Walking into the study room felt like being called to the principal's office to be punished
Jake had arrived ten minutes early. Not that it mattered.
Maya had taken the head of the table. Chloe and Michael angled in toward her, mid-laugh when he walked through the door. Jake noticed the way everyone stopped laughing when he walked in.
Nobody looked surprised to see him.
He didn't miss the way Chloe's shoulder turned or the way Michael suddenly found his notebook fascinating.
"Okay." Maya opened her textbook. "Attribution theory and fundamental attribution error. Who can define it?"
"Maya." His voice rougher than he meant.
She didn't blink."Michael, why don't you start us off."
He grabbed a piece of paper.
I know you're angry. You have every right to be. I'm begging you — please let me make this right.
He crossed out the last line, folded the note, and slid it over slowly as she reached for water.
Maya glanced at it, she pinched it between two fingers and slid it back, unfolded, turning to Chloe.
"Your turn."
Jake watched the clock. 3:42. 3:47. 3:51. He counted Maya's pen taps. Seventeen. Thirty-four. She never looked at him.
When she finally closed her textbook, Jake stood fast, his chair scraping against the floor.
"Maya, please—"
"Same time Wednesday," she said to the group. "Reading on social cognition schemas, pages 247 through 283. There will be a quiz."
She was out the door before he could finish.
Chloe shot him a look on the way out.
Jake stood alone in the empty room. His note sat on the table where she'd left it.
He picked it up and put it in his pocket.
Jake
Riley was awake when he got back, controller in hand.
"How'd it go." Riley said.
"Not great." Jake slumped on the bed. "She didn't even acknowledge me."
Riley paused the game. "Look, I've said my piece. You know what you did. Either something changes or it doesn't."
Jake stared at the floor. "I don't know what to do."
Riley stayed silent.
Coach left a voicemail Thursday morning.
"Jake, your leave's up. Practice today. I expect you there."
A pause
"Get your head right this weekend. Whatever went down at that gala, leave it off the field. Your team's counting on you. Either show up and focus or don't bother showing up. Up to you."
Jake listened to it, then put on his cleats and drove to the facility.
Coach was already there. He didn't say anything when Jake walked in. Just pointed at the field.
Jake ran drills for two hours until his lungs burned and his legs gave out.
After practice Coach stopped him.
"You good?"
"Yea."
Coach studied him. He was a big man, had played linebacker for fifteen years before his knees gave out. He had seen enough young athletes to spot the difference between a bruised ego and real trouble.
"She important to you?"
Jake looked at his cleats. "Yeah."
"Then do the work. Be someone worth choosing." Coach squeezed his shoulder. "But right now, this team needs a QB. Figure the rest out on your own time. Got it?"
"Yes sir."
"Monday. Seven AM. Don't be late."
The next three weeks were filled with practice at seven, game film at noon, and classes in between.
Once, in Bio, he caught himself using Maya's words on a test response and got the highest score he'd had all semester.
He couldn't tell her. She'd blocked him everywhere.
He typed out messages he'd never send. His notes app filled with unsent drafts. Angry ramblings. Desperate pleas. One unfinished note said
I keep thinking about what you said. People show you who they are. You're right. You've been right about everything. I just—
He couldn't type the rest.
Friday nights, Riley dragged him to parties. Jake hung at the edges, nursing a drink, watching his teammates. Some girl from Bio talked to him for an hour at the Kappa Alpha bash. She was funny.
He was miles away, thinking about Maya. How she'd argue with her coffee cup. Laugh at her own jokes.
He always went home early.
The Thunderhawks won four straight.
First was against Cascade, a defensive grind that went to overtime and came down to a fourth-and-one that Jake converted on a quarterback sneak. Second was against Pacific North — a blowout, 38 to 14, Jake throwing for 280 yards and three touchdowns. Third was against Ridgeline, the closest call of the season, a one-possession game they won on a two-minute drive that Jake ran like he had something to prove, which he did.
