Author's Note: I usually don't do pre-chapter author's notes, but I do give warnings in rare cases when appropriate. This chapter contains Explicit Sexual Content. There will be a lemons warning before the scene, so you may skip it if you want.
Meteor Freak
Episode 12: Devoted
Date: Thursday, September 15, 2011.
Location: Smallville High, Smallville, Kansas
One Week Earlier…
Students packed the bleachers and crowded around the edges of the football field at Smallville High School. At the far end, a large square banner stretched between two poles.
Smallville High, Home of the Crows, 2011
The crowd erupted as the football team charged toward the banner. Whitney Fordman led the pack in his letterman jacket, bursting through the paper barrier. The other players followed as fragments fluttered to the ground behind them.
Whitney bounded up the stairs to the platform and grabbed a megaphone from one of the cheerleaders. The rest of the team gathered below. The crowd's cheers intensified as he raised it to his lips.
"Are we going to state this year?"
The response was immediate and deafening. "Yeah!"
Whitney cupped his ear theatrically, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "I can't hear ya! Who's gonna be the state champions?"
"The Crows!" The unified voice echoed across the field, students jumping and pumping their fists.
Whitney descended the stage stairs, scanning the sea of faces. "I need someone brave to step up." He walked through the crowd with the swagger of someone who owned the field, the megaphone dangling from his hand.
"All right, which one of you studs thinks you're a better quarterback than me?"
His gaze swept across the team and landed on Clark. The moment stretched uncomfortably before Whitney's attention shifted, settling on another familiar face.
"Tyson!" Whitney's voice carried clearly without the megaphone. Tyson stood with his arms crossed, unimpressed by the theatrical display. Whitney's grin turned smug as he raised the megaphone again.
"How about it?" His tone carried an edge of challenge. "You missed practice so you could work in your theater. The least you can do is show some school spirit."
Whitney hurled a football in Tyson's direction. He caught the ball cleanly. Whitney turned back to face the crowd, raising the megaphone triumphantly.
"Am I right?"
The crowd erupted in excited cheers, voices blending into a cacophony of support and anticipation.
Whitney's grin widened as he delivered his next line. "Come on, Tyson. You want to take a shot at the hottest girl in Smallville High?"
Tyson followed Whitney's gesture across the field to where a dunk tank had been positioned. Lana Lang sat perched on the platform above the tank, water glistening below. She wore a Crows T-shirt that clung to her frame, and she smiled encouragingly. To her left, a large circular target with an X marked the center.
"Come on, Tyson!" Lana called out. Her tone shifted, becoming more sincere and supportive. "Just take your time. Come on, you can do it."
Tyson gripped the football, feeling its familiar weight. He pulled his arm back, muscles coiling as he prepared to launch the ball toward the target.
Suddenly, the school mascot burst onto the field. The Crow costume was a ridiculous sight, oversized black wings and a beaked mask that bobbed comically as the mascot bounded between Tyson and the dunk tank.
"Caw! Caw! Support the team! Caw! Caw! Whoo!"
The crowd's attention shifted to the mascot, their cheers growing louder as the costumed figure performed an exaggerated dance routine in the middle of the field.
"Yeah, go Crows! Woo-hoo!"
Whitney jogged toward the mascot, raising the megaphone. "Hey, it's the Crow! Who's the lucky student this year?"
Brett Anderson, one of the larger players, approached the mascot.
"Probably the biggest loser, like every year." His voice carried a cruel edge, and he gestured dismissively at the mask. "Come on, take it off. Take it off. Let me see your face."
Clark's voice was sharp. "Hey, leave her alone."
The costume muffled the mascot's voice, but the distress was unmistakable as she mirrored Clark's words. "Guys, just leave me alone, all right?"
Another player moved to flank the mascot, grabbing its arm to prevent any escape. Brett's grin turned vicious as he reached for the mask.
"What?" Brett shot back at Clark. "We always torture the mascot. It's a tradition."
"Leave me alone. Leave me alone!" The mascot's pleas grew more desperate as Brett's hands found purchase on the mask. "Stop it!"
With a swift motion, Brett yanked the mask away.
The crowd's cheers died instantly, replaced by a collective gasp that rippled across the field like a shockwave.
The girl beneath had messy blond hair stuck to her scalp with sweat, thick-rimmed glasses knocked askew, and severe acne covering her cheeks and forehead. Tears already brimmed in her eyes as hundreds of students stared at her exposed face.
"Scabby Abby. Hey, it's Scabby Abby!"
Brett held the crow mask high above his head like a trophy, his voice booming across the field as he began the chant. The cruel nickname spread through the crowd like wildfire.
"Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby!"
"Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby!"
The chant grew louder with each repetition. Tears spilled down Abby's cheeks. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Her hands trembled at her sides, uselessly clutching at the ridiculous costume. The laughter washed over her in waves, each new voice joining the chorus like another stone thrown.
Her throat tightened. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Just the endless chanting, the pointing fingers, the phone cameras capturing her humiliation for eternity.
Then a football struck Brett's face with the precision of a guided missile.
The impact was immediate and devastating, sending him sprawling backward onto the turf. Blood poured from his nose as he clutched his face, his earlier bravado replaced by shocked pain.
Silence descended over the field like a heavy blanket. Every eye turned to Tyson, who bent down to retrieve the football with casual indifference.
"Oops." His voice carried clearly in the sudden quiet. "Guess it turns out I'm not made to be the quarterback. I'll stick to playing receiver."
He casually tossed the ball back to Whitney. "Sorry, Lana, I dropped the ball... again."
Tyson walked over to where the mascot head had fallen and picked it up, offering it back to Abby. "Sorry, the football players in this town never learn."
Abby accepted the helmet with a mumbled "Thanks," her voice barely audible. She turned and fled toward the parking lot, her costume wings trailing behind.
Whitney turned back to the crowd, trying to salvage the awkward moment. "All right, who's next? Who's gonna step up and dunk her?"
Abby made it to the parking lot and leaned against a parked truck, her back pressed against the cool metal as sobs wracked her body. She removed her glasses with trembling hands and wiped at her eyes, trying to clear away the tears that blurred her vision.
Hours later, Abby lay on the examination table, her body secured by two thick metallic straps that crossed her chest and pelvis. The cold metal pressed against her skin through the thin hospital gown she now wore instead of the ridiculous crow costume.
Dr. Fine moved around the table, adjusting various instruments. "Don't worry, sweetheart." Her gloved hand reached out to stroke Abby's hair with gentle, loving motions. "I won't let you waste your senior year like you did all the others."
Abby's eyes searched her mother's face, desperate for reassurance. The humiliation from the football field still burned fresh, the cruel chants echoing in her mind like a broken record.
"You promise people will like me?"
Dr. Fine's smile never wavered. "They will. I promise. Just like they did me."
