot. A few people in the bleachers gasped.
Someone muttered behind David, "What the hell was that?"
A louder voice followed from the field: "You good, Ashford?"
Johnny didn't answer.
His eyes swept the bleachers—quick, desperate, searching for an anchor in the storm.
David knew he was looking for him.
Their eyes met—again. Not like before.
This time, Johnny looked away immediately, face tight, mouth hard. He spun back and snarled something at his catcher—the words were lost but the venom was clear.
David felt it happening—the last thread holding Johnny together starting to fray.
Another pitch. The batter connected this time—barely—a clumsy grounder to third. But Johnny didn't move to back up the base. He just stood there, glove limp at his side.
The inning ended.
His teammates trotted off the field without high-fives.
One clapped Johnny's shoulder out of habit, but Johnny didn't react.
He walked back to the dugout slowly, head down, every step too measured—like he was trying to hold everything in.
Johnny stalked back to the mound like he was being watched—and judged—by God Himself.
Every step looked correct on paper, but wrong in feeling. Too rigid. Too clean. One natural gesture—one human slip—and the whole performance would shatter.
The catcher crouched. Falshed signals. Johnny stared thru them.
Another fastball. A little high. Barely caught.
The batter flinched.
"Easy," someone called from the dugout, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Not a missile launch."
Johnny turned toward the voice. Just slightly. His chin lifted, and for a moment David thought he might actually say something.
But he didn't.
He lobbed the ball back—casual, dismissive—then locked himself back into position like resetting a weapon
His next pitch arrived clean, controlled. Almost like before. Almost.
The final out came fast—a pop fly to right, and he stalked toward the dugout. A teammate reached out for the ritual glove-tap.. Johnny didn't acknowledge it. Another muttered something behind his back.
Johnny stopped.
He turned so sharply the bench went silent.
"What?' The word cracked out like a slap.
The kid—number 22, lanky and red-faced—lifted his hands. "Didn't say anything, man."
Johnny closed the distance, "Say it to my face. Make sure everyone hears."
Coach barked from inside the chain-link: "Ashford! Cool it."
Johnny didn't move at first. Just stood there, nostrils flared, glove in one hand like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Then he kicked the dugout bench—once, hard. The sound echoed across the diamond. Players flinched.
David stood before he realized it. His mouth moved before his brain could stop it. The words tore out of him—not shouted but thrown, arcing across the field like a line drive.
"Throw your curveball, Johnny!"
The words hung in the air like a dare, like a memory, like a lifeline.
The stadium inhaled and held it. Time stuttered. Even the electronic hum of the scoreboard seemed to pause.
Every head in the dugout turned. Some of the crowd did too.
Johnny's head snapped up—eyes naked with recognition, with something that might have been hope.
Then the shutters slammed closed.
He dropped his gaze. Sat down on the bench like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't heard a thing.
David collapsed back onto the bleacher, adrenaline evacuating so fast the tips of his fingers went numb.
He hadn't meant to break cover.
He hadn't meant to make himself a target.
But Johnny had needed to hear it.
The silence in the stadium stretched too long.
Then Doug's voice cut through the quiet—dry, pointed, just loud enough for Johnny to hear: "Maybe if your little fanboy stayed home, you'd stop throwing like a drama queen."
The words hang in the air, sharp and cutting.
A few players snorted. One laughed—awkward, too loud.
Johnny didn't move. But beneath the surface, something molten began to rise.
David felt it in his gut.
This wasn't over. Not even close.
Johnny didn't turn.
Not at first.
Doug's words hung between them like a lit match over spilled fuel. The laughter that followed came thin and nervous—the sound of boys who knew they were watching something combust.
Johnny sat motionless, glove forgotten in his lap, shoulders pulled tight.
Then he stood.
Not quickly. Not in a way that drew attention.
He just rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, and drifted to the water cooler at the edge of the dugout. Took a paper cup. Filled it. Didn't drink.
Doug kept going.
"Just saying, if my boyfriend was screaming pitching advice from the stands, I'd be off my rhythm too."
That did it.
The cup collapsed in his grip—water bleeding down his uniform like something inside had finally ruptured.
He turned, not rushing—just moving with total purpose.
"Say that again," Johnny said, voice low.
Doug was half-laughing, half-standing, not expecting heat. "Relax, Ashford. Joke."
But Johnny didn't stop.
One step. Then another.
Doug shifted back a little, his smirk dimming. "Hey—chill, man. We're just—"
The shove came almost gentle—a question asked with hands.
Doug stumbled back onto the bench, more surprised than hurt.
Doug caught the edge of the bench, stumbled, then sprang up fast—red in the face now, all teeth and anger, "You wanna go?"
Johnny lunged again—but his balance broke.
Not because of a hit.
Because he'd used it all up.
The anger. The bruises. The momentum. The months of suppresed rage.
For half a second, he just stood there—glove loose at his side, chest heaving like he'd sprinted the length of the city.
His knuckles curled again, like maybe there was still one more swing in him.
But it didn't come.
He hung there in space—not defeated, not victorious. Just hollow.
And that's when the shouting around him started to feel too far away.
Like some part of him had already left the field.
And then it cracked wide open.
Doug shoved back.
Johnny didn't hesitate this time—he swung. Not clean, not practiced, just raw. Knuckles grazed Doug's chin. Someone shouted. Benches scraped.
The dugout erupted.
