Chapter 11: Unlikely Help
The morning air was crisp, tinged with the sharp bite of autumn, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and freshly cut grass. A thin layer of frost clung to the edges of car windows in the parking lot, glinting like shards of glass under the pale sunlight. The grounds of Bellrose High thrummed with energy, alive with the buzz of voices, the rhythmic thud of soccer balls being kicked around, and the sharp, shrill blasts of whistles cutting through the cool air.
The Bellrose Fall Classic wasn't just another school event—it was the event. A battlefield disguised as a friendly competition. Rivalries that had simmered quietly all year long would finally boil over, friendships would be tested, and reputations would either soar under the weight of cheers or crumble beneath jeers. It was the kind of day that people circled on their calendars, counted down to, and talked about for weeks afterward.
But Elena Aster couldn't have cared less.
She tightened her grip on the strap of her worn, black canvas bag, her fingers brushing against the thin, faded folder tucked securely inside—a fragile link to a past she couldn't remember. The edges of the folder were frayed, soft from restless nights spent flipping through the documents inside, her eyes tracing the same faded ink over and over, desperate for answers buried beneath fragmented memories. But no answers ever came. Just more questions.
The vibrant energy around her grated on her nerves like sandpaper against skin. The laughter, the sneakers skidding across pavement, the echo of distant cheers—they felt loud in a way that wasn't just about the noise. It was the chaos, the false sense of normalcy, the way people pretended that these trivial events mattered in the grand scheme of things.
Elena hated days like this.
She kept her gaze low, focusing on the cracks in the pavement as she walked, each step a silent protest against the world spinning too fast around her.
"Isn't this exciting?"
The sudden voice made her flinch, her muscles tensing instinctively. She turned to see Lydia, her overly eager classmate, bounding toward her with the energy of someone who had chugged three cups of coffee—or was simply fueled by an endless supply of optimism. Lydia's blonde ponytail bounced with every step, and in her hands, she waved two crumpled event programs like flags. Her cheeks were flushed pink from either the cold or pure excitement—it was hard to tell with Lydia.
"Nate's the star of the soccer match," Lydia gushed, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. She leaned in, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "And guess who's on the opposing team? Jaxon Rivers."
She wiggled her eyebrows dramatically, her grin stretching even wider. "They say he's unstoppable when he's on the field. I mean—have you seen him play?"
Elena rolled her eyes, her expression flat. "I don't care."
But her traitorous gaze flicked across the crowded field anyway.
She spotted her cousin, Nate, standing with his teammates near the benches. His broad shoulders were relaxed, his easy grin perfectly in place, and his soccer jersey clung to him like a second skin, bold letters spelling out his last name: ASTER. He looked every bit the charming golden boy—confident, charismatic, the kind of person people gravitated toward without question. But Elena knew better.
She'd seen the cracks in that polished facade. The sharp edges hidden beneath the smooth surface.
And then her eyes found Jaxon Rivers.
He was leaning casually against the metal bleachers, his posture relaxed, one foot resting against the bottom rung. His dark curls were a mess, like he'd just rolled out of bed and couldn't be bothered to fix them. His soccer uniform hung on him with an effortless carelessness that somehow made him stand out even more. He wasn't trying to impress anyone—and that's what made people notice.
His eyes, though—that's what really held her attention. Sharp, piercing blue, like cold steel under sunlight. They missed nothing, scanning the crowd with lazy precision, as if the world was a puzzle he'd already figured out but found mildly interesting to watch anyway.
Elena looked away quickly, her chest tightening for reasons she didn't want to examine.
She didn't need distractions. She had enough on her plate.
---
The first whistle pierced the air, slicing through the noise like a blade, and the soccer match roared to life.
Players sprinted across the field, their cleats kicking up little clouds of dust and dead grass. The ball moved like it had a mind of its own, passed from foot to foot with practiced ease. Nate commanded the game effortlessly, his voice rising above the crowd as he barked orders, weaving through defenders with sharp precision. His confidence wasn't just visible—it radiated off him, infectious and impossible to ignore.
Elena tried to focus on anything else—the distant trees swaying in the breeze, the flicker of sunlight reflecting off car windows—but her eyes kept drifting back to the field. She hated that her attention betrayed her.
A sudden surge of players collided near the sideline, their bodies jostling for control. The ball shot out from the chaos, rolling fast—straight toward Elena.