The words brought a tentative smile to Abby's lips, hope flickering for the first time since the nightmare at school. She trusted her mother completely, had always trusted her to make everything better when the world became too cruel to bear.
Dr. Fine was beautiful. Abby had seen the pictures, her mother in her cheerleading uniform, surrounded by friends, glowing with the kind of confidence Abby had never possessed. And now her mother would make sure Abby never suffered the same fate. Never had to watch from the sidelines while other girls lived the life that should have been hers. Never had to hear "Scabby Abby" echo across a football field while hundreds of people laughed, again.
Her mother stepped away from the table and moved toward the wall. Her hand hovered over a large red button mounted on a control panel with various lights and displays surrounding it.
"Everyone will love you when they see the real you, the one that's been inside all along." She pressed the button. Immediately, a mechanical buzzing filled the laboratory.
Above Abby, a large covering began its slow descent from the ceiling. The transparent plastic outline perfectly matched the contours of a human body. It resembled the lid of a sarcophagus, but the clear material revealed its horrifying contents.
Abby's breathing quickened as the covering drew closer. From her position on the table, she could see dozens of needles protruding from the inner surface, each one pointing directly at her. The needles were arranged in precise rows, spaced only inches apart, creating a bed of sharp points that would soon make contact with every inch of her body.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. The buzzing grew louder, mechanical and relentless.
"You're going to have a senior year no one will ever forget."
The cover continued its descent. Abby's breath came in short, panicked gasps now. She tried to move, but the straps held her immobile. The needles drew closer. Closer.
The first tips touched her face.
The sharp points began to break through her skin. Small drops of blood appeared on her cheek, trickling down toward the table beneath her. Then more needles made contact. Her arms. Her chest. Her legs.
The pain was immediate and all-consuming. Her scream filled the laboratory, but her mother had already turned away, checking readings on the control panel. The needles sank deeper. Blood welled from hundreds of puncture wounds, running in thin rivulets across her skin.
Abby's scream cut off as her throat closed, the pain too intense for sound. Her body convulsed against the restraints, every muscle contracting in agony. The world narrowed to nothing but the burning, tearing sensation of needles piercing flesh and beginning to pump a glowing green fluid.
Then darkness took her.
Present Day
Inside the hallway of Smallville High, students packed the corridor, creating a constant flow of bodies moving between classes. Clark descended the stairway with Tyson beside him, both carrying their backpacks and discussing the upcoming football game.
Behind them, a sharp wolf whistle cut through the ambient noise of conversation and locker doors slamming shut.
Clark turned around.
A male student near the lockers craned his neck to get a better view. "Check it out. The new girl!"
A girl with blond hair walked down the hallway wearing a pink dress that hugged her curves in ways that drew every male eye in the corridor. Her smile was confident and provocative, a far cry from the shy, awkward mascot who had fled the football field in tears. Her hips swayed slightly with each step.
A group of football players, including Brett Anderson with his nose still slightly swollen from Tyson's football throw, smiled at her. Brett's earlier hostility had been replaced by obvious interest, tracking her movement down the hallway.
The girl smiled at all the guys checking her out, her gaze sweeping across the crowd before landing on Clark. Recognition flickered across her face.
"Hi, Clark." Her voice was warm and friendly. "Hi, Tyson."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a shy gesture that seemed at odds with her confident appearance, then continued to her locker.
Clark's eyes widened as recognition finally clicked into place. "Abby?"
The girl paused at her locker, turning back to face them with an amused smile. "It's actually Abigail now."
Clark moved closer, still showing surprise at the transformation. "You know, I almost didn't recognize you."
Abigail opened her locker, reaching inside for her books. "After missing most of the first semester... that's a good thing?" She pulled out a textbook and held it against her chest. "With any luck, this old locker will be the only thing that stays the same this year."
Clark laughed, the sound slightly nervous. "Yeah, um, that shouldn't be a problem. So, uh... Why the, uh..."
His gaze traveled down her figure before quickly returning to her face, a flush creeping up his neck.
Abigail's smile turned knowing. "Change? I guess just one day you realize you can spend another year being resentful of what everybody else has, or you can do something about it." She closed her locker with a decisive click. "It's our senior year, Clark. This is my last chance."
Down the hallway, Brett continued talking to his buddies, his attention still fixed on Abigail. Lana and Chloe walked around the corner and passed the group of football players, their conversation pausing as they took in the scene.
Abigail turned to Tyson. "Thanks so much for defending me that time."
Tyson's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure what you mean."
Clark cleared his throat. "Abby was the mascot at the pep rally."
Tyson had to think about it for a moment. "Oh, yeah, that." He shrugged. "Sorry, it's like every football player in this school is an asshole." He paused, considering. "After thinking about it for a moment, yeah, maybe it's every football player at every high school."
Abigail smiled and laughed genuinely.
Chloe approached with Lana. "Good morning, Clark. Hey... Abby."
The two girls kept walking, moving past the group toward their own lockers.
Chloe's voice carried back to where Clark and Tyson stood. "Whoa. Either she spent an entire month at a silicon farm, or I am shopping at the wrong makeup counter."
Lana's tone held a note of concern. "It's a shame that she felt she had to get work done to fit in."
Chloe opened her locker, pulling out her journalism notebook. "Don't tell me that the world isn't nicer to prettier people." She tucked the notebook under her arm. "Besides, you know, I mean it's her body and if it makes her feel better, then it's none of our business."
Lana's eyebrows rose.
"What?" Chloe's defensive tone suggested she knew exactly what had prompted that reaction.
Lana's voice remained measured. "I'm just surprised you don't find it objectionable that a girl would get surgery to fit in better at school."
Clark approached the two girls, joining their conversation.
"I think she looks great," Clark offered.
Chloe turned to him with a knowing smile. "What a shocker. Too bad you've got Kyla now." Her gaze shifted to where Tyson stood. "Look, she's even got Tyson's attention."
Clark glanced at his friend. "He's just being friendly. They're bonding over their mutual hatred for football players."
Chloe turned to Lana. Lana's face looked troubled, indecisive, tracking across the hallway to where Tyson stood talking with Abigail. Her fingers tightened slightly on the strap of her bag, and something flickered in her expression, something that might have been jealousy or concern or both.
— Meteor Freak —
The afternoon sun beat down on Smallville High's practice field. Two lines of players faced each other across the scrimmage line; red jerseys on one side, yellow on the other. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and sweat and football pads.
"Ready!" The quarterback's voice cut through the ambient noise. "Down! Set! Blue-47! Blue-47!"
On the sidelines, cheerleaders bounced on their toes, pom-poms rustling.
"Hut!"
The center snapped the ball to the quarterback's hands, then a spiral across the field. The receiver caught it cleanly, tucking it against his ribs.
