James Morgan always arrived early.

It wasn’t because he needed the extra time to warm up—he was already the best striker on the team, and he knew it. No, he came early because it gave him the field to himself. No noise, no shouting. Just the clean snap of boot against ball, the thud of it hitting the net, and the feeling—brief but golden—that this whole place belonged to him.

But today, as he jogged past the changing rooms, his rhythm faltered.

Someone was already out there.

It wasn’t one of the football lads. The figure on the far end of the field was broader, built like a tree trunk in motion. The kit was wrong, too—no bright red jersey, no shin pads. Just muddy boots and a navy shirt with thick white stripes.

Rugby.

James sighed. The pitch was meant to be theirs on Tuesdays. He considered turning back, but his pride had other ideas. Instead, he dropped his bag by the goalpost and started stretching, making sure the other boy saw him.

If the guy felt James’s glare, he didn’t show it. He was doing something weird—practicing passes alone, tossing the oval ball into the air and catching it like it was a dance.

James gave it five minutes. When the silence stretched too long, he gave in.

“You know this is the football team’s slot, right?”

The boy turned. His hair was damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead. He blinked, caught somewhere between surprised and cautious.

“I thought it was shared now,” he said quietly. “Coach said… something about the schedule changing.”

James narrowed his eyes. “Since when?”

The boy shrugged. “This week, I guess.”

James hated being wrong, but he hated looking petty more. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Fine. Just… stay out of the penalty box.”

The other boy gave a nod and turned back to his drills.

James tried to refocus, lining up his shots. But his aim was off. His footwork stiff. And every time the rugby kid passed the ball to himself, James found his eyes drifting across the field.

The boy moved like he belonged here too.

After ten minutes, James caved again. “You’re pretty good,” he called, surprising even himself.

The boy looked over. This time, a smile tugged at his lips. “Thanks.”

“I’m James,” he added, brushing grass off his hands.

“I know,” the boy said. “You scored that hat trick against Barton last term.”

James blinked. “Yeah. And you are?”

“Ethan,” he said. “Ethan Rowe.”

They stood in the soft quiet for a second, the space between them filled with nothing but the wind and the faint shout of a teacher’s whistle from across campus.

James offered a half-grin. “Wanna try kicking a real ball?”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Only if you try passing a proper one.”

They met at the center line, swapping sports—and maybe, just maybe, the start of something else too.

Ethan wasn’t sure what he expected after that first shared practice, but it wasn’t this.

Three days had passed. No messages. No nods in the hallway. James hadn’t even looked at him during lunch. Maybe it had just been a one-off moment—two bored boys messing about with each other’s sport, killing time on a Tuesday afternoon. That sort of thing didn’t mean anything, not really.

Except it had meant something to Ethan. More than he was comfortable admitting.

He kept thinking about the way James had smiled, wide and easy, like talking to him wasn’t strange at all. Like Ethan wasn’t the quiet one who never quite fit in. He remembered the way James had tried to throw a rugby ball, clumsy and laughing the whole time, his hair sticking to his forehead and his shirt damp from effort.

Ethan had barely slept that night.

It wasn’t just nerves. It was… something else. Something that sat just under his skin, humming low and restless. Every time he caught himself replaying the moment, he’d shut it down fast, convincing himself he just missed being seen. That was all.

But even that felt like a half-truth.

Now it was Friday, and rain tapped against the classroom windows in that lazy, early-spring sort of way. Mr. Lindell was droning on about allegory and The Lord of the Flies, but Ethan’s mind was elsewhere—specifically, across the hall where the Year Ten footballers usually had English at this hour.

Someone nudged him. Amelia, sitting beside him, shot him a look.

“You’ve underlined the same sentence five times,” she whispered.

Ethan blinked. “Right.”

She gave him a slow grin. “Let me guess. Football boy?”

He froze. “What?”

“Oh, come on. I saw you on the field the other day,” she said, voice low but amused. “That was James Morgan, wasn’t it?”

Ethan didn’t answer. Amelia didn’t push. That was her thing—teasing, never cruel. But the silence after her comment made him squirm.

He didn’t like how easily her words had landed.

Football boy.

Not James, not some guy. Football boy. Like a crush. Like something you’d giggle about.

Was that what it looked like?

Was that what it was?

The bell rang, and the spell broke.

Ethan gathered his things slowly, dreading lunch. It wasn’t like he had much of a crowd. He usually sat with a few other rugby players—guys who talked a lot but didn’t expect him to. He liked the quiet between the noise. Still, today, the idea of sliding back into the same old seat felt heavier than usual.

He was halfway to the dining hall when he spotted him.

James, leaning against the side of the building with his bag slung over one shoulder, was alone. He was talking to no one. Just… standing there. Waiting?

Ethan slowed, heart thudding too loud for a school corridor.

James looked up. Their eyes met.

He nodded once. Just a little gesture. Nothing obvious.

But to Ethan, it felt like the entire hallway narrowed until there was just that look, and the quiet pull of something he couldn’t name.

He changed direction without thinking.

James said nothing as Ethan approached, just fell into step beside him like they’d been doing it for years.

“Field?” James said.

Ethan smiled, but it was tight. “Yeah.”

They walked out into the wet spring air without another word.

And behind his smile, Ethan couldn’t stop wondering—

Why did this feel so different from how it’s supposed to feel?

And in a classroom one building over, James was staring down at the desk he hadn’t left yet, wondering the exact same thing.