Chapter 3

My brother Jonah has a theory that if you aren’t shouting, you aren’t being heard.

He lives life at maximum volume—slamming locker doors, laughing loudly with his teammates, crunching through apples like he’s trying to break a jaw. I’ve always preferred to exist in the background. In a crowded hallway, I’m the girl ducking behind an oversized cardigan, adjusting her glasses, trying not to trip over her own feet.

Which made my little secret even crazier.

It started a month ago during fifth-period chemistry. Weston Hale—captain of the ice hockey team, golden boy of Crestview High, and my brother’s best friend—was sitting two rows ahead of me. Everyone else saw the varsity jacket, the easy smile, the captain they all admired.

But I noticed the way his fingers dug into the back of his neck, rubbing at a knot of tension that hadn’t left him all day. I saw him stare down at a text message on his phone, his jaw tightening until a muscle leaped in his cheek, before he face-downed the screen on his desk.

He looked exhausted—not just physically, but deep in his chest, like he was carrying an invisible weight.

I knew that look. I felt it every time I opened a prep book for three different AP classes. But nobody expected me to carry a whole team, or make my dad proud on an ice rink.

I wasn’t writing because I expected anything back. I’d learned a long time ago not to expect that. But that afternoon, using a sheet of paper from my yellow notebook and dark blue ink, I wrote four sentences. I waited until after practice, then slipped through the empty hallway outside the locker room to Weston’s locker—the one Jonah had casually pointed out months ago.

It became a habit. Writing those notes was the only way I knew how to reach into his quiet world without ruining my own.

By Wednesday afternoon, my secret routine hit a massive wall.

I was sitting in my favorite alcove in the back of the library, cross-legged between two towering rows of biographies, my sketchbook open on my knees, charcoal flying across the paper. I was supposed to be practicing dynamic shading, but my hands had drawn Weston on autopilot—sitting on the bench after the Northside loss, helmet in his hands, staring blankly ahead.

I was so focused on rendering the shadow along his jaw that I didn’t hear him approach.

“Is that… me?”

The voice sounded right above my head.

My brain stopped working. My charcoal stick snapped in half with a sharp crack, tumbling onto the carpet. There were probably words coming out of my mouth—some frantic lie about art assignments and dynamic posture—but I couldn’t hear them over the roar of my own heartbeat.

I slammed the sketchbook shut so hard the sound echoed down the empty aisles, pulling the heavy pad against my chest like body armor. My hands were shaking too hard to even push my glasses up properly.

I didn’t hear a word of his reply. I just scrambled off the carpet, dropped my eraser, snatched it back up, and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached my dad’s car in the parking lot, my chest heaving as I collapsed into the passenger seat, hoping I’d just imagined the look on his face.

On Friday night, I tried to play it cool.

When my mom dragged me to the Oakridge game, I sat in the top row of the bleachers with my headphones around my neck, pretending to read my history textbook. But every time Weston took the ice, my eyes drifted over the top of the page.

I saw him search the stands during warmups. I saw the hesitation in his play during the third period, and then—the moment that made my breath catch—I saw him pass the puck to Jonah instead of forcing the shot himself.

He had read it. He had actually listened.

When Jonah scored the winning goal and the arena erupted, Weston didn’t look at the scoreboard right away. He looked straight up toward the top bleachers. For one electric second, I thought his eyes landed directly on me

After the game, I waited with my parents near the exit. When Weston walked out in his street clothes, I forced myself not to hide.

“You… played really well,” I managed to say when he stepped closer. “Especially that last pass.”

“Yeah, well. Had to let Jonah take the glory for once,” he joked.

But the second Jonah invited him to the diner, Weston checked his phone. I didn’t need to see the screen. I already knew. Every time his father appeared, something inside Weston seemed to shrink a little. I watched the light drain out of his face as he brushed off Jonah’s invitation with a quiet, practiced excuse.

While my family headed out to the car, I lingered near the exit. My heart was pounding against my ribs. I waited until the hallway cleared, pulled a fresh pale yellow square out of my pocket, and hurried toward the players’ locker room.

I slipped the paper through the metal slats, writing the words I couldn’t say out loud: Congratulations. I hope you still found a reason to celebrate tonight, Weston. You deserved to.

By Monday morning, I walked down the hall toward my locker, clutching my binder to my chest, breathing a sigh of relief. The secret was safe.

Then I saw him.

Weston was standing by his locker, his shoulder against the metal frame. He wasn’t grabbing his textbooks, and he wasn’t talking to Jonah.

He was holding a pale yellow piece of paper in his fingers.

As I walked past, trying my best to blend into the sea of students, Weston stepped straight into my path.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look amused. He was staring down at me with an intensity that made the noisy, crowded hallway seem to fall away.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off mine, Weston raised his hand. Held between his fingers wasn’t just the note from Friday night—it was a small stack of pale yellow squares, neatly folded together.

My fingers loosened around my binder. It slipped from my grip, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Weston didn’t look down at the dropped book. He held the small stack between us, his thumb resting against the worn folds. Then his eyes lifted back to mine, steady and unwavering.

“Piper. We should talk.”