Peter went through the day without much trouble. He'd knocked out his math homework during art class, just like he planned—quietly working through the problems while the rest of the class focused on sketching still life. The teacher didn't seem to notice, or maybe just didn't care. Either way, it was done and tucked back into his folder before the bell rang.
The rest of his classes rolled by smoothly. A few quizzes, some light notes, nothing heavy. Between periods, he joked with friends, bumped shoulders in the hall, swapped a few sarcastic remarks with the usual group. Peter wasn't the center of attention, but people noticed him. He had a laid-back energy that others naturally gravitated toward, and being good at sports didn't hurt either. He floated easily between groups—athletes, gamers, the quieter kids in his advanced classes. He didn't try hard to fit in. He just did.
The only strange part of the day was the tech.
Phones were still messed up. His flip phone hadn't gotten a single bar all day, and it wasn't just him. Everyone was talking about it. Smartphones weren't sending texts, the Wi-Fi was spotty, and half the teachers who tried to use their laptops for attendance gave up and went back to paper. A few kids were whispering theories in the halls—some outage, maybe a tower issue—but Peter didn't pay much attention. It was annoying, but it didn't affect anything that mattered to him.
By the time last period rolled around, he was fully tuned in.
Gym.
He was pretty sure today was pickleball.
He liked it well enough. It wasn't high-speed or flashy, but it could be surprisingly competitive when people got into it. Fast hands and quick feet gave you an edge. It felt good to move, to read the court, to feel the rhythm of the game. He preferred it over tennis—fewer rules to get in the way, and less of a learning curve. You didn't need perfect technique or hours of practice to hold your own.
Peter had the kind of coordination and instinct that made even simple games feel sharp.
After gym, Peter didn't waste any time. He changed quick, towel-dried the sweat off his face, and started getting ready for after-school sports. Today was soccer. His cleats, shin guards, and water bottle were already packed—he was halfway into his socks before anyone else even opened their bag. It was muscle memory by now. He liked having a routine. Locker, bench, change, focus. Soccer time.
His parents had never let him play football. Not even flag. Too many concussions, too many horror stories. His mom had been firm on that since elementary school, and his dad hadn't pushed back. Not because he didn't care—because he agreed.
"Soccer's better anyway," his dad had told him once, on the way home from practice. "Footwork, cardio, spatial awareness. You'll use that on every court you ever step on. Football teaches you how to hit. Soccer teaches you how to move."
And Peter could see it. The way soccer forced you to stay light on your feet, the constant running, the quick pivots and decision-making. It carried over to everything. He didn't need to be the biggest or strongest. He had speed. Timing. Vision. Soccer made him sharper. His dad had even said once that soccer players looked more like basketball players anyway—lean, efficient, explosive.
He was pulling on his cleats, fingers moving fast, when Coach Rivera walked into the locker room. Usually, the man had a casual vibe—clipboard under one arm, half-smile like he was already imagining the drills for the day.
But not today.
Coach looked tense, like someone had stopped him mid-plan. He raised his voice just enough to cut through the noise.
"Alright, listen up," he said, clapping once. "Practice is cancelled. All after-school activities are shut down. That's from the district. Everyone needs to pack up and head home."
There was a pause, like the room needed a second to catch up. Then the complaints started—groans, loud sighs, a few "What?" and "Are you serious?" from around the lockers.
Peter just sat back on the bench, letting out a slow breath. He dropped his cleats back into his bag.
Lame.
He figured it had something to do with the tech issues. Nothing had worked right all day. Phones were down—his flip phone hadn't gotten a bar of service since morning—and the school Wi-Fi had been cutting in and out. Teachers kept complaining about losing access to files, the attendance system froze twice, and even the morning announcements cut out halfway through. Now this? It all seemed connected.
Still, it didn't make it any less disappointing. No scrimmage. No drills. No chance to burn off the rest of the day with something that mattered.
And with phones out, he couldn't even text anyone—not that he could've anyway. His flip phone didn't do group chats or Wi-Fi. It was just calls and texts when it actually had a signal. Today, it was a paperweight.
No soccer. No messages. No distractions.
Just heading home and facing whatever homework was waiting.
What a drag.
Peter stepped out of the building with his backpack slung over one shoulder, cleats thudding softly against his leg. The sun was sliding lower in the sky, turning everything gold—the sidewalk, the brick walls, the edges of passing cars. There was a breeze now, cool and dry, and the light had that clear, early-autumn quality that made shadows feel longer than they were.
Nicki stood near the gate, volleyball bag slung across her shoulder, her jaw set with the kind of frustration that didn't need words. Her hair was still pulled back from gym, her team jacket tied around her waist, and she looked like she was walking off a bad call that never got fixed. She wore a pair of worn black trainers—her post-practice shoes—laces loose, the tongues pushed down like she'd kicked them on without trying.
