A week had passed. A strange, fragile, and utterly bizarre week.
The world had settled into a new, unspoken routine. Kian Vance now had two lives, existing in a state of carefully managed schizophrenia.
There was "Kian-at-School-and-Home," the ghost, the "Ice-Man," the cold, detached artist who walked the halls of Crestwood Middle in a self-contained bubble.
And then, there was "Mister."
It was 4:30 PM on a Thursday. Kian was in his spot, the top row of the concrete bleachers at the quarry, his sketchbook open on his lap. The late afternoon sun was low, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked asphalt.
His presence was no longer a surprise. It was an expectation.
Below him, the court was alive. Not with the chaotic, joyful screaming of their first day, but with the focused, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of work.
Milo, Ana, Timmy, and the others—they were his secret. His burden. His lab.
He was not a "coach." He refused the title. He was a critic.
He would arrive, sit, and open his book. He would not speak. He would just watch. And the kids, who now both feared and revered him, would practice. They would run their "drills"—the pathetic, basic, fundamental drills he had snarled at them to do.
They would practice, waiting for the inevitable, quiet, cutting voice from the stands.
"Ana."
The little girl, who was in the middle of her bounce-pass drill with Timmy, froze. She looked up, her pigtails flopping, her eyes wide.
Kian didn't look up from his sketchbook. He was drawing the rusted pole of the backboard, but his eyes... his ears... were on the court.
"Your... your footwork," he said, his voice flat, bored. "It's... it's lazy. You're shuffling. You... you step with your left, you push with your right. You're... you're stepping and pushing with the same foot. You look... you look like a baby duck. Fix it."
Ana's face flushed. She hated him. He was so mean.
But... she turned back to Timmy. She set her feet. Left. Push. The ball bounced, hard, and hit Timmy perfectly in the chest.
Kian said nothing. He just... kept drawing.
He was lying to himself, of course. He wasn't just observing. He was invested. He was compelled. The "virus" in his head—the "gift"—could not stand to see imperfection. It had to fix what was broken.
He justified it to himself. This wasn't basketball. This was... physics. He was teaching geometry, applied force, kinetic energy. This was a lab. These... these children... they were his test subjects.
Milo was at the free-throw line. He had become Kian's unofficial lieutenant. He was the one who enforced the "quiet" rule. He was the one who ran the drills before Kian even showed up.
He'd been shooting for twenty minutes. His form was... it was clean. The elbow was tucked. The follow-through, his goose-neck, was held high, exactly as Kian had demanded.
Swish. Swish. Thwack. (A miss). Swish.
After the miss, Milo stopped. He looked at his own hand, his face tight with frustration. He knew what he'd done wrong. He'd rushed it.
He looked up at the figure on the bleachers.
Kian was... watching him. His pencil was still.
"You... you breathed," Kian said, his voice quiet.
Milo blinked. "What?"
"You... you inhaled... at the... the top... of your shot. You... you changed... your... your center of gravity. You... you tensed." Kian looked back down at his paper. "It was... stupid. Breathe... out... when you... when you release. Be... empty."
Milo... just... stared. He... he had done that. He had hitched his breath. How... how could he see that? From... from thirty feet away?
Kian wasn't a "Mister." He wasn't a "Coach." He was... he was a wizard.
Milo nodded. He squared himself. He dribbled. He bent his knees. He went up. He... breathed out.
Swish.
A small, almost-invisible smile touched Milo's lips. He didn't cheer. He didn't break the "quiet" rule. He just... got his rebound. And he did it again.
This was their new world. This was the routine.
At 5:30 PM, Kian closed his sketchbook. The sound was a signal.
"That's... that's it!" Milo called out, his voice sharp. "Wrap it up! Put the... put the ball... away." (They now shared a new ball, one that Milo's mom had bought them, but they still kept the lumpy one, out of respect).
The kids gathered their things. They didn't... they didn't thank Kian. That wasn't part of the deal. They just... they just... left.
Milo was the last one. He walked past the bleachers, his bag on his shoulder. He stopped, ten feet from Kian. He... he looked... at Kian.
He... he nodded. Once. A short, sharp, respectful... nod.
Kian... Kian nodded... back.
It was their... language. It was... work.
Kian waited until they were gone. He sat for another ten minutes, just... breathing. He was... drained. This... coaching... this... caring... it took... everything... out of him.
He put his sketchbook in his bag. He walked home.
He met Leo at the end of the long driveway. It was... their new routine. Leo, sweaty and grass-stained from practice. Kian, emotionally exhausted and graphite-stained from the quarry.
They walked, their steps crunching in sync on the white gravel.
The silence... it was easier now. It wasn't... bruised. It was... knowing.
"Practice was... good," Leo said, breaking the silence as he always did. "We... we installed a... a new... 1-3-1 zone. A... a trap."
Kian... just... listened. He... he hated... the 1-3-1. It was... gimmicky. It... it left... the... the corners... wide open.
"Coach Miller... he... he loves it," Leo said. "He... he thinks... it's... it's fast. It's... 'showtime'."
"It's... it's stupid," Kian mumbled, almost to himself. "You... you give up... the... the baseline. A... a smart... team... will... will kill... you... with... skip-passes."
Leo... Leo stopped. He... he looked... at... Kian.
"What...?"
Kian... flushed. He... he hadn't... meant... to... to say... that. The... the "Coach"... it... it spoke.
"It's... it's... over-aggressive," Kian said, his voice flat, trying to... to retreat. "It's... it's dumb."
Leo... Leo grinned. A... a huge, knowing... grin.
"Yeah," Leo said. "Yeah. I... I thought... so... too. I... I told... Maya... she... she's the... the manager..."
"I... I know... who... Maya Davis... is," Kian said.