The fourth was a Thursday night game, nationally televised. Jake threw for 310 yards. His rating was the highest it had been all season.
After the Ridgeline game Coach pulled him aside
" There's a press conference in two weeks. You'll speak."
"Okay."
"Keep it clean. Eyes on the championship."
"Yes sir."
Jake saw Elena's message before the Pacific North game. She'd forgotten he was in some big freshman floor chat from September.
Elena: anyone want to come to the Thunderhawks game Saturday? Free student tickets if anyone wants.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he opened his texts with Maya,still undelivered.
I know you probably won't see this. But we're playing Pacific North Saturday at 2. I just — I wanted you to be there.
Not delivered.
He put his phone away and went to warm up.
Saturday. 2 PM. The stadium roared against the gray Oregon sky.
Pacific North came out heavy, running a zone defense that swallowed the Thunderhawks' receivers. By halftime, they were down by seven. But in the third quarter, Jake found his groove. On second and six, he stepped up and launched a forty-yard strike on the run.
Touchdown.
The stadium erupted. Riley was screaming in his ear, hands slapping his helmet.
Jake jogged back toward the sideline, turning out of pure habit toward the student section.
She was there.
Eight rows up, wearing a blue and gold scarf. She was laughing with Elena, oblivious, until the roar washed over them.
Maya turned back to the field.
For a second, he saw her smile. A brilliant smile that reached her eyes.
Then a lineman crashed into Jake's shoulder, the defense took the field, and he had to snap his helmet back on.
When the final whistle blew, the Thunderhawks were up 35 to 24.
Jake stripped his helmet off and pushed through reporters as they shoved microphones into his face and teammates on the field, searching the stands.
But she was already gone.
Two weeks later, on a Tuesday morning, Jake was getting coffee.
He hadn't been to this café since September. It was her spot. But Riley wanted a specific cold brew, and Jake walked in without thinking. still in his practice clothes, talking about the State game schedule.
Two steps inside, he saw her.
She was in the corner booth.
Laptop open. Textbook flagged with sticky notes. Pen caught between her teeth, and her hair up in the messy bun.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a second neither of them moved.
Then Maya closed her laptop, slid it into her bag, stacked her textbook on top, capped her pen, stood up.
Jake took a step forward. "Maya—"
She didn't look at him again. She grabbed her coat and took a wide arc toward the exit. She was almost at the door when Riley turned around with the coffees.
"Sorry," Riley said, side-stepping.
Maya offered a tight nod, glanced briefly at Jake, and pushed through the glass.
Riley looked at the empty corner table, then at Jake. "Don't."
Riley held up both hands and went back to his coffee.
Jake stared at the table. Her coffee cup was still there, a faint lipstick stain on the rim.
He turned and walked out into the cold.
After the State qualifier, Coach called him into the office and said the athletic department wanted a mid-season media event.
"You'll speak," Coach said. "Keep it tight. Team-focused. Eyes on State."
He pressed an index card into Jake's hand.
Jake looked at it.
Proud of the team's resilience. Focused on championship goals. Grateful for the support system. Excited for what lies ahead. NO PERSONAL COMMENTS.
"Yes sir."
The press room buzzed with nervous energy.
Jake sat backstage on a metal folding chair, the index card in his hand, bouncing his leg. Through the curtain gap, he saw the flashbulbs reflecting off the school's logo backdrop. He ran his thumb over the index card Coach had shoved into his hand.
He pulled out his phone.
His notes app was still open. The unfinished message was still sitting there.
Jake read it.
Then he closed the app and opened his texts with Maya. All those messages sitting there not delivered.
He zoned out thinking about her face in the cafe, her being at his game and being so carefree laughing with her friends.
"Thompson." The stage manager barked. "Two minutes."
Jake looked at the index card.
Proud of the team's resilience. Focused on championship goals.
He folded it in half, then put it in his pocket.
"Thompson. Let's go."
Jake locked his phone, stood up, and pushed through the curtain into the blinding lights.