The last bell at Lincoln High rang sharp and final, unleashing the Friday afternoon rush. Chairs scraped, backpacks zipped, voices overlapped in a chaotic sprint for the door. Ethan Hayes stayed in his middle-row seat in English class — the only period he shared with both Naya Rivera and Jake Miller — thumb scrolling his phone to look occupied while his eyes drifted, yet again, to the back row by the window.

Naya was still there, packing up with her usual slow care. She slid her English textbook into her bag, then reached for the black spiral notebook she always kept close. Ethan had noticed her writing in it many times: pen moving steadily, faint smile when something clicked, body angled to hide the pages. Whatever was inside, it was private.

Today he was finally going to speak to her.

“Hey, Naya… I’ve been wanting to tell you this. I like you. A lot. Want to hang out sometime? Like coffee or something?”

Simple. Honest. If she said no, he’d survive. If she said yes… he wouldn’t picture it yet.

Ethan stood, heart thudding. He started toward her desk.

Then Coach Ramirez blocked the doorway, tracksuit rumpled, whistle around his neck, holding a clipboard in one hand and a small stack of papers in the other.

“Hayes! You’re in this last-period English with Miller, right?” Coach asked, stepping forward. “Here — take these. Spring tournament sign-up forms. Jake was supposed to fill one out and bring it back by Friday end. Give him the stack; he can use one and pass the extras to anyone else who forgot. Tell him I need his signed and back to me by Tuesday morning, or he’s running laps till graduation.”

Ethan blinked, caught off guard. Coach pushed the small bundle of 3–4 identical forms — lines for name, position, emergency contact, signature — into his hand.

“Uh, yeah, Coach. I’ll give them to him.”

Coach nodded. “Good man. Don’t let him slack.” He turned and headed toward the gym, clipboard under his arm.

Ethan stared at the papers for a second, then shoved the whole stack into the main pocket of his backpack — the big compartment with his books and water bottle — where they crinkled against his notebook and charger. He turned back toward Naya’s desk.

She was already gone. Bag over her shoulder, earbuds in, dark hair falling across her face as she slipped out the door without a backward glance.

He stood frozen for a moment, the almost-confession dissolving in his chest. Then he crossed to his own desk, grabbed his backpack… and noticed.

On Naya’s desk: the black spiral notebook, left behind. Slightly open, handwriting visible on the fanned pages. She must have set it down to zip her bag, gotten distracted, and walked out.

Ethan stared. She’s going to freak out. It looked too important to leave sitting there.

He should turn it in to the teacher. Or the office lost and found.

Instead, he picked it up, closed it gently, and tucked it under his arm next to his own stuff. He’d give it back Monday. Practical.

The bus ride home felt longer than usual, the notebook heavy against his side and the stack of sign-up forms crinkling faintly in the main pocket of his backpack every time he shifted.

Saturday afternoon arrived gray and rainy. Ethan’s room was quiet, curtains half-closed, phone silenced. He sat cross-legged on his bed, the notebook resting in his lap.

He told himself he wouldn’t read it. He’d just look for her name or a number inside the cover, confirm it was hers, and stop there. Privacy mattered. He wasn’t that kind of person.

But his fingers opened the cover anyway.

Draft – Offside Hearts (working title)

By Naya Rivera

Handwritten. First-person perspective. Chapters numbered. Margins filled with tiny notes and arrows.

He read the first lines. Then kept going. Guilt burned in his chest, but he couldn’t stop.

The narrator was Caleb Torres — outgoing, energetic, the one who filled the locker room with jokes and easy laughter, always pulling people into his orbit. Charismatic, loud in the best way, messy brown hair, bright grin.

And the boy he was in love with… was Jake Miller.

The description matched the Jake Miller who sat three seats ahead in their shared last-period English class: calm, honest, quietly empathetic. Tall, strong, the reliable anchor of the soccer defense without ever bragging about it.

Then Ethan came to a page that had been torn out from somewhere earlier in the notebook — rough, jagged edges along the spiral side — but it was still there, tucked loosely back between two other pages like Naya had ripped it out in a moment of frustration or second-guessing and then shoved it back in.

He carefully turned the loose sheet over.

Front side: a detailed pencil sketch of Jake’s face — unmistakably him. The angle of his jaw, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead, the small freckles dotted across his nose, the calm set of his hazel eyes. It was drawn with obvious care, shadows soft and deliberate.

Back side of the same torn sheet — the handwriting side:

“I love the way he talks — soft, never rushed, like every word matters. He doesn’t shout to be heard; he just says what needs saying and everyone listens anyway.”