"Nice one, Cormier!" Coach Teague called, walking down the sideline, clipboard in hand. "Way to find your man!"
From the cheerleading squad, Mandy broke formation. "Woo! All right, Dan! Looking good, baby!"
Her boyfriend, Dan Cormier, didn't acknowledge her. He was already lining up for the next play.
On the bench, Clark Kent sat alone in full pads, turning a football over in his hands. His jaw worked as he watched the practice unfold without him.
Coach Teague's shadow fell across him. "Hey, Clark. How you holding up?"
"Just fine, coach." Clark didn't look up.
Teague knelt beside the bench, one knee in the grass. "Right, just, uh, hang in there for me, all right? I'm trying to preserve your arm. I'll have you in for offense next set."
"I can play both ways, coach."
A small sigh escaped Teague as he stood, already moving on. The coach's words about playoffs and preservation barely registered. Clark had heard it all before but couldn't exactly say there was no chance of him fatiguing or being injured.
Teague's whistle shrieked. "Go on in, guys. Grab a drink."
Clark stood, put on his helmet, and jogged onto the field. Dan and his teammate Nate clasped hands, bumping shoulders in congratulations.
"Nice catch, buddy," Nate said.
"Thanks, man."
Mandy materialized at Dan's side, her face bright with adoration. She leaned in for a kiss.
Dan pulled away, not quite meeting her eyes. "All right, cut it out, Mandy. Just cut it out."
He kept walking toward the drink table. Mandy followed, clutching a squeeze bottle of green punch. Her movements had a desperate quality, like someone afraid of losing their grip.
"Sorry." Her voice was small. "So what are we doing Saturday night?"
"Uh, we aren't doing anything." Dan grabbed a towel from the stack. "I'm hanging out with Nate and the boys. Didn't I mention that to you before?"
He wiped sweat from his face, still not looking at her.
"It's okay. I just want to make you happy."
"All right."
"I got you a drink." She thrust the bottle toward him. Over her shoulder, a cluster of cheerleaders held identical bottles of green drink. They smiled at Mandy, nodding with shared knowledge. Something mischievous passed between them.
Dan took the bottle without comment. He squeezed a stream of green liquid into his mouth.
The punch traveled down his throat in a visible wave. His pupils dilated. His breathing changed, became deeper, slower. The chemicals hit his stomach and absorbed into his bloodstream quickly. They reached his heart, which began to beat faster, harder. They continued upward, flooding his brain.
When they reached his eyes, the world transformed.
Mandy stood before him, haloed in white radiance. Her features softened, became angelic. Beautiful beyond reason.
Dan blinked. Blinked again.
"You know what?" He moved toward her, smiling for the first time. "Screw the guys." He kissed her, deep and urgent. "I want to hang out with you on Saturday night."
Mandy's eyes widened. "Why wait till Saturday when we can go shopping now?"
"Whatever you want, baby." Dan's voice was warm, doting. "I'm gonna go hit the showers."
He smiled at her again, then turned toward the school building.
Mandy glanced back at the cheerleaders. She raised her thumb in triumph. They waved back, their grins matching hers perfectly.
"Where you going, bud?" Coach Teague stepped into Dan's path. "The field's this way."
"I'm going shopping with Mandy."
"You're what?"
Mandy slipped between them, touching Dan's arm. "I'll be in the car, baby."
"See ya."
She walked away, hips swaying. Teague stared after her, confused.
"You checking out my girlfriend?" Dan's voice dropped, went hard. Dangerous.
"What are you talking about?"
Dan glared at him for a long moment. The warmth from seconds ago had vanished, replaced by something cold and possessive. Then he turned and continued toward the school.
"Danny, you walk off this field, you're riding the bench Friday!" Teague called after him.
"Yeah, bite me, dude." Dan didn't turn around. Didn't slow down.
Teague shook his head, muttering under his breath. "What's with the players at this school skipping practice for girls?"
The thought pulled his attention to the track that circled the football field. Tyson was still running laps as punishment for his own recent stunt involving a girl. Lana.
Teague frowned. The kid's form was perfect, his breathing unlabored despite the distance he'd already covered. Track star, my ass. Something had to be up with Tyson. No football player was that strong, that fast, that agile, and could run for that long.
He raised his voice. "Tyson! Looks like your spot just opened back up. Why don't you put on your cleats and hop in there?"
Tyson jogged over to the bench. He grabbed his cleats from his bag and sat down to lace them up. Pull tight, double knot, check the fit. Took maybe thirty seconds before he stood, then headed onto the field. Clark was already positioned behind the center, scanning the defense.
"Blue 19!"
The defensive line tensed. Tyson lined up wide right, noting the cornerback's positioning. Too far inside.
"Hike!"
The center snapped the ball to Clark's hands with a solid smack. Clark backpedaled three steps, eyes downfield. A yellow jersey broke through the line, arms reaching for the tackle.
Clark sidestepped left; the defender grabbed air and stumbled past. Clark planted his back foot and launched the ball in a perfect spiral.
The football climbed against the blue sky, rotating cleanly. Tyson tracked it, adjusting his route. The cornerback realized his mistake too late. Tyson accelerated past him, hands up.
The ball dropped into his palms. He pulled it against his ribs and kept running until Coach Teague's whistle shrieked.
"Nice throw, Kent!" Teague called from the sideline. "Keep it up!"
Clark pulled off his helmet, grinning. "All right!"
Tyson jogged back, tossing the ball to the equipment manager. Clark met him halfway, still smiling.
"Good hands," Clark said.
"Good arm." Tyson bumped his shoulder pad.
"Just trying not to show off."
"Nothing wrong with showing off every once in a while."
The locker room was quiet except for the pour of a showerhead and the metallic clang of locker doors. Most of the team had already cleared out. Coach Teague sat alone on a wooden bench, tying his shoe. His gym bag rested beside him, half-zipped.
A sound came from behind the lockers. Metal scraping metal.
Teague looked up. "Someone still here?"
No answer.
He went back to his laces, pulling them tight. The sound came again, closer this time.
Teague turned his head.
A shotgun barrel emerged from between two rows of lockers, pointing directly at his chest.
Teague threw himself sideways off the bench. He hit the tile floor hard as the first shot exploded through the space where he'd been sitting. The blast echoed off concrete walls, deafening in the enclosed space.
He scrambled to his feet, adrenaline flooding his system. The shooter cocked the gun, that distinctive pump-action sound that meant another shell was chambered.
Jason ran.
The second shot took out a chunk of wall behind him, spraying plaster dust. He dodged down an aisle of lockers, sneakers squeaking on wet tile.
The third shot shattered a fluorescent light overhead.
Sparks rained down as one end of the fixture swung free, dangling by its wires. The light flickered and died, casting half the room in shadow.
Teague reached the exit door and grabbed the handle.
Locked.
His fingers fumbled with the deadbolt, slick with sweat.
