Because no one talks about her like that.
No one touches her name like that and gets away with it.
I memorized her schedule. Not because she told me. Because I watched. Monday, Wednesday, Friday—Lit Theory at ten, Psych at two. She cuts through the quad, always takes the east stairs, always tugs her sleeves down when she’s anxious. I see everything. Icatalogueeverything.
She thinks she’s alone when she walks to class, when she eats lunch on the steps, and when she curls up in the library with her cute anime phone case and her highlighters that match her mood. But I’m always close. Always watching.
Because I have to be.
After Saturday night, after her body curled into mine like it belonged there, after she whispered my name like it was a prayer, I can’t not watch her. I can’t not own the air around her.
She’smine.
And if anyone touches her, looks at her like she’s anything less than sacred, I’ll break them. Quietly. Thoroughly. Without hesitation.
Those cheerleaders?Laughing like they know her? Like they’ve earned the right to speak her name?
I’ll handle them.
Not now. Not in front of her. But later. When it’s dark. When it’s quiet. When they think they’re safe.
Because she’s not just a girl with my jersey.
She’s the axis I rotate around.
The gravity that holds me together.
And I’ll burn down every hallway, every whisper, every threat just to keep her untouched.
She doesn’t have to know.
She just has to stay mine, because I don’t know what will happen to me if she slips through my fingers.
My phone buzzing in my pocket takes me out of my reverie. A sinking pit forms in my stomach when I see who’s calling. My father. I’ve been expecting this call since the game ended Saturday.
I stare at the name on the screen like it’s a ghost. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Not since the last fight. Not since I told him I wasn’t interested in being his legacy. Not since I stopped pretending I cared about his version of control.
I answer, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. Always a pause. Like he’s deciding whether I’m worth speaking to.
“You looked good Saturday,” he says finally. “Strong. Focused.”
I don’t respond.
“You’ve got the whole campus watching you now. Even the girl.”
My grip tightens around the phone. “Don’t talk about her.”
“She wore your jersey. That’s not nothing.”
“She’s not yours to comment on.”
He laughs, low and sharp. “You think I don’t know what this is? You think I don’t see the way you look at her?”
“I didn’t ask you to see anything.”
“You’re slipping, Kane. Getting soft. Getting attached. That’s not where your head needs to be right now.”