“The way he cares… it’s quiet. He notices when someone’s hurting before they even say it. He’ll hand you a water bottle without making a fuss, or stay late to help pick up gear. No one else sees it the way I do.”

“His face when he smiles — small, real, not for show — it stops me every time. The freckles across his nose catch the sun after practice. His hazel eyes soften when he thinks no one’s watching. I could look at him forever and still find something new.”

Ethan’s breath caught. The sketch on one side and these words on the other — two halves of the same page — captured everything: Caleb’s visual fixation on Jake’s appearance and his deeper, quieter admiration for how Jake moved through the world. It was intimate, almost overwhelming.

Jake in real life lined up perfectly — the soft-spoken answers in their last-period class, the understated way he helped people without drawing attention, that rare genuine smile. Naya must have watched him for a long time (in class, hallways, maybe even from the edges of the soccer field) and channeled it all into her private Boys’ Love draft.

Fujoshi thing. She loved writing this kind of slow-burn romance between boys, turning real classmates into characters.

He closed the notebook after several more pages, pulse racing, guilt heavier than ever. He shouldn’t have read it. He knew that. But now that torn page — front and back — was seared into his mind: the drawing, the words, the quiet longing.

Monday, he’d hand the notebook back to Naya… and also give Jake the stack of sign-up forms from Coach during their shared last-period English class. Simple tasks.

But the knot in his stomach told him nothing about this was going to feel simple.

Monday morning hit Ethan like a truck. He walked through Lincoln High’s crowded hallways with Naya’s black notebook tucked deep in his backpack, the stack of sign-up forms still crinkling in the main pocket from Friday. He’d spent the weekend replaying what he’d read on Saturday afternoon — including that torn page he’d held in his hands, turning it over, staring at the sketch of Jake on the front and reading those intimate words on the back before tucking it back between the pages where he’d found it.

He planned to give the forms to Jake during their shared last-period English class — the only time they were in the same room — and return the notebook to Naya before or after. Simple. Low-drama.

But plans never stayed simple.

Ethan was heading down the main corridor toward his first class when he spotted Jake ahead of him, walking alone, earbuds in, backpack slung over one shoulder. Jake paused at the water fountain, took a quick drink, then straightened up.

Ethan hesitated for half a second, then sped up.

“Hey, Jake.”

Jake turned, pulling one earbud out. “Oh, hey Ethan. What’s up?”

Ethan swung his backpack around and unzipped the main pocket. “Coach Ramirez caught me Friday after the bell. Gave me these for you.” He pulled out the small stack of sign-up forms — 3–4 sheets clipped loosely together — and held them out. “Spring tournament stuff. He said you were supposed to fill one out last week. Use whichever, sign it, and get it back to him by Tuesday morning or you’re doing extra laps till graduation. The extras are for anyone else who forgot.”

Jake took the papers, glancing at the top one. “Ah, crap. Yeah, I meant to do that. Thanks for grabbing them. I’ll fill it out tonight and drop it off tomorrow.”

“No problem,” Ethan said, zipping his backpack back up. He felt lighter now that the forms were gone. “See you in English later.”

“Yeah. Later.”

Jake gave a small nod and continued down the hall. Ethan watched him go for a second — calm walk, quiet posture — then shook his head and kept moving toward his next class.

Just before he reached the door, he spotted Naya at her locker, swapping out books with a worried look on her face, earbuds dangling loose.

Ethan veered over before he could second-guess himself.

“Hey, Naya.”

She looked up fast. “Ethan. Hi.”

He pulled the black notebook out and held it toward her. “You left this Friday in English. I picked it up so it wouldn’t get lost.”

Naya’s face lit up with pure relief. She took it with both hands, fingers brushing his briefly. “Thank you. Seriously. I was so scared it was gone for good.”

“Yeah, glad I could help.”

She hugged the notebook to her chest, then glanced around the bustling hallway. She closed her locker quickly. “Can we talk? Just really quick? Somewhere private?”

Ethan swallowed. His heart picked up speed — this was it, a moment alone with her. Maybe he could finally say what he’d been holding in. “Yeah, okay.”

She led him down a side hall to the small alcove by the stairwell — that dead-end spot with no foot traffic, just the low buzz of the vents and fluorescent lights. Naya turned to him, still clutching the notebook like a lifeline.

“Did you read it?” she asked softly.

Ethan’s throat tightened. He tried the lie first. “I… barely looked. Just opened it to check whose it was.”

Naya’s cheeks flushed deep red. She looked down, then back up, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re lying. I can see it on your face.”