Her instincts kicked in. She stepped forward to intercept it, planning to stop the ball with her foot and kick it back. But just as she reached for it, Nate's voice rang out, sharp and mocking.
"Careful, Aster!" he shouted, his grin twisted with amusement. "Wouldn't want you to trip over your own mistakes."
Laughter erupted from the crowd, a wave of sound that felt sharper than it should've. It dug under her skin, prickling like needles.
Elena's jaw clenched. Her face burned with heat, a flush of anger more than embarrassment. She forced herself to ignore him, gripping the ball tightly before tossing it back onto the field without a word.
She turned to walk away—
—and someone shoved her from behind.
The world tilted. The ground rushed up to meet her.
She hit the dirt hard, her ribs slamming against the uneven surface, scraping her palms raw. The breath whooshed out of her lungs in a painful gasp, leaving her stunned and disoriented.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, followed by a heavy, suffocating silence.
Elena tried to push herself up, her vision blurring at the edges. Through the haze, she saw Nate standing nearby, his smug smile etched into his face like it was carved there.
It wasn't an accident.
Her mind screamed with anger, but before she could even process what had happened, someone was kneeling beside her.
"Hey—hey, don't move yet."
Jaxon Rivers.
His voice was rough, laced with mild irritation rather than concern, but his hands hovered near her shoulder with surprising gentleness. His brows were furrowed, his sharp blue eyes scanning her face with an unreadable expression.
"I'm fine," Elena snapped, trying to sit up despite the searing pain in her ribs.
"Sure, because people who are 'fine' usually face-plant into the ground," Jaxon muttered, his hand darting out to steady her as she wobbled.
Elena shot him a glare, her pride burning hotter than the ache in her side. She yanked her arm free. "I don't need your help."
"Well, lucky for you, I don't care," he replied flatly, standing up and dusting off his pants.
They stared at each other for a beat, the tension between them thick enough to cut. Anger flared in Elena's chest, sharp and immediate, but beneath it was something else—an emotion she couldn't quite name. Something unfamiliar. Unwelcome.
Jaxon's smirk faded slightly, his eyes softening just enough to make her chest tighten in a way she hated. Then he turned away, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Try not to get trampled next time," he muttered as he walked off.
Elena's heart hammered—not from the fall, not from the embarrassment, but from something else entirely. She glanced toward the field and caught Nate watching them, his expression dark and unreadable.
His smile was gone.
---
The Soccer Match Heats Up
The tension from the incident bled into the next phase of the game, thick and electric.
Nate and Jaxon were now on opposing sides, their rivalry no longer just about soccer. It had become something personal.
Elena sat stiffly on the cold, metal bleachers, her side aching with every breath. But she couldn't tear her eyes away from the field.
The whistle blew again, and the game erupted into controlled chaos.
Jaxon moved like he was born for this—fluid, fast, impossible to predict. His footwork was a dance, precise and calculated, each movement sharp and efficient. Nate matched him stride for stride, his competitive nature burning like wildfire, refusing to be outdone.
The ball became more than just an object. It was a symbol. A challenge.
Every pass, every tackle was filled with unspoken tension. The crowd roared, caught up in the intensity, but Elena remained silent, her heart pounding in sync with the thud of the ball against the turf.
In the final minutes, the score was tied. The tension was suffocating.
Jaxon intercepted a pass, weaving through defenders with the ease of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. Nate charged at him, their collision inevitable. They fought for control, bodies slamming together, determination etched into every muscle.
With a final, powerful kick, Jaxon sent the ball soaring past the goalie—straight into the net.
The crowd exploded.
But it wasn't the victory that mattered.
It was the look they exchanged afterward—icy, sharp, filled with silent declarations of war.
They hated each other.
And it wasn't just about the game.
----
Later, after the crowd had dispersed and the adrenaline had faded, Elena made her way to the parking lot.
Her ribs still ached, but it was nothing compared to the unease gnawing at the edges of her mind.
She reached her locker, expecting the usual routine—grab her bag, head home, and try to forget the day.
But her locker was wide open.
Papers were scattered across the floor like discarded memories.
Her heart stopped.
The folder was gone.
Panic surged through her veins. She dropped to her knees, frantically gathering the scattered pages, her hands shaking. Amid the mess, she found a crumpled scrap of paper shoved under one of her textbooks.
She unfolded it with trembling fingers.
One sentence, scrawled in jagged handwriting:
"You're not the only one looking for answers."
Elena's breath hitched, her pulse racing.
Someone knew.
And they were already one step ahead.