Chapter 1: The Forgotten Notebook

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.

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