Ethan sighed, shoulders dropping. “Okay… yeah. I read it. More than I should have. I’m sorry. I started and couldn’t stop. Your writing is really good.”

Naya’s eyes welled up suddenly, her voice breaking as she clutched the notebook tighter. “Oh god… I’m so embarrassed. No one was ever supposed to see any of that. Ever. Especially not someone from school. Especially not… you. It’s my private thing, my escape, and now it’s ruined. Please, Ethan, I’m begging you — don’t tell anyone. Not a word. If this gets out, if people know what I write about, what I imagine… I couldn’t face anyone. I’d have to switch schools or something. Please, just keep it secret? Promise me?”

Her words hit him hard — the desperation in her voice, the way her eyes pleaded, the slight tremble in her hands. Ethan’s chest tightened. This was Naya, the girl he’d been crushing on for months, looking at him like he held her whole world in his hands. He felt a surge of protectiveness, a need to shield her from anything that could hurt her. He stepped closer, voice steady and serious, pouring all his conviction into it.

“I promise, Naya. With everything I’ve got. I won’t tell a soul. Not Jake, not my friends, nobody. Your secret’s safe with me. I swear.”

She searched his face, then nodded slowly, wiping at her eyes quickly. “Okay… thank you. Really. I believe you.”

Ethan’s heart raced. The alcove felt smaller, the air thicker. This was his chance. The words he’d rehearsed so many times bubbled up: Naya, I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while… I like you. A lot. He opened his mouth, ready to say it, to finally get it out while they were alone, while she was looking at him with that mix of vulnerability and gratitude.

But before he could speak, Naya opened the notebook, thumbing through the pages absently at first, then faster. Her brows furrowed.

“Wait… where’s the torn page?”

Ethan blinked, the confession dying on his lips. “What torn page?”

“The loose one. The sketch on the front, the writing on the back. It was tucked between chapters 4 and 5. It’s gone.”

Ethan’s stomach dropped. He remembered holding it Saturday afternoon — turning it over in his hands, staring at the drawing of Jake, reading those lines on the back before sliding it back in. But now… it wasn’t there? He swung his backpack off and started digging — main pocket, side pockets, even shaking it upside down. Nothing. No loose sheet. No torn paper.

“I… I saw it Saturday afternoon when I was reading. I held it, looked at both sides, then put it back in. I swear I didn’t take it out or anything. It must have fallen out somewhere. Bus? My room? I looked everywhere this weekend.”

Naya bit her lip, looking more anxious than before. “If someone finds it… the sketch is of Jake. And the words… it’s obvious what it is. Please, if you find it, just give it back to me. Don’t read it again. Don’t show anyone.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

The warning bell rang — first class in one minute.

“We have to go,” Naya whispered.

They hurried back to their separate first-period rooms. The almost-confession hung in Ethan’s mind, derailed by the missing page. Now, all he could think about was that torn sheet — where it had gone, who might find it.

From first period through fourth, the question consumed him. He checked his locker again. Retraced his morning path. Even peered under desks in his classes. Nothing.

By the time the bell rang ending fourth period, Ethan still had no idea where the torn page was. And the last class of the day — English, where Naya and Jake would both be — was about to start.

Jake slipped the stack of sign-up forms into his backpack as he walked away from Ethan, the papers crinkling against his textbooks. He didn’t think much of it at first — just another school thing to handle, fill out the form, sign it, drop it off to Coach by Tuesday. Ethan had been cool about it, like always. No big deal.

He headed to first period, history, sliding into his seat near the back. The teacher started droning on about some war or another, but Jake’s mind wandered. He unzipped his bag to pull out his notebook, and that’s when he saw it — a loose, folded sheet sticking out from between the sign-up forms. It wasn’t one of Coach’s papers; the edges were jagged, like it had been torn from a spiral notebook. Curious, he pulled it out discreetly under his desk.

The front side was a pencil sketch. Of him. His face, captured in careful lines — the way his hair fell, the freckles on his nose, his eyes looking calm and distant. It was good. Really good. But who the hell drew this? And how did it end up in his hands?

He flipped it over. The back was filled with handwriting — neat, slanted cursive. Three lines, like notes or a poem:

“I love the way he talks — soft, never rushed, like every word matters. He doesn’t shout to be heard; he just says what needs saying and everyone listens anyway.”

“The way he cares… it’s quiet. He notices when someone’s hurting before they even say it. He’ll hand you a water bottle without making a fuss, or stay late to help pick up gear. No one else sees it the way I do.”