"Right," Leo said, his grin fading, his... focus... returning. "I... I told... her... 'This... this feels... wrong...'" He... he looked... at Kian. "A... a skip-pass... to the... the weak-side... corner. Yeah. That's... that's... it. That's... the... the hole."
Kian... just... shrugged. He... he hated... that... that Leo... understood... him. That... that they... were... speaking... this... language.
"How... how was... the... the library?" Leo asked.
It was... their lie. The... the lie... that... that Leo... had created. The... the lie... that... that protected... Kian's... secret.
Kian... Kian looked... at... his... brother. His... his good, loyal, stupid... brother.
"It... it was... quiet," Kian said.
"Good," Leo said. "That's... that's good."
They walked the rest of the way in their new, shared silence.
The next day. Lunch.
Kian was... off. He was... distracted.
He was at his usual table, with Silas and Ren. Silas was, for once, not talking. He was... drawing. Badly. He was... he was trying... to... to sketch... a... superhero.
"It's... it's stupid," Silas said, pushing the notebook away. "I... I can't... get... the... the hands... right. They... they look... like... hammers."
Kian... Kian looked. He... he saw... the drawing. It... it was... terrible. The... the perspective... was... all wrong.
The... the "virus"... it... it itched. The... the need... to... fix... it.
"You're... you're holding... the... pencil... wrong," Kian said, his voice flat. "You're... you're choking... it. You... you draw... from... your... shoulder. Not... not your... wrist. And... and... a hand... it's... it's not... a hammer. It's... it's a box. With... with five... cylinders. You... you have... to... to see... the... the form."
Silas... and Ren... just... stared... at him.
Kian... he... he had never... ever... offered... advice. On anything.
"I... I..." Silas was... speechless.
Kian... Kian realized... what... he'd done. He'd... coached... Silas.
He... he flushed. He... he snapped... his own... sketchbook... shut.
"It's... it's stupid," he... muttered.
"No... no... it's not!" Silas said, his... his eyes... bright. "A... a box? With... with cylinders? Show me!"
"No," Kian said.
"C'mon, man! 'Coach Kian'!"
The word. He... he said... the word.
Kian's... Kian's face... it... it froze. The... the blood... drained... from... it.
Silas... Silas realized... what... he'd said. His... his own... face... fell.
"Kian... I... I..." Silas stammered. "I... I didn't... I didn't mean... I... I was... joking..."
Kian... Kian stood up. His... his chair... scraped... loudly... on the... the floor.
The... the cafeteria... went... silent.
"Kian..." Ren said, his voice a low, urgent warning.
Kian... Kian just... looked... at Silas. His... his eyes... were... not... cold. They... they weren't... angry.
They... they were... hurt.
He... he didn't... say... anything.
He... he picked up... his... bag.
And... he walked away.
Silas... Silas just... sat... there. "I... I... crap... Ren... I... I did it again... I... I broke... the contract..."
Ren... Ren just... watched... Kian's... retreating... back.
"The... the variable... it's... it's not... 'the father'," Ren... murmured. "The... the variable... is... 'shame'. And... and you... you just... poured... salt... in... the... wound."
Kian... Kian stormed... out... of the... cafeteria. He... he wasn't... watching... where... he... was... going.
He... he rounded... a corner... fast.
And... he slammed... directly... into... someone.
Books... papers... a phone... clattered... everywhere.
"Oh... crap... I'm... I'm so..." Kian started... to... say.
He... he looked up.
Sienna James.
Sienna James. The... the one... from the user's... original... list. The... the stylish, popular... girl.
She... she wasn't... Sartre-reading. She... she was... popular.
She... she looked... down... at... her... spilled... iced coffee... all over... her... white... shirt.
"Oh... my... god," she... gasped.
Kian... Kian was... frozen. He... he hated... this. He... he hated... mess. He... he hated... people.
"You... you idiot!" she... snapped. "Look... look what... you... did! This... this shirt... it's... it's new!"
Kian... Kian should... have... been... cold. He... he should... have... said... something... sarcastic.
But... he... he wasn't... cold. He... he was... raw. He... he was... guilty. He... he had... just... hurt... Silas. He... he had... just... hurt... Milo.
He... he was... a monster.
"I... I..." he... stammered. "I... I'm... sorry..."
He... he crouched... down. He... he started... to... to pick up... her... books.
Sienna... Sienna stopped. She... she looked... at... him.
She... she saw... Kian Vance. The... the "Ice-Man"... the... the gorgeous, untouchable... mystery... of the... the middle school.
And... he... he was... on his knees.
He... he was... picking up... her... books.
And... his... his hands... were... shaking.
Her... her anger... faded. It... it was... replaced... by... intense... curiosity.
Kian... Kian handed... her... her books. He... he wouldn't... meet... her... eyes.
"I... I... I'm... sorry," he... mumbled... again.
He... he stood up. He... he tried... to... to walk... past... her.
"Wait," she... said.
He... he stopped. He... he wouldn't... turn... around.
"You're... you're Kian Vance," she... said.
He... he said... nothing.
"You... you... ruined... my shirt," she... said.
He... he flenched.
"You... you owe... me... a... new one," she... said.
He... he finally... turned. He... he looked... at her.
She... she wasn't... angry. She... she was... symmetrical. She... she was... observing... him.
"Or..." she... said, a... a small, calculating... smile... on... her... face. "You... you owe... me... a... coffee. Tomorrow. After... school."
Kian... Kian stared.
This... this girl... was... blackmailing... him.
Into... a... date.
He... he should... have... said... no. He... he should... have... laughed.
But... he... he was... so... tired. And... he... he was... guilty. And... she... she wasn't... yelling... at... him.
"Fine," he... muttered.
He... he walked away.
Sienna... Sienna James... watched... him... go.
Her... her smile... widened.
The... the mystery... was... cracked.