The next morning, Sharon woke before sunrise, lacing up her battered shoes in the hush before her parents stirred. Hockey stick over her shoulder, she slipped from the apartment and joined the small, determined squad at school. The turf smelled of dew and resolve. Coach barked orders, eyes always sharp, pushing Sharon and her teammates: "Nationals aren't a dream train like you belong there." Sharon responded in kind, losing herself in the rhythm of skates, the controlled violence of a swift pass, and the satisfaction of being more than just a good student or a quiet daughter.
Her day at school was ordinary, which was how she liked it, sitting toward the back, laughing at jokes, sometimes zoning out, always half-in, half-out. Schoolwork, friendships, even lunch all routine. But the best part was practice; there, Sharon was fierce and focused, valued for her speed and aim, not for where she sat in class.
After the bell—and after another brief solo walk home and quick dinner, she headed to her study class. But this time, her mind wandered: Would he be there again? Had last night meant anything, or would it all fade away as kids' memories do?
When the study ended, the city's night breeze still hummed with life. Sharon's heart thudded with equal parts anticipation and annoyance. As she neared the now-familiar spot near her building's gate, there he was: Sid, taller as ever, leaning against the wall, bat spinning in loose fingers.
Before she could speak, he interrupted, "What was your name again?"
Anger flashed through Sharon. She let it boil over, her eyes narrowing. "Sharon," she said, clipped and annoyed. Didn't he even care enough to remember?
Sid grinned, a touch embarrassed, "Yes, yes, I remember now! Sharon." He cocked his head, looking at her as if examining a puzzle that didn't quite fit his expectations. "So… which class are you in?"
"Sixth standard," Sharon replied defiantly.
Sid's eyebrows shot up, disbelief obvious. "No way. Sixth? You're taller than kids your age should be; you sure you're not fooling me?"
Sharon's anger surged again; she was used to being underestimated or second-guessed. "Believe whatever you want!" she snapped, turning as soon as the lift arrived and disappearing inside before Sid could say more.
She pressed her back to the cool lift wall, fists tight with irritation. He was infuriating. Who forgot a name that quickly? And who doubted someone for simply being tall? The doors slid shut, cutting off any chance of further conversation.
That night, Sharon didn't think of him with the confused curiosity of yesterday. Instead, she was irritated, replaying the encounter and her short, sharp answers. She realized, too, that she hadn't felt afraid, not really. Just annoyed that he'd been careless with something as basic as her name.
Meanwhile, Sid lingered downstairs, replaying the encounter. He'd tried to sound casual, but knew he'd blown it twice. Why did it matter if he got her age or grade wrong? And why did her glare sting him so much?
He'd chalk it up to nerves, or boredom, or the fact that talking to someone younger meant the script was different that of the girls from his school who giggled, competed, flattered, and sometimes just wanted the stories that already trailed behind him.
People in Sid's school already talked: playground rumors about his girlfriends, flings, broken hearts, shocking confessions. It amused him sometimes, even empowered him being "that guy," the easy charmer, the one with a new story each week. Yet this Sharon's sharp retort, her refusal to play along or be impressed made him feel ten times more visible than any boast or rumor could.
He wondered if he'd get another chance, and if so, how he might not waste it.