CHAPTER 5
PRESSURE PLAYS
POV: Aiden Hart
I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.
My knuckles were sore, the muscles in my shoulders tight like stretched cords. The bruise on my side throbbed with every breath, but I didn't flinch. I stared at it in the mirror, half tempted to lift my shirt and inspect the damage, but stopped. I pulled my hoodie over my head and stuffed my hands into the sleeves.
No point showing up to school looking like I'd been in a street fight—even if that's exactly what it was.
Downstairs, I could already hear my dad on the phone. Laughing. Bragging.
"Yeah, we're gonna crush Westview on Friday. Aiden's throwing better than ever. Kid's laser-focused. All-state, easy."
I shut the bathroom door quietly, blocking him out. I wasn't in the mood for a performance review today. I barely slept. I kept replaying that moment in the woods, the sound of the gun, the silence that followed, the way Brandon's smug little posse scattered like rats.
Someone had been watching. Someone had a gun. And someone decided to let me walk away.
But why?
School felt like static in my brain. People talked, lockers slammed, bells rang, but I wasn't there. Just moving through it, ticking boxes, counting hours.
Then I saw him.
Brandon.
Standing by the lockers, alone.
He looked different this time. Not cocky. Not laughing. Just… there. He caught my eye for a second, then looked away. Quick, like I burned him.
Coward.
He didn't say a word. Didn't try anything. He just melted into the hallway crowd like nothing ever happened.
I kept walking. Didn't stop. Didn't flinch.
Let him rot in that silence.
"Dude, are you good?" Tyler asked later, nudging me with a Snapple bottle at lunch. "You look like someone pissed in your cereal."
"I'm fine," I said, forcing a shrug. "Didn't sleep much."
He squinted at me, suspicious. "You sure? You got that 'I'm one second away from breaking a locker' vibe."
"Just tired."
Tyler studied me for a second, then nodded. "Okay. But if anyone's messing with you, just say the word. I'll handle it."
And that's exactly why I didn't tell him. If Tyler knew what Brandon pulled, if he found out about the quarry, the threats, the fight, he'd be out for blood. And he'd lose. Brandon didn't fight fair.
So I kept quiet. Not for me.
For him.
The moment the hallway went quiet, I knew something had shifted.
I was stuffing books into my locker when I noticed people stepping aside, whispering. Not in fear—more like awe.
Then I saw him.
Monroe.
He moved like the hallway didn't exist—like space bent around him. Black leather jacket, dark jeans, and long hair brushing his collarbones. His face was unreadable, but his presence? Heavy.
I hadn't looked at him since he got back. Not properly.
Now, I couldn't look away.
He didn't have tattoos crawling up his neck like people said. No nose rings, no prison tear-drop ink under his eye. Just this rugged, magnetic vibe that hit like a punch to the ribs.
Hell, if he walked onto the football field like that, we'd lose half the crowd to him on sight.
And for a split second, I wondered if he had any tattoos under that jacket.
Weird thought.
I shook it off, but it lingered, annoying and intrusive.
Back then, he used to sit in the back of class, buried in books. Quiet. Always alone. We never talked. Never shared a joke or a lunch table. We didn't move in the same universe, let alone circle.
But I remembered him.
I remembered that he always looked like he was listening to something no one else could hear.
Practice was hell.
The sun was blinding, the grass was wet from an earlier shower, and I was off my game. Missed a pass. Nearly tripped during drills. My head wasn't in it, and Coach knew.
"Get your damn head in the game, Hart!" he barked. "You think Westview's gonna play soft 'cause you're daydreaming?"
I bit back a reply, adjusted my helmet, and forced myself to focus.
Brandon was on the sidelines, still pretending he had something to prove. He laughed when I fumbled, but kept his distance.
I didn't care. I played harder. Ran drills until my lungs burned. Let the pain push everything else out. The shooter. The quarry. Brandon. The damn silence.
I wasn't playing to win.
I was playing to forget.
That night, I lay in bed, eyes wide open.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the tree outside my window. My ribs still ached. My knuckles still throbbed.
And my thoughts?
Still with him.
Who fired that gun?
Why let me live?
And why the hell did Monroe, quiet, bookish Monroe from back then, suddenly feel like a threat?
I rolled over, face in the pillow, heart pounding.
I told myself it didn't matter.
That I didn't care who Monroe had become.
But even I didn't believe it.