Behind him, footsteps. Steady. Unhurried.
He spun around.
The shooter wore a full football uniform; red jersey, white pants, cleats. The helmet obscured his face, but the build was familiar.
Teague dove to the floor, hands over his head.
The fourth shot hit the mirror on the wall above him.
Glass exploded, raining down in sharp fragments. Pieces stuck in his hair, his shirt. A shard cut his forearm, drawing blood.
He stood slowly, hands raised. The shooter was ten feet away now, close enough that Teague could see through the helmet's face mask.
Dan Cormier.
"Whoa! Whoa!" Teague kept his hands up, palms out. "Danny, put the gun down, man. Let's talk about this."
From the shower area, the sound of running water cut off. Wet footsteps slapped against tile.
Dan didn't lower the gun. "It's too late, coach." He pumped the shotgun again, chambering another round. "You shouldn't have hit on my girl."
Tyson burst from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Water dripped from his hair, his skin.
He took in the scene in half a second. Teague bleeding, Dan with the shotgun, the destroyed locker room.
No hesitation.
He launched himself at Dan.
They collided hard. Tyson's shoulder drove into Dan's ribs, lifting him off his feet. The shotgun flew from Dan's hands, skittering across the wet floor until it hit the far wall.
They hit the ground together. Dan tried to swing, but Tyson was already moving.
His fist connected with Dan's jaw.
Once.
The impact snapped Dan's head sideways. His eyes rolled back, unfocused. His body went limp.
Tyson stood, breathing hard. He looked down at Dan's unconscious form, then at the shotgun against the wall. Water still dripped from his hair, pooling on the tile beneath his feet.
"Damned rednecks." He shook his head, water droplets flying. "I swear I'm leaving Kansas. It's like Gotham City out here. Crazy assholes everywhere."
Except it wasn't a joke, not really. Three weeks in Smallville. Three weeks, and he'd already fought a bug-boy, an electricity and fire manipulator, a shapeshifter, and now a teammate who'd completely lost his shit over a girl. Back in his old life, this would've been insane. Would've been national news. Would've had the state troopers rolling in.
Here? This was just Thursday.
The thought should've been funny. Should've triggered that dark humor he used to cope with the constant weirdness. Instead, he was starting to get tired. How many more kids were going to get dosed with meteor rock and turn into walking disasters? And why the hell did it always seem to happen around him?
He walked over to Teague and offered his hand.
Jason took it, letting Tyson pull him to his feet. Glass fragments fell from his shirt, tinkling against the floor.
"You okay?" Tyson asked.
"Yeah." Teague touched his bleeding forearm, checking the damage. "Thanks for the save. Glad you weren't too tired after all those laps I had you run."
Tyson laughed, short and sharp. "Just don't tell anyone I was on top of a dude without any clothes on and we're even." He glanced at Dan, still motionless on the floor. "Guess we should call the cops or something, right? And maybe an ambulance. You're cut up pretty good, some on your back too."
The antiseptic smell of Smallville Medical Center hung thick in the examination room. Jason Teague sat on the paper-covered table, his shirt off, revealing the bandages already wrapped around his torso. A fresh cut on his forearm still oozed blood.
"Ow, ow, ow." Jason flinched as the doctor dabbed at the wound with gauze.
The doctor worked methodically, cleaning the cut with steady hands. Jason grunted, his jaw tight against the sting. The doctor applied a bandage, pressing the edges down firmly.
"Keep it dry for twenty-four hours," the doctor said, gathering his supplies. "Change the dressing tomorrow."
He left without waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him.
Jason flexed his arm, testing the bandage. The movement pulled at the cuts on his back, making him wince.
The door opened again.
Lana Lang stepped inside, closing it behind her. She wore jeans and a simple sweater, her hair pulled back. Her face was tight, controlled.
Jason looked up at her. "Well, I guess it could've been a lot worse if Tyson hadn't tackled Dan." He reached for his shirt, draped over the chair beside the examination table. "It's ironic. I was pissed at him. Today another player pulls the same stunt he did the other day." He slid one arm into the sleeve, careful of the bandages. "That same player comes back with a grudge against me, and it's Tyson who stops him."
A smile crossed his face as he worked the other arm through. "Do they still expel students for taking potshots at coaches?"
"This isn't funny, Jason."
The smile vanished. "Right. Definitely the first time I've been shot at. I should be shaken."
Lana turned away from him, moving toward the window. Her shoulders were stiff, her arms wrapped around herself.
"I had to find out about this from Tyson."
Jason stood, buttoning his shirt. The fabric pulled against the bandages on his back.
"You know, this is usually the part where I would buy you a bouquet of flowers and take you out to a really nice dinner." He stopped a few feet behind her. "But I can't."
Lana crossed her arms tighter.
"Hey." Jason's tone shifted, went harder. "It's fine. Your new boyfriend saved me, we're all happy." But he wasn't fine. He had come to Smallville with a purpose, a mission that had seemed so clear. Simple. Straightforward. The kind of thing he had been doing for years.
Then Lana happened.
Beautiful, complicated Lana, who made him forget about ancient artifacts and family obligations. Who made him want to be Jason, just a guy coaching football and falling for a girl, instead of the hunter.
And now Tyson.
The wild card nobody predicted. The anomaly that didn't fit any pattern he recognized. Tyson was far too fast and strong to be a normal teenager. And getting closer to Lana every day. He touched the bandage on his forearm, feeling the sting of the cuts. He'd been shot at today. Nearly killed. And all he could think about was whether Lana had been worried. Whether she'd dropped everything to come see him. Whether he still mattered to her at all.
"Tyson isn't my boyfriend." Lana didn't turn around.
"No?"
"We're just friends."
"You get rides from 'just friends' often? And by rides, I mean he carries you out of school in his arms, running towards his new apartment."
Lana turned to face him. Her eyes were steady, unflinching. "Not that it's any of your business, but nothing happened between me and Tyson. Nothing like that anyway." She paused. "He's working on renovating the theater attached to my Aunt's shop."
Jason put his hands up, palms out. "It's not like you had a boyfriend and I flew across the world for you." His voice carried an edge now. "I'm just here hunting for something."
"If that's true, where's your brother?" Lana's gaze didn't waver. "Every time you were supposedly 'hunting' he was nearby."
"He's taking a college semester, really living the experience." Jason lowered his hands. "I'll go pick him up once I'm done in town."
The silence stretched between them. Outside the room, a PA system crackled to life, calling for a doctor.
"All right." Lana moved toward the door. "Well, I'm glad you're okay."
Her hand touched the door handle.
"Thanks for checking in."
The words stopped her. She looked back at him, her face softening slightly. Not much, but enough to show something beneath the controlled surface.
"I mean it," Jason said. "I know we're..." He gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever this is now. But you still came."
