The tradition at Westridge Academy was simple: every student had their own locker.
Class 4-B hadn't been full before, so the highest locker near the corner had remained empty—until Sophia Carter claimed it with her small pink padlock.
At just over 160 cm tall, reaching that top locker was a stretch. She mostly used the one below it, stuffing the upper compartment with mementos of Lucas Grant—a shrine to her teenage infatuation that now made her cringe.
Better to let Alexander Sterling's presence cleanse it.
Sophia held out the lock—pale pink, adorned with a white kitten wearing a bow—her palm upturned in offering.
Alexander's gaze flicked from the lock to the identical one on the locker below hers.
He studied it for a long moment.
No acceptance. No rejection.
"...The locker's the main thing," Sophia added hesitantly. "You can change the lock if you don't like this one."
The second part was a lie.
Growing up in the garment business, Sophia had developed an unshakable confidence in her taste.
As a child, she'd draped herself in bedsheets, pretending to be a fairy. As a teenager, her wardrobe overflowed with dresses—vibrant pinks, emerald greens, golds that made her skin glow like peach blossoms under sunlight.
By senior year, the girl once mocked for her curves had become radiant. Even her harshest critics had fallen silent, and rivals like Huang Weiwei had secretly sought out tailors to replicate her signature green graduation dress.
Reborn, Sophia carried herself with the pride of Eleanor Carter's heir.
Call her chubby? Fine.
Question her taste? Never.
Even at twenty-seven, the wealthiest version of Alexander had worn the ties she picked without complaint.
So why was seventeen-year-old Alexander being so difficult?
...Acting all high and mighty.
Sophia was still grumbling internally when Alexander took the lock.
His right hand—calloused, scarred, two fingers permanently bent—brushed her palm. The roughness made her flinch.
"What's the combination?" Alexander asked.
He knew how ugly his hand was.
The burns. The deformities. The marks of labor no teenager should bear.
He clenched it briefly, pushing away the memory of her skin against his.
"415," Sophia said. "My birthday. You can reset it—just turn it ninety degrees and press down."
Alexander made a noncommittal sound.
Sophia watched his expression carefully, then took a deep breath.
"Alexander... since I've been so nice to you, help me out?"
"I really don't get tomorrow's math and physics. If I turn in blank homework again, Ms. Ding will make me stay after class."
Not that she minded detention.
But Ms. Ding's office was next to Class 10-A—Lucas's class.
She couldn't keep borrowing notes from Mia either.
"Just for tomorrow. I'll try my best first—just need your answers to check mine."
Eleanor had taught her:
Never ask if they'll buy. Ask which one they want.
Sophia batted her lashes, putting on her most understanding tone.
"I saw your worksheets last week. You skip showing your work, right? That's perfect—I wouldn't understand your calculations anyway."
Alexander's fingers tightened around the kitten lock.
"Mn."
"Noted."
That was all he said.
Late-Night Studies
Sophia stayed up past midnight, scrambling to finish her homework.
By the time Eleanor returned, she was hunched over her desk, earbuds in, scribbling furiously.
Eleanor froze in the doorway.
Her daughter—who usually slept like a log or cried over that wretched boy—was studying?
She snapped a photo.
The shutter sound made Sophia jump.
"...Why are you taking pictures?"
"Making sure you're not possessed," Eleanor teased, pinching Sophia's soft arm. "Whatever good spirit's in you, it's staying."
The Clean Sweep
The next morning, Sophia arrived earlier than usual.
The duty roster had been updated—she and Mia were assigned to clean the outdoor ping-pong tables.
A small area, but surrounded by bamboo and an ancient camphor tree that shed leaves year-round.
When they arrived, the court was spotless.
"...Did you clean this yesterday?" Sophia asked.
Mia shook her head, bewildered.
"Even if I had, the rain would've ruined it."
Last night's storm had left other classes' areas littered with soggy leaves.
Yet theirs was pristine—not a single leaf in sight.
Outdoor cleaning in this weather was miserable.
Wet leaves couldn't be swept—they had to be picked up one by one, leaving hands grimy and cold.
If someone had done this for them...
Sophia frowned.
In all her high school years, she'd heard of boys carrying trays in the cafeteria to impress girls.
But cleaning?
And why would anyone do it for her?
With her reputation?
Sophia wasn't vain enough to assume it was a secret admirer.
After a moment's thought, she shrugged and got to work.
The air was cool after the rain, carrying the scent of damp earth through the open windows.
Sophia Carter returned to the classroom to find half the students already there—desperate souls like herself, copying homework at breakneck speed before Tuesday's dreaded double math and physics classes.
Her seat was empty.
Neat. Tidy.
Alexander Sterling wasn't there.
Nearby, boys whispered, casting glances her way.
"Heard he signed some special agreement..."
"No regular classes, just training..."
"How the hell does he pull that off?"
Sophia barely listened.
Her attention snagged on the two worksheets stacked on her desk—physics on top, math beneath—held down by her pencil case.
Unlike the blank sheet from last Friday, these were meticulously filled out.
Every problem solved.
Every step shown.
Even the multiple-choice questions had auxiliary lines drawn.
Her breath caught.
At the bottom of the last page, written casually beside a proof:
"Can you understand this?"
The Coach's Office
At 7 AM, while the humanities building buzzed with morning readings, the administration building stood quiet.
In the math competition office, Coach Zhang Jianyuan flipped through a file, pausing at a particular line.
"You competed in the league last year? Made provincial team in Anhui?"
Alexander nodded. "First-class."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Provincial first-class at seventeen was rare.
Coach Zhang leaned forward. "Why didn't you attend the national winter camp? With those scores, you could've made the training squad."
The path was clear:
School → City → Province → National League → Winter Camp → International Olympiad.
The top sixty secured Tsinghua or Peking University admissions.
The top six represented China globally.
For someone like Alexander, the door to heaven had been wide open.
Yet he'd walked away.
"Family matters," Alexander said flatly. "I withdrew."
Coach Zhang's gaze dropped to Alexander's right hand—the curled fingers, the scars.
"Your father's situation... we know. It won't leave this room."
A pause. "Can you still write?"
"I practice left-handed. It won't affect November's provincial round."
Coach Zhang frowned. "You're still using your right hand?"
"Rarely."
The older man exhaled sharply, ushering Alexander into the hall.
Past the honor roll—Westridge's meager competition history—he stopped.
"The signing bonus we gave you... it wasn't small."
Two thousand just to enroll.
Thirty thousand for making provincial team.
A hundred thousand for nationals.
Plus his sister's tuition at the affiliated elementary school—no small favor for a hearing-impaired child.
"Where did it all go?"
Alexander's voice was calm. "Debts. My sister needs it more."
Coach Zhang studied him.
This wasn't a boy making excuses.
This was someone who'd long since stopped seeing himself as human.
"Your hand... you're really going to throw it away?"
Even if he made the team, what then?
Who would want a man with a crippled hand?
Alexander met his gaze. "I heard your nephew is preparing for the Hua Luogeng Cup."
"I can tutor him on weekends."