“His face when he smiles — small, real, not for show — it stops me every time. The freckles across his nose catch the sun after practice. His hazel eyes soften when he thinks no one’s watching. I could look at him forever and still find something new.”

Jake’s breath caught. This wasn’t random. This was about him. The description matched — his voice, his habits on the field, even the way he smiled. But who wrote this? And why did it feel so… personal? Like someone had been watching him closely, noticing things even he didn’t pay attention to.

Then it hit him. The page had been mixed in with the sign-up forms. Forms Ethan had just handed him. Ethan, who’d been acting a little off this morning — nervous laugh, quick handover. Ethan, who’d been around him more than usual this year, in their shared English class. Was this… from Ethan?

No way. That didn’t make sense. But the thought stuck, and Jake’s mind spiraled. He shoved the page back into his bag, face heating up as the teacher called on someone else. Inner arguments exploded in his head.

It’s not Ethan. He’s just a classmate. But why else would it be with his papers?

He thought back to their first meeting. Freshman year, PE class — a required gym period everyone had to take back then. They’d been paired for relays. Jake had tripped on a loose shoelace, sprawling on the gym floor. Ethan had been the first to help him up — not laughing like some kids, just offering a hand with a quiet “You good?” Jake had brushed it off, but Ethan had stuck around after, tying the lace for him like it was no big deal. Was that when it started? Did Ethan see something then?

Or the locker room incident later that same freshman year. Jake had been fumbling with his shirt collar after changing, the fabric twisted awkwardly. Ethan, passing by, had reached over without a word and straightened it, fingers brushing Jake’s neck for a second. “There. Looks better.” Jake had mumbled thanks, but now it felt different. Was that a sign? Did I miss it?

Then there was the time last year Jake had noticed Ethan exhausted after a long day — slouched in the hall, looking drained. Jake had handed over his water bottle without thinking. “Here, you look like you need this more than me.” Ethan had smiled, grateful, and they’d talked for a minute about nothing. But maybe it was something to him. Maybe I didn’t notice, but he did.

And more recent stuff — English class this year. Group projects. Naya and Jake had been assigned together first, chatting about the book. Ethan had volunteered to join them, swapping with someone else. “Mind if I hop in?” he’d said casually. At the time, Jake thought it was just to avoid a bad group. But now? Was he trying to be closer? Watching me the way this page describes?

The bell for first period rang, jolting Jake out of it. He packed up, but the page burned in his mind through second period math, third period science. It can’t be Ethan. He’s straight-up normal. But the words… “no one else sees it the way I do.” That sounds like him — always noticing small stuff, like when I’m off my game at practice.

And then the bigger thought crept in, the one he couldn’t shake: If this is from Ethan… it’s a boy.

Jake had received confessions before — three times, all from girls. Freshman year, a girl from his PE class had slipped a note into his locker after he helped her carry equipment. Sophomore year, two more: one during lunch, stammering and blushing; another after a game, waiting outside the locker room. Each time, Jake had been kind but clear. “I’m flattered, really. But I don’t… feel that way. Sorry.” It wasn’t that he disliked them; he just didn’t feel romantic about anyone. Never had. Romance was something he saw in movies, in his teammates’ stories, but not in himself. He didn’t have that side. He liked people as friends, teammates, classmates — but attraction? That part was missing. Completely. And he was fine with it. Or at least he had been.

Now this page, these words… if they were from Ethan, it felt weird. Uncomfortable. Not because it was a guy — Jake didn’t care about that part — but because it was so specific, so intense, so personal. Someone had been paying that much attention to him, writing about him like this. And if it was Ethan, then what? Do I pretend I didn’t see it? Do I give it back and say “this fell out”? Or do I just… ignore it and hope it goes away?

The idea of confronting Ethan made his stomach twist. What would I even say? “Hey, is this yours? Because it’s super detailed and kinda creepy”? No. That would make everything awkward forever. But keeping it felt wrong too. Like he was hiding something he didn’t ask for.

Lunch came and went; Jake barely tasted his food, staring at the table while his friends joked around. If it is Ethan, how do I act normal in English class? Do I look at him differently now? Or just act like nothing happened?

Fourth period dragged. By the end, Jake’s head was a mess. The arguments wouldn’t stop — past moments replaying, twisting into something new. I didn’t notice, but maybe he did. All this time. And now I have this thing in my bag that I don’t know what to do with.

The bell rang for the end of fourth. Last class: English. Where Ethan and Naya would be. Jake grabbed his bag, the torn page still inside, hidden but heavy.

He headed to the room, heart pounding.