Lana's fingers tightened on the handle. "I would've come for anyone who got hurt."
"Sure."
"I would have."
"I believe you." Jason sat back down on the examination table. The paper crinkled under his weight. "That's what makes you different from most people in this town."
Lana's hand dropped from the handle. She turned fully, leaning against the door. "What are you really doing here, Jason?"
"I told you. Hunting."
"For what?"
"Old artifacts. Historical pieces." He shrugged, then winced as the movement pulled at his back. "Family business."
"Your family's business is football."
"My family's business is a lot of things." Jason met her eyes. "The coaching gig was just convenient. Good cover."
"Cover for what?"
"For looking around without drawing attention." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Turns out getting shot at draws plenty of attention anyway."
Lana studied him for a long moment. "You're lying."
"About which part?"
"All of it." She pushed off from the door. "You came here for a reason. A specific reason. And it has nothing to do with your brother's college experience."
Jason said nothing.
"Fine." Lana turned back to the door. "Keep your secrets."
"Lana."
She paused, her hand on the handle again.
"Be careful around Tyson."
She turned back. "Why?"
"Because I've seen the way he looks at you." Jason's face was serious now, no trace of the earlier smile. "And I've seen what he can do. That tackle today? Dan's a big guy. Tyson laid him out like he weighed nothing."
"He's strong. So what?"
"So there's strong, and then there's what I saw in that locker room." Jason leaned forward. "Just... be careful. That's all I'm saying."
Lana opened the door. "I can take care of myself."
"I know you can." Jason watched her step into the hallway. "Doesn't mean you should have to."
She didn't respond. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
— Meteor Freak —
Two cheerleaders walked past Clark, Tyson, and Lana in the hallway. "I can't believe she even tried out," the first girl said, flipping her blonde ponytail.
"I know. Did you see what she was wearing?" her friend replied.
"And those thighs?"
Both girls stopped and turned to face each other. "No!"
The second girl's eyes lit up. "You know who we should ask to tryout?"
"Abby!" they said in unison.
"Maybe if we do, her mom will give us a discount."
They laughed as they continued down the hallway. Tyson and Clark exchanged glances. Behind the cheerleaders, their boyfriends followed obediently, arms loaded with pom-poms, purses, and backpacks. Both wore letterman's jackets.
Tyson's eyes narrowed. "Did you see that?"
Clark nodded slowly. "Yeah."
Lana frowned, tracking the couples around the corner. "That's... odd."
They kept walking. Two more cheerleaders stood at their lockers ahead. One stacked textbooks into her boyfriend's arms, adding another heavy volume to the growing pile. The other handed her boyfriend a sweater with a dismissive gesture.
"Hold this for me, would you?"
"Sure, babe. Whatever you want."
Both guys were football players. Tyson, Lana, and Clark said nothing, continuing down the hallway.
"Yeah, so the party's gonna be way kick," a third cheerleader said ahead of them.
"Yeah, pool party! Great!" her boyfriend replied, holding up a compact mirror so she could apply her lipstick.
Tyson stopped walking. "Okay, something strange is definitely happening here. Is this some Kansas Smallville ritual I'm not aware of? Is homecoming coming up and the players dote on the cheerleaders for a week?"
They entered the Torch office where Chloe sat at her desk, typing rapidly on her laptop. Tyson continued without breaking stride. "Is it just that I'm the only guy on the team that doesn't have a girlfriend?"
Lana shook her head. "No. It is strange." She turned to Chloe. "Hey, Chloe, have you seen the way the football players are acting?"
"Yeah," Chloe said without looking up from her screen. "And I noticed one of them unloaded a shotgun in the boys' locker room." She glanced up, meeting Tyson's eyes. "Tyson, nice save by the way. You're like our very own afterschool superhero. First me at the Torch fire, now Coach Teague. Oh, and you stopped Eric last week." She tilted her head, studying him with open suspicion. "Maybe you are a superhero. I was thinking about maybe doing an article on it..."
Lana stepped forward quickly. "Actually, Eric kicked his ass. Tyson got lucky. Whatever powered Eric up faded as they fought. Isn't that right, Tyson?"
After the embarrassing situation he'd put Lana in with the Kents, Martha walking in on them in the bathroom, he couldn't fault her for taking a shot at him. What surprised him was that she was covering for him now. "Yup. Total ass kicking."
Chloe raised an eyebrow. "It couldn't have been that bad. You're fine now."
Tyson said nothing. He'd healed himself using Greg Arkin's power, molting all the bruised tissue in the shower. But Chloe didn't need to know that.
"Whatever," Chloe said, returning to her laptop. "Anyway, I need to go to the Smallville Medical Center. Apparently, our gun-toting ex-quarterback, second string thanks to Clark, woke up this morning, and he's feeling the sting of his second-degree burns. He's still got a grudge against Coach Teague, so..." She turned to Clark. "I need you to talk to Coach Teague."
Clark hesitated, his face uncomfortable. "Actually, Chloe, with this whole football thing, I'm gonna have to dial back my time at the Torch."
Chloe's fingers stopped moving on the keyboard. She stared at Clark.
"Oh." Her voice was carefully neutral. "I guess I've got my work cut out for me."
"I'm sorry," Clark said. "You know, my priorities..."
Chloe smiled, but Tyson caught the hurt beneath it. "You know what? Don't worry about it."
After school on the football field, players in red and yellow jerseys ran drills. The rhythmic thud of helmets colliding and coaches' whistles filled the air. Chloe Sullivan walked along the sideline, her reporter's notebook tucked under one arm, scanning for Coach Teague.
She spotted him near the twenty-yard line, arms crossed, a whistle hanging from his neck.
"Coach Teague. Hey."
Jason turned. His face shifted from focused to guarded. "Hey."
Chloe offered her most professional smile. "I'm, uh, doing a story in the Torch on Dan Cormier, and I was just wondering if I could talk to you for a little bit."
Jason's jaw tightened slightly. He glanced back at the field where his players were running. "Can it wait? I'm in the middle of practice."
"It's only gonna take, like, two seconds, I promise." Chloe held up her notebook hopefully.
"I'll do it later." Jason's tone was final. He was already turning back to the field.
Chloe's confidence wavered. "Okay."
"I will," Jason said over his shoulder, not turning back.
"Okay." Chloe stood there for a moment before turning away from the field, tucking her notebook back under her arm. Her gaze drifted to the bleachers where a familiar figure sat halfway up, a book open in her lap. Lana Lang's attention seemed split between the pages and the practice field below.
Chloe slid onto the bench beside her. "Reminiscing about your cheerleader days?"
Lana looked up from her book with a soft laugh. "Ha, no. I had something delivered to the theater, and I was waiting until Tyson got out of practice."
