Chapter 28
Summer's POV
I got to school forty-five minutes early the next morning, which was absolutely ridiculous. The campus was practically deserted except for a few teachers' cars in the faculty lot and the maintenance crew finishing up their rounds. My hands were sweating as I clutched a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts and a card I'd spent an embarrassing amount of time writing last night.
The card was probably too much. I'd rewritten it three times, crossing out anything that sounded too desperate or too casual, finally settling on something simple: Thank you for helping me. It meant more than you know. —S.
But even that felt too revealing. Would he think I was being dramatic? Would he roll his eyes at the Pop-Tarts, thinking I was trying to buy his friendship?
I shook my head, trying to push down the anxious spiral. This wasn't about impressing him. This was about showing him that what he'd done mattered. That he mattered.
The Administration Building's heavy oak doors were unlocked, the hallway inside dim and quiet. My footsteps echoed on the polished floors as I climbed to the third floor, where the Physics Competition Team had their dedicated space. The brass plaque on the wall gleamed faintly in the early morning light: Physics Competition Team—Coach Anderson.
His office door was slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling into the hallway. I could hear voices inside—low, tense. One was definitely Coach Anderson's deep baritone. The other...
I stopped in my tracks, my heart suddenly pounding.
Kieran.
I should have knocked. I should have announced myself or walked away. But something in the tone of their conversation made me freeze, my feet rooted to the floor. Through the gap in the door, I could see Kieran's back, his shoulders rigid, his posture unnaturally straight.
"This is the third time this month, Cross." Coach Anderson's voice was sharp, frustrated. "You missed your physical therapy appointment again on Wednesday."
There was a pause. Then Kieran's voice, flat and careful. "Training ran late."
"Bullshit." The word came out harsh, and I flinched. "Your training schedule doesn't conflict with PT. I made sure of that when we set up your contract. So why don't you tell me what's really going on?"
Another pause, longer this time. I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing. My fingers tightened around the Pop-Tarts box, the cardboard crinkling softly.
"Left hand's enough," Kieran said finally. His voice was so calm it made my chest ache. "I don't need—"
"Don't." Coach Anderson cut him off. "Don't give me that line again. We both know your right hand's not just about writing or carrying books. USAPhO has experimental components. You're already 22% slower on lab setups than you should be because of the nerve damage. If you don't get treatment now, you're going to lose fine motor control permanently."
I could see Kieran's shoulders tense, his head tilting slightly. "I know what I signed, Coach. I'll make the scores I promised."
"That's not the point!" The frustration in Coach Anderson's voice was palpable now. "This isn't just about competition results. You're seventeen years old, Cross. You should be thinking about MIT, Caltech, your future career. But if your right hand deteriorates further, you're going to be shut out of half the majors you're qualified for—medical school, engineering, experimental physics—"
"I'm aware." Kieran's voice was tight now, defensive in a way I'd never heard before. It was like watching someone trying to hold a door shut while something heavy pushed from the other side.
Through the gap, I saw Coach Anderson lean back in his chair, rubbing his face with both hands. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—less anger, more exhaustion. "Kieran. Talk to me. Is this about money? Because the school's medical insurance covers PT sessions. You know that. It's part of your contract."
Silence.
"Or is it..." Coach Anderson hesitated. "Is it about your family? Your sister's surgery? The medical bills?"
My breath caught. I shouldn't be hearing this. I definitely shouldn't be hearing this. But I couldn't move.
Kieran was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice so low I almost didn't catch it: "Lily's surgery is scheduled for February. Cochlear implant plus rehab—thirty thousand dollars. My mom's asthma medication is four hundred a month. No insurance. And there's... there's other debts that need to be paid."
The numbers hit me like physical blows. Thirty thousand. Four hundred a month. Other debts.
"Those debts aren't your responsibility," Coach Anderson said quietly.
"Then whose?" Kieran's voice rose for the first time, sharp and bitter. "My mom's? She can barely read the bills. Lily's? She's a kid."
I pressed my hand over my mouth, my eyes burning.
"Kieran—"
"I know what you're going to say." Kieran's voice was steady again, forcibly calm. "But PT sessions are fifty dollars a pop even with insurance copay. That's two hundred a month minimum. I can't—" He stopped. "I need that money for Lily."
"And what about you?" Coach Anderson's voice was almost pleading now. "What about your hand? Your future?"
"I have a left hand." The flatness in Kieran's tone was terrifying. "I'll manage."
The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever. I could see Coach Anderson's shoulders slump, defeat written in every line of his body.
"I can't force you to go to therapy," he said finally. "But Kieran, listen to me. You're carrying too much. You're seventeen. You shouldn't have to choose between your sister's hearing and your own future."
"But I do." Kieran's voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. "So I'm choosing Lily."
Another long pause. Then Coach Anderson sighed. "Okay. Okay, I hear you. But I have a proposal."
I heard papers rustling.
"My nephew's in eighth grade at Brookline Junior High. He's preparing for Science Olympiad and needs a physics tutor. I was going to hire someone, but... what if you did it? Two hours every Saturday morning. Fifty dollars an hour. Market rate."
"I can do it for free—"
"No." Coach Anderson's voice was firm. "You