The air in the darkroom was still humming with the ghost of Wren's pulse when I stepped out.
I waited exactly thirty seconds after she left, listening to the fading scuff of her combat boots on the linoleum. Every second felt like an hour. My skin felt too tight, my blood too hot. The memory of her cheek against my palm was a brand, a permanent mark that made the rest of the world look like a washed-out photograph.
I adjusted my jacket, careful not to jar my right shoulder. The cortisone was wearing off, replaced by a dull, throbbing heat that radiated from the joint down to my elbow. It was a reminder of the price I was willing to pay, and the miracle Wren had bought for me with a single phone call I still didn't understand.
I'll give them something else to look at.
The words weren't just a promise to her. They were a mission statement.
I found Chloe by the trophies in the main lobby. She was surrounded by her usual court—girls who laughed at her jokes too loudly and boys who looked at her with the same hungry, hollow eyes I'd spent years perfecting in the mirror.
She saw me coming and her smile sharpened. She expected an apology. She expected the Golden Boy to come crawling back because his weekend had been 'too quiet.'
"Hayes!" she chirped, detaching herself from the group. She reached for my right arm, her fingers aiming for the bicep.
I moved. Not a flinch, but a deliberate, smooth step back. It was the first time I'd ever denied her touch in public.
The circle of friends went silent. The air in the lobby, usually thick with the smell of floor wax and teenage desperation, suddenly felt thin.
"We need to talk," I said. My voice was calm. Too calm. It was the voice I used when I was calling a play in the fourth quarter with the clock ticking down.
Chloe's eyes flickered, a flash of genuine uncertainty crossing her face before the mask slammed back into place. "Oh, is this about the party on Friday? Because I already told—"
"It's about us," I interrupted. I didn't whisper. I didn't pull her into a corner. I stood right there, in the center of the lobby, under the gaze of the state championship banners and the glass-eyed stare of the school mascot.
Chloe's face went pale, her glossed lips parted in a small 'o' of shock. "Hayes, don't be dramatic. If you're stressed about the game being cancelled—"
"The game is over, Chloe. And so is this." I took a step closer, lowering my voice just enough so it was only for her, though I knew the vultures were recording every word in their heads. "We both know what this was. A social contract. A way to keep the town happy and your status secure. But I'm done signing."
"You can't do this," she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and panic. "Not now. Not after Saturday. People are already talking, Hayes. They're asking why you were looking at that girl through the fence."
"Let them talk." I felt a strange, intoxicating sense of lightness. It was the first honest thing I'd said in three years. "Actually, I want them to talk. Just make sure they're talking about me, not her."
"You're choosing her? The stray?" Chloe's voice rose, attracting more attention from the stragglers heading to class. "She's nothing, Hayes! She's a nobody from nowhere! Do you have any idea what I'll find when I start looking into her?"
I leaned in, my shadow falling over her. The Golden Boy was gone. In his place was something harder, something that had finally found a reason to fight that wasn't a scoreboard.
"If you so much as say her name again," I whispered, "I will tell everyone exactly how you spent your summer in the Hamptons while you were telling this town you were volunteering at the animal shelter. And I'll start with the police report your dad paid to bury."
Chloe froze. The blood drained from her face, leaving her looking small and brittle.
"We're done," I said, loud enough for the lobby to hear.
I turned and walked away. I didn't look back at the wreckage. I didn't look at the shocked faces or the phones already lighting up with the news.
I headed straight for the parking lot. I had fifteen minutes before my first period started, and I had one more move to make to ensure the spotlight stayed exactly where I wanted it.
I reached my truck and pulled out my phone. I didn't text Wren. I didn't call Ezra.
I dialed a number I'd avoided for months.
"Hey, it's Hayes Callahan," I said when the line picked up. "Is the scout from Columbia still in town? Yeah. Tell him I'm not waiting for the makeup game. I'm doing a private workout at the community field in twenty minutes. And tell him to bring a camera. I want this on the news."
I hung up, my hand shaking slightly. I was going to throw until my rotator cuff snapped or the scout saw enough to offer me a full ride on the spot.
I was going to be the biggest story in Millhaven. I was going to be the only thing anyone talked about for weeks.
My shoulder pulsed with a sick, heavy heat, warning me of what was coming. I gripped the steering wheel, ignoring the pain. If I was going to burn my own future to the ground, I was making damn sure Wren was safely hidden in the shadows while I did it.