Chloe glanced down at the field. Tyson was easy to spot, his brown skin standing out among the predominantly white team. He ran a route, catching a pass from Clark. The two of them had developed an almost supernatural chemistry on the field over the past few weeks.
"Must be nice," Chloe said, settling onto the bench. "Having someone to wait for."
"We're just friends, Chloe." Lana assured.
"Right. Friends who shower together."
Lana's cheeks flushed. "Of course, you found out about that. That was a misunderstanding. Martha knocked at the worst possible moment."
"I'm sure." Chloe's tone was light, teasing, but she studied Lana's reaction carefully. The flush deepened, spreading down her neck. Interesting.
On the field, Coach Teague blew his whistle. "Water break! Five minutes!"
Players jogged toward the sideline where water coolers waited. Tyson and Clark walked together, helmets in hand, talking about something Chloe couldn't hear from this distance.
"So what did you have delivered?" Chloe asked, genuinely curious now.
Lana closed her book, marking her place with a finger. "Paint samples. I'm helping Tyson pick colors for the apartment above the flower shop."
"That's very domestic of you."
"It's just paint, Chloe."
Nearby, a group of four cheerleaders, including Mandy, walked toward the drinks table.
Lana was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting back to the field. "They seem so devoted lately." She gestured toward the football players doting on the cheerleaders when they should've been paying attention to practice.
"Devoted." Chloe wrote the word down. "That's one way to put it. Dan Cormier tried to shoot Coach Teague over a girl. That's not devoted, that's obsessed."
Two of the cheerleaders held several squeeze bottles of green punch, while the other two carried a large cooler and a stack of plastic cups. They placed everything on the table with a thud.
Mandy supervised the setup. She gestured to Rhonda, who adjusted the placement of the cooler, making sure it was front and center where the players would naturally gravitate. Another cheerleader arranged the squeeze bottles like she was following a plan they'd rehearsed. The precision of it caught Lana's attention from the bleachers. This wasn't casual. This was coordinated. Mandy checked her phone then smiled at the other girls with a knowing expression.
Something about the whole scene felt wrong, but Lana couldn't put her finger on exactly what. Just that it reminded her of when the cheerleaders had been preparing for some elaborate prank.
Jason Teague approached, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He grabbed a plastic cup from the stack.
"Hey, ladies."
He filled the cup with green punch from the cooler.
Mandy stepped closer, her voice dropping to a flirtatious purr. "Gee, Coach Teague, I sure hope you have someone special in your life."
Jason laughed, but the sound was uncomfortable. He took a step back. "Well, Mandy, I don't think that's any of your business."
He drained the cup in one gulp, the green liquid disappearing in seconds. When he lowered the cup, Mandy was still there with that smile.
Jason shifted his weight. "But yeah, I do have somebody," he said, turning to Lana. He walked away from the table and out to the field where the guys were running drills.
Nearby, another group of players stood on the field talking. Among them was Brett Anderson, his helmet tucked under one arm. He took a swig from his squeeze bottle, savoring the green drink as Abby Fine jogged past on the track that circled the field, her ponytail swinging with each stride.
"Check out Scabby Abby," one of the guys said.
Another player smirked. "They're fake, you know." He gestured at his chest.
A third guy shrugged. "Who cares?"
Several wolf whistles pierced the air. Brett stared at Abby with a dreamy expression. "Are you kidding me?" His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Man, is she hot."
Abby slowed her jog, making eye contact with Brett across the field. For a moment, she just looked at him. Then she started jogging away as the guys continued to call after her.
"Guys!" Jason's voice cut through the catcalls. "You gotta give your quarterback some protection. You gotta hold the pocket!" He pointed at one of the linemen. "Hey, Carlsen! You gotta move around, pal!"
The players shuffled into position, but their attention kept drifting back to the track where Abby had disappeared around the far curve.
Jason blew his whistle. "All right, guys. Let's grab a drink before scrimmage."
He took another swig of green punch from a squeeze bottle, then turned toward the bleachers. Lana sat there with Chloe Sullivan, still focused on Tyson.
Clark walked toward the drinks table, pulling off his helmet. Chloe stood quickly, moving to intercept him. She dropped her notepad on top of the cooler and grabbed a plastic cup, filling it with the green punch.
"Hey, Clark! Hi." She tried to keep her voice casual. "I know you're not exactly journalistically inclined right now, but I was just—"
Clark poured himself a glass of green punch, not quite meeting her eyes. "This isn't a good time, Chloe."
He kept walking toward the field, leaving her standing by the drinks table.
"Right." Chloe's voice was flat. "Priorities."
She headed back to the bleachers and sat next to Lana.
They both turned their attention to the field as Tyson ran a route, cutting sharply at the fifteen-yard line. Clark's pass spiraled through the air, and Tyson caught it cleanly, tucking it against his chest as he turned upfield.
"Did you notice when Tyson asked if he was the only guy on the football team that didn't have a girlfriend, he looked at you?"
Lana's cheeks flushed pink. "We're just friends."
"We kissed, you know."
Lana gasped, turning to stare at Chloe. "When?"
"Well, I kissed him after he saved me from the fire." Chloe stared down at the green liquid in her cup. "I thought I was going to die, and the adrenaline... I just didn't think about it and did it."
Lana smiled, something soft crossing her face. "Bet he loved that. Getting to be the hero, saving the girl, getting a kiss."
"He seemed into it, but then he joked and played it off." Chloe handed the cup of green sports drink to Lana, who took a sip as the ball sailed through the air and landed in Tyson's hands again.
Lana's voice was soft, her smile bright as she tracked his movement across the field. "That's what he does..." She paused. "Tyson..."
The word hung in the air between them, carrying more weight than Lana probably intended. Chloe glanced at her friend, noting the way Lana's fingers tightened around the plastic cup, the way her gaze never left Tyson's figure on the field.
Just friends, Chloe thought. Right.
Lana took another sip of the green punch.
Clark walked back toward the field, lifting the plastic cup to his lips. The green liquid disappeared in one long gulp.
He'd barely lowered the cup when his stomach clenched violently.
The pain hit like a meteor rock pressed directly against his skin.
Clark doubled over, gagging. His helmet slipped from his other hand and hit the grass with a dull thud.
The world tilted sideways.
The pain radiated from his core outward, a cold fire spreading through his chest and into his limbs. His vision tunneled at the edges. The sounds of practice, whistles, shouting, the thud of bodies colliding, became distant and muffled, like he was underwater.
His invulnerability, that constant presence he never thought about because it was always just there, flickered. He felt the weight of his pads. The pressure of the grass under his cleats. The slight chill in the September air. Things he never felt. Things his body automatically compensated for.
Just like when Eric had taken his powers, Clark Kent felt fragile.
"Kent." Jason Teague's voice cut through the roaring in Clark's ears. "What's wrong with you?"
Clark couldn't straighten. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. "Coach, I'm not feeling very good." The words came out strangled. "I think I'd better leave."