Peter joined her without saying anything, just fell into step beside her.
Nicki muttered, "Today sucked."
Peter nodded once. "Yeah. It really did."
No service. No practice. No warning. Just a glitchy PA announcement, a teacher waving dismissal slips in the hallway, and a coach who looked more annoyed than informed. Whatever was going on, the answer wasn't coming from inside the school.
Nicki didn't wait for anything else. She started walking, her steps quick and clipped, like she needed the pavement to absorb her frustration. Her phone was in one hand. She tapped the screen again—still black. Still no signal.
Walking beside her was Alice—Nicki's teammate on the varsity volleyball team.
Peter didn't need an introduction. He'd known who Alice was for a while now.
She was tall and athletic, with long legs and that smooth, fluid way of moving that made everything seem effortless. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that swayed behind her as she walked. Her skin held onto summer—golden and clear—and her arms and legs carried that quiet definition from constant training.
She wore a heather-gray hoodie, the sleeves shoved up past her elbows, and a pair of fitted black athletic shorts. Her running shoes made almost no sound, but Peter was hyper-aware of them anyway. She wasn't dressed to impress—she was dressed to move. And somehow, that made it harder not to look.
Her eyes were a clear, striking blue. Steady. Focused. The kind that made you feel like she wasn't just looking at you—she was reading you. There wasn't a single thing about her that felt uncertain.
Peter walked a few steps behind them, hoodie up, hands deep in his pockets. He tried to look casual, like it was any other walk home. But it wasn't.
She'd been showing up in his thoughts more and more lately. Not in big, detailed ways. Just flashes. Moments. A laugh she let out during one of Nicki's matches, light and easy like nothing in the world could bother her. The way she spun a volleyball casually between her hands after practice. The bounce of her ponytail. Her voice.
At night, when everything was quiet, those images stuck around longer than he wanted them to. Not in ways he'd ever say out loud. Just enough to make his heart race a little faster when he saw her.
And now she was here. Close. Real. Moving right beside his sister.
He kept his head down, staring at the sidewalk, pretending to think about anything else. But his body buzzed with that tight, clumsy tension—like a live wire running under his skin.
Nicki huffed. "They could've at least let us do drills. Or literally anything. Instead we just get told to leave."
Alice shrugged. "District stuff, probably. My mom said the Wi-Fi was out at her office too."
Peter didn't say a word. He barely breathed.
At the next corner, Alice checked her phone again, thumb tapping the side button. The screen lit briefly, then dimmed—still nothing. No bars. No signal. Just the same stubborn silence it had been giving all day.
She let out a short, quiet sigh. Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... done.
"I'm cutting through here," she said, tucking the phone back into her hoodie pocket. "I'll text you if this thing decides to work."
Nicki waved. "Later."
Then Alice looked at him.
Not past him—at him.
Her eyes met his with the kind of ease that made it feel intentional, not obligatory. A glance that landed and lingered for just half a second longer than it had to.
"Bye, Peter."
His brain paused—just half a beat of static. Like something inside him short-circuited from the sound of her voice saying his name.
"Uh—yeah. Bye."
She turned, ponytail bouncing behind her with each step, the hem of her hoodie drawing snug across her waist as she walked. Her stride was even, unhurried, confident without effort.
Peter's eyes followed her.
The hoodie fit close across her back, the fabric tugging slightly between her shoulders with each movement. The black athletic shorts rested high on her legs—simple, fitted, and just long enough to stir something confusing in his chest. Her calves flexed faintly as she walked, shaped by hours of drills and motion, and the rhythm of her ponytail swaying in the golden light made everything feel like slow motion.
It wasn't one thing. It was everything—how she moved, what she wore, the ease in her step, the sound of her sneakers brushing the pavement. He didn't even notice he was holding his breath until she disappeared around the corner.
Just a second.
Okay—two.
Nicki caught it, of course.
She gave him a sidelong look, lips already curling into a grin. "Seriously?"
He blinked, face heating. "What?"
"You were checking her out."
"No I wasn't."
"You so were. Dude. You didn't even blink."
"I was just watching where she went."
"Right," she said, grinning. "Very tactical. Tracking trajectory. You want me to get Coach to review the film?"
Peter groaned and yanked his hood lower. "Please stop talking."
Nicki bumped her shoulder into his. "Relax. It's not a crime. She's hot. And you've got the subtlety of a broken vending machine."
He muttered something under his breath. She didn't catch it, and he didn't repeat it.
She didn't push it. But she was still grinning as they crossed the next street.