Two players lunged between them. Another grabbed Johnny from behind, trying to pull him off. Elbows and curses flew. Cleats slammed against concrete.
Bodies crashed between them—teammates becoming obstacles, hands grabbing, everyone shouting.
The scuttle spilled from the dugout onto the field.
The crowd stood. Some gasped. Some filmed.
SoulWatches strobed across the dugout—a light show of emotional chaos, every wrist screaming different warnings.
David didn't move. Couldn't. It was like watching a bomb go off in slow motion.
And at the center of it all—Johnny, wild-eyed, red-faced, trying to break free of the arms around him.
"Let go of me!" the words ripped out raw and bleeding, "You don't know anything about me! None of you—none of you know a fucking thing!"
David's heart was in his throat.
Every muscle screamed at him to move—vault the fence, tear through the crowd, grab Johnny and run.
Instead he sat frozen, watching love detonate in real time
All he could do was watch.
Because this wasn't a game anymore.
This was Johnny falling apart in front of everyone.
This was the church's design made manifest—a boy built to shatter exactly like this.
And everyone was watching.
Finally.
Too late.
The melee had poured across the infield now—uniforms tangled in dust, cleats skidding, curses rising like smoke. Coaches shouted. A whistle blew, useless. Eli Prophet hovered near second base, arms out, barking into chaos like a substitute shepherd whose flock had never listened.
And then—
A roar of footsteps.
Not many noticed at first. But something shifted in the air.
And then he was there.
A blur - Mr. Samuels.
He came not like a teacher, not like a man, but like a force—like thunder sent on legs. A storm breaking open in human form.
From the far end of the dugout gates, he charged—head down, arms pumping, dress shoes thudding against the clay with impossible speed.
David had heard the rumors, of course—whispers that Mr. Samuels had been some kind of football legend before he became their gentle English teacher. Most kids laughed it off. The man who quoted Shakespeare and needed reading glasses? Who walked with that careful, scholarly shuffle?
But now— Now David believed every word.
He moved like the years had peeled off him—like the athlete he used to be had punched through from some buried layer of time.
Each stride seemed to make another year melt away from his frame. The sleeves of his button-down shirt were rolled to the elbows, his muscles bulged, his tie discarded, his glasses clutched in one fist. He didn't shout. He didn't hesitate.
He looked thirty pounds lighter and twenty years younger.
David's jaw dropped. This was the ghost everyone swore was just faculty legend—the running back who could find a gap on the field that should never exited, who'd chosen poetry over professional football.
Even his wrinkles seemed to fade, pulled taut by purpose.
He parted the chaos like Moses parting the Red Sea—but with cleats and blood and disbelief parting instead of water. The violence peeled back from him like it recognized something holier.
Players moved without understanding why. They stepped aside—not just from fear, but awe.
"Holy shit," someone whispered. "The rumors were true."
Another player, frozen mid-shove: "Is that really Samuels?"
A clearing opened around him, as if the field itself knew to make way for what he'd once been—and somehow still was.
And in the center of it: Johnny and Doug, still locked in the final throes of it.
David on the edge of the mess, frozen, his face pale.
Samuels didn't slow.
He crossed the dirt in what seemed like a split seond.
He grabbed Doug first, yanked him back like dead weight and handed him off to a stunned Eli Prophet without a word.
Then he turned to Johnny.
One hand on his chest.
Not rough. Not gentle.
But true.
Johnny's fists hovered like they wanted one last excuse. But the fight had gone out of the world. And Samuels didn't move. Just stayed.
And what Johnny saw seemed to undo him.
Because Mr. Samuels didn't look tired.
Didn't look old.
For what seemed like a single, long moment, he looked like a man Johnny had never seen before—taller somehow, lit from the inside, shoulders squared, not a trace of the usual slump in his posture.
His face, so often weary and kind, now burned with something fierce. Not judgment.
Love.
The kind that holds the line.
The kind that lifts when nothing else can.
"Not like this, Johnny," Samuels said, voice low but ringing like scripture.
Johnny opened his mouth—ready to spit back something cruel, something proud—but the words curdled in his throat. He saw Samuels, and whatever armor he had left shattered soundlessly.
His fists unclenched. His shoulders dropped. He took one shaky breath—and sat down hard in the dirt—like his body had been unplugged. Legs folding beneath him not in shame, but in surrender. Like a boy at the end of recess, waiting for a bell that would never ring. Or a soldier laying down his shield, not in defeat—but in mercy.
The field stilled—so suddenly it felt like someone had pulled the sound from the air. Even the SoulWatches, relentless in their pulsing, blinked once and stopped. Like the tech itself was holding its breath.
Samuels crouched next to him, hand still on his back.
"You're not lost," he said. "You're right here. I've got you."
Johnny didn't speak.
But he didn't run, either.
The infield, moments ago a battlefield, had gone utterly still.
And in the bleachers, David wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, not realizing he was crying until he tasted salt.
Mr. Samuels had stopped the worst thing from happening.
And maybe—just maybe—it wasn't too late for Johnny either.
David's breath caught.
For a moment, it was like watching a different man—a version of Mr. Samuels no one had seen before, like some part of him had been rebuilt for this exact moment.
The Ship of Theseus, David thought. How many pieces do you have to replace before it's not the same thing anymore?
But this wasn't about sameness.
This was about something deeper—about what stays when everything else falls away.
And in that stillness, David finally understood what it meant to be seen—and what it cost to stay.