"You're gonna walk away because you don't feel well." Jason's tone was flat, disappointed. He stepped closer, his shadow falling across Clark's hunched form. "You know, maybe I was wrong about you, Kent."
"Coach, I..." Clark tried to stand straighter, failed. His vision swam.
"You know, your team's waiting for you out there." Jason's voice hardened. "Are you a leader or not?"
Clark forced himself upright through sheer willpower. His stomach churned, threatening to empty itself onto the grass. He nodded once, not trusting his voice, and stumbled toward the field.
Each step felt like wading through concrete.
Behind him, Nate Carlsen started to follow. Jason's hand shot out, stopping him.
"Tell the rest of the guys they got a green light on Tyson." Jason's voice was low, meant only for Nate's ears. "I've been too easy on him. All that running he's been doing hasn't been enough." He paused, taking another long drink from his squeeze bottle. "I want you to make the scarecrow incident look like an afterschool prank."
Nate's grin was vicious. "Yes, Coach."
He sprinted toward the field, practically vibrating with excitement.
Jason raised the bottle again, draining it.
Clark hunched behind the center, his hands positioned under the guard's legs. The football felt heavier than it should. His vision kept blurring at the edges.
"Blue-37!" His voice cracked. "Hike!"
The ball snapped into his hands.
Clark backpedaled, searching downfield for Tyson. His arm felt weak, disconnected. He threw anyway.
The ball wobbled through the air, falling short by at least five yards.
Tyson cut back immediately, reading the bad throw. He was almost to the ball when Nate Carlsen came from his blind side like a freight train.
The hit echoed across the field.
"Ooooh!" The collective gasp from the bleachers was audible even over the grunts and collisions of practice.
Tyson hit the ground hard.
Nate stood over him, grinning down. "How's it taste?"
His laughter was cruel, mocking.
Tyson was on his feet in a second. "You must be out of your damn mind." His voice was quiet, dangerous. "Catch me cross-field again."
From the sideline, Jason stood with narrowed eyes. Nearby, the cheerleaders chanted in synchronized voices.
Clark positioned himself behind another player, fighting the nausea that kept threatening to overwhelm him. His hands trembled as he called the play.
"Blue-37! Hike!"
The ball snapped.
Clark caught it, immediately pitching to Tyson on a sweep.
A yellow jersey launched himself at Tyson's back. Tyson didn't go down. He carried the defender forward, legs churning. Two more players piled on, their combined weight finally bringing him to the ground after another five yards.
In the bleachers, Lana was on her feet. "Oh! Keep going, baby!"
Chloe glanced at her, eyebrows raised. Lana's cheeks flushed, but she didn't sit down.
"Hike!"
Clark passed to another receiver and started running downfield.
A yellow jersey appeared in front of him.
The block caught him square in the chest, and suddenly, Clark was off his feet.
He hit the ground on his back, the impact jarring every bone in his body.
The sky spun above him.
Another play.
Clark tossed the football, then felt hands grabbing his jersey.
He went down hard again, his helmet bouncing against the turf.
Downfield, Tyson caught the pass cleanly. Nate was already charging, laughing as he closed the distance.
"Atta boy, Tyson!"
Tyson lowered his shoulder at the last second.
The collision was brutal.
Nate's laughter cut off abruptly as he hit the ground, his body going limp.
Jason's whistle shrieked across the field.
"Go, Tyson! Good hit!" Lana's voice carried clearly from the bleachers.
Clark was still on the ground, staring through his face mask as Mandy and another cheerleader lifted the cooler from the drinks table. They carried it between them, heading back toward the school building. The green liquid sloshed inside. He adjusted his helmet, his mind working through the fog of pain and nausea.
Jason jogged toward where Nate lay motionless. Tyson walked over to Clark instead, offering his hand. "You alright? You've never thrown short before."
Clark took the offered hand, letting Tyson pull him to his feet. "Think I'm sick. It feels like meteor rock poisoning, but I felt it the moment I drank the Gatorade."
Tyson's face shifted. He guided Clark toward the sideline, one hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, it looked like he was just checking on his teammate.
"Hold still," Tyson murmured.
His hands settled on Clark's shoulders.
The warmth started immediately, spreading from the points of contact.
Clark felt it flow through him, a gentle current pushing against the sickness. The light was subtle, barely visible in the afternoon sun, but Clark could feel it working.
Then his stomach clenched violently.
Clark bent over and vomited.
Green liquid splashed onto the grassa. He heaved again, and again, until nothing remained.
When he finally straightened, the relief was immediate.
The nausea was gone. The weakness had vanished.
Clark took a full breath for the first time since drinking the punch.
His friend had just healed him without hesitation, without asking questions. Tyson just acted, the way he always did when someone needed help. Clark had spent so much of his life hiding, keeping people at arm's length because of his secret. But Tyson knew. Had known almost from arriving, and he'd never once used that knowledge as leverage or made Clark feel like a freak. He just... accepted it. Accepted him.
"Better?" Tyson asked.
"Yeah." Clark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks."
Tyson's face was grim. "Why the hell was the kryptonite in the Gatorade?"
Clark turned toward the school building where the cheerleaders had disappeared with the cooler. Then his gaze shifted to the drinks table, to the remaining squeeze bottles of green liquid. To Jason Teague, who was helping Nate to his feet with an empty squeeze bottle visible in the coach's back pocket.
"I don't know," Clark said quietly. "But I think we need to find out."
In the stands, while everyone was focused on Nate, Lana snuck over to where the players left their bags. She went into Tyson's backpack and grabbed the keys to the theater.
— Meteor Freak —
Chloe turned a corner in the hallway of Smallville High. Mandy stood at the center of three other girls, all in their red and yellow uniforms. Rhonda leaned against a locker, arms crossed, while two other cheerleaders flanked Mandy like ladies-in-waiting.
"Seriously, Mandy, the twenty-four-hour mourning period is over," Rhonda said, examining her nails. "You need a new boyfriend to take to our pool party."
Mandy shifted her weight, one hand on her hip. "Okay, I'm not taking a step down from Dan and dating some wide receiver, Rhonda."
A brunette cheerleader brightened. "Well, Clark Kent's the starting quarterback."
"And he's hot," another added, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. "But he has a girlfriend." She paused, glancing at the others. "What about Tyson? He's single, right? I know you said no receivers, but for him, you should make an exception."
The other girls laughed and nodded, exchanging knowing glances.
Mandy tilted her head, considering. "No decisions. I'll scope both of them out."
Chloe slowed her pace. Something about the casual way they discussed boyfriends, a day after Dan had threatened Coach Teague with a shotgun, felt wrong. She edged closer, pretending to adjust her bag while straining to hear more.
