HAYES
Pain is a persistent, unwanted guest. It doesn't knock; it just makes itself at home in your joints and waits for you to try and breathe.
My right shoulder felt like it had been filled with jagged glass and lit on fire. Every breath I took in the locker room felt like a negotiation with a terrorist. A grade-two rotator cuff sprain. That was the official diagnosis from the private doctor my father had practically smuggled into the house.
'Ice, rest, and surgery,' the doctor had said.
'Cortisone, tape, and a state championship,' my father had corrected.
I sat on the wooden bench, staring at the floor, my arm hanging heavy and useless. The championship was three days away. I was supposed to be the hero. I was supposed to be the boy who brought the trophy back to Millhaven before disappearing into the Ivy League.
The door to the locker room opened, and Chloe walked in.
She shouldn't have been there—it was after hours—but the janitors never stopped the cheerleaders, especially not the girl currently wearing my varsity jacket.
"Hayes?" she called out, her voice bright and cheery.
I forced my face into the flat, polite mask I had perfected over the last two weeks. "Hey, Chloe."
She walked over and sat next to me, her perfume—something sugary and floral—clashing with the smell of sweat and deep-heat rub. She reached out, patting my good shoulder.
"Everyone's at Laurel's," she said. "Are you coming? I want to show off the new necklace you got me."
I hadn't gotten her a necklace. I'd given her a credit card and told her to buy whatever she wanted for the 'publicity tour.'
"In a minute," I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
I looked at Chloe. She was pretty, popular, and entirely satisfied with our arrangement. She didn't want my heart; she wanted my status. She wanted to be the girl on the arm of the All-State quarterback when the scouts came calling. It was a business transaction. I provided the social capital; she provided the shield that kept the town—and Wren—from seeing how badly I was bleeding out.
Nothing had happened between us. No kisses, no late-night phone calls, no shared secrets. We were a series of carefully orchestrated photo ops designed to prove that Hayes Callahan had moved on.
It was a lie. A hollow, exhausting lie.
"Don't be long," Chloe said, standing up and smoothing out her skirt. She checked her reflection in the metal lockers, adjusted my jacket, and blew me a kiss before bouncing out the door.
I waited until the sound of her footsteps faded before I let the mask drop. I let out a jagged breath, my head falling into my hands.
I was using her. I was using Chloe to punish Wren for a crime she committed out of fear. And every time I saw the look on Wren's face—that microscopic flinch, that sudden, cold detachment—I felt like a monster.
The gym scene from yesterday was still playing on a loop in my head. The way her hand had trembled under mine. The way she had whispered 'Stop' like she was drowning. I had wanted to pull her into my arms right there on the hardwood floor and tell her to hell with the lawyers.
But I hadn't. I'd played the part. I'd gone back to Chloe.
I stood up, the movement sending a fresh jolt of agony through my shoulder. I needed to get out of here. I needed a drink, or a nap, or a new life.
I walked out of the locker room and down the quiet hallway toward the exit. The school was mostly empty, the shadows long and leaning against the lockers.
As I passed the art wing, I saw a light on in the back.
I stopped. My body didn't even wait for my brain to give the order; it just turned toward the light.
Wren was there.
She wasn't painting. She was sitting at a tall stool, her back to the door, her head resting on her arms. She looked small. Vulnerable. Like a piece of art that had been left out in the rain.
I stood in the doorway, my breath hitching in my throat. I should have walked away. I should have gone to the diner and played the part of the happy boyfriend.
Instead, I took a step into the room.
The floorboard creaked.
Wren spun around, her eyes wide, her face pale. She saw me, and for a second, the mask she'd been wearing for Ezra Nakamura and the rest of the world slipped. She looked... devastated.
"Hayes," she whispered.
"Working late?" I asked, my voice rough. I stayed by the door, keeping the distance between us like a physical barrier.
"Just... clearing my head," she said, her eyes scanning my face, my posture.
She was too smart. She'd spent her whole life reading people, reading the hidden meanings in their words. And right now, she was reading me.
"You're hurt," she said, her voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly certain register.
"I'm fine, Calloway."
"Don't lie to me." She stood up, walking toward me. She didn't stop until she was standing right in front of me, her storm-colored eyes searching mine. "You're favoring your right side. Your jaw is locked. And you haven't taken a full breath since you walked in."
She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from my shoulder.
"Is it the rotator cuff?" she asked, her voice thick with a sudden, fierce protectiveness.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The physical pain was nothing compared to the sudden, violent surge of longing that hit me when she looked at me like that. Not as a golden boy, not as a liability, but as *me*.
"Hayes, look at me," she commanded.
I looked.
"You can't play on Friday," she said, her hand finally making contact with my arm. Her touch was gentle, but it felt like an electric current. "If you tear it further, you'll lose Columbia. You'll lose everything you worked for."
"I have to play," I rasped, my hand coming up to cover hers, my fingers interlacing with hers. "It's the only thing I have left, Wren. If I don't win this, if I don't get out of this town... then what was the point of any of it? What was the point of losing you?"
Wren let out a soft, broken sound. She stepped closer, her forehead resting against my chest. I could feel her heart hammering against my ribs, mirroring my own.
"You didn't lose me," she whispered into my shirt. "You could never lose me, Hayes. That's the problem."
I closed my eyes, my good arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against me. The pain in my shoulder faded into the background, drowned out by the absolute, undeniable reality of her.
I thought about Chloe, about the diner, about the scouts and the championships. It all felt like noise. It all felt like a distraction from the only truth that mattered.
I looked down at the top of her head, the smell of her—paint and cold air and something uniquely *Wren*—filling my senses.
I knew then, with a terrifying clarity, that she was right. There was no ending for us. No matter how many banners we painted, no matter how many people we used as shields, we were inextricably, fatally tied together.
"I'm going to play," I murmured into her hair, my grip on her waist tightening. "But I'm not doing it for the town anymore."
I pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. The storm was back, but this time, it was clear.
"I'm doing it so I can build that house," I said, my voice steady. "And I'm building it for you."
Wren stared at me, her eyes wet with tears she refused to let fall. She didn't argue. she didn't talk about liabilities or NDAs.
She just reached up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could finally breathe.
We were a disaster waiting to happen. We were a scandal in the making.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.