Rhonda's gaze flicked toward her. The cheerleader's face shifted from casual conversation to awareness in an instant. She gestured subtly to the other girls, who turned.
Chloe straightened, deciding to own it. She walked directly toward them, her chin up.
"Mandy," she said. "I'm doing an article for the Torch about what happened to your boyfriend."
Rhonda stepped forward, positioning herself between Chloe and Mandy like a bodyguard. "She doesn't want to talk about it."
Mandy's face hardened, her earlier playfulness vanishing. "I wouldn't give that geek rag a quote if it were the last paper on earth."
Three football players approached from the opposite end of the hall, the cheerleaders' usual entourage. Each girl's face lit up as their respective boyfriends arrived, except Mandy, who stood alone.
"Oh, look," Chloe said, her tone light. "Your valets are here." She let her gaze settle on Mandy. "Except you don't have one anymore, do you?"
Mandy's jaw tightened. She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the hallway. "I could have another boyfriend like that."
"It's amazing what a short skirt will get ya," Chloe replied.
The other cheerleaders exchanged glances, but Rhonda moved to her locker, pulling it open with more force than necessary. She grabbed a folder and handed it to her boyfriend without a glance. He fumbled the catch, and the folder hit the floor, papers scattering across the linoleum.
Chloe crouched automatically, gathering the loose sheets before anyone could step on them. As she straightened the papers, her gaze caught the title page: "The Love Molecule." Below it, a chemical diagram dominated the page, a molecular structure labeled phenylethylamine. The structure was familiar from chemistry class, but seeing it here, in Rhonda's folder, the day after Dan's violent outburst over Mandy…
"You want a quote?" Mandy's voice cut through her thoughts.
Chloe stood slowly, still holding the folder. "Yeah."
Mandy stepped closer, her smile cold and sharp. "Back off, bitch."
The football players shifted uncomfortably, and one of the other cheerleaders let out a nervous giggle that died quickly. Chloe stood there, the folder still in her hands. She met Mandy's gaze, refusing to flinch. The hallway seemed to quiet around them, other students slowing to watch the confrontation.
But Chloe's mind was already filing away details.
Phenylethylamine. The love molecule. Why would a cheerleader have detailed chemistry notes on a compound that affected emotional bonding? And not just notes, that folder looked like research. Systematic. Intentional.
Dan Cormier had gone from an indifferent boyfriend to an obsessively devoted one in the span of minutes. Literally minutes, if the timeline added up. One moment brushing Mandy off, the next ready to skip practice to go shopping with her. Ready to shoot Coach Teague for allegedly staring at her.
The other football players were acting the same way. Carrying purses, holding mirrors, following their cheerleader girlfriends around like devoted puppies. Not all of them, Tyson and Clark seemed fine, but enough to form a pattern.
She thought about the drinks table, about Mandy handing Dan that bottle of green sports drink. About the way the other cheerleaders had stood there with knowing smiles. About phenylethylamine and how it could theoretically be synthesized, concentrated, administered.
And if they could dose the football players, who else could they target? Teachers? Administrators? This wasn't just high school drama. This was assault. Chemical manipulation of people's emotions and decision-making. The kind of thing that could destroy lives.
Dan had tried to kill Coach Teague. What would happen when the next player decided his devotion meant eliminating anyone he perceived as a threat? What if one of the cheerleaders decided she wanted someone who was already taken?
Chloe's reporter instincts screamed at her to expose this immediately, but she needed to be methodical. She needed evidence. Needed to connect the phenylethylamine to the sports drinks to the behavioral changes. Needed to prove it before anyone else got hurt.
The Torch reporter in her brain started composing the headline.
"Cheerleaders Dose Football Team with Love Potion."
But she needed proof. Needed to connect the chemical compound to the behavioral changes. Needed to figure out how meteor rocks fit into this equation, because in Smallville, they always did.
"That's quite a quote," Chloe said evenly. She held out the folder to Rhonda, who snatched it back without a word.
Mandy's smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Print it. I'm sure your three readers will be fascinated."
The cheerleaders laughed on cue, and their boyfriends joined in with forced, uncomfortable sounds.
"Thanks for your time." Chloe turned and began walking away.
"Oh, and Chloe?" Mandy called out, her tone saccharine. "Tell Tyson I said hi. I'd love to get to know him better."
Abby rounded the corner, her ponytail swinging with each step. Down the hall, voices carried. Mandy's sharp tone cut through the quiet, followed by laughter from the other cheerleaders.
"Back off, bitch."
More laughter. Then Chloe Sullivan's voice, calmer but with an edge Abby recognized. She'd heard that tone before, usually right before Chloe published something that made people uncomfortable.
Abby kept her gaze forward, focusing on her locker. The confrontation wasn't her business. She'd worked too hard these past weeks to risk getting pulled into cheerleader drama. The old Abby, Scabby Abby, would have been invisible in moments like this. The new Abby had options. Had possibilities.
She reached her locker and spun the combination lock. Behind her, footsteps retreated, the cheerleaders dispersing. The lock clicked open.
The first thing she saw was the mirror mounted inside the door.
Her reflection stared back. Clear skin, bright eyes, the kind of face that made people do double-takes now. She adjusted a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. The dampness from her run made it curl slightly at her temple.
"Hey."
Abby jumped, a small gasp escaping as she spun around. Her hand flew to her chest.
Brett Anderson stood two feet away, his letterman jacket hanging open over a white t-shirt.
He held up both hands in apology. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
Abby laughed, the sound nervous and breathless. "God, Brett. You can't just sneak up on people like that."
"I know, I know." He stepped closer. "I can't stop thinking about you."
Abby's smile faltered, uncertainty creeping in. She glanced down at her locker, then back at him. "You mean the girl you nicknamed Scabby Abby?"
Brett winced. "Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I totally deserved that. Maybe if I'd been more patient, I would've seen who you really are." He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. "The most beautiful girl in school."
His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing her cheek.
The touch was gentle, almost reverent.
Abby felt her breath catch. She'd imagined moments like this. Brett Anderson, the guy who'd made her life miserable for years, looking at her like she mattered.
She smiled. He smiled back.
Movement caught her eye. Lana Lang walked past, keys in her hands, her gaze flicked toward them, and for a moment, their eyes met. Then Lana continued down the hall, heading toward the main entrance.
"I have a lot to apologize for," Brett said, drawing her attention back. His thumb traced along her jawline. "What do you say we go someplace a little more quiet?"
His hand continued its gentle path across her face.
Abby's smile grew as she considered. The hallway felt too exposed, too public. She thought about the chemistry lab, the library, a dozen other places.
"Okay," she heard herself say.
She closed her locker with a soft click. Brett's hand found hers, his fingers interlacing with hers as he led her down the hall. Their footsteps fell into rhythm.
"So where're we going?" Abby asked.
Brett glanced back at her, taking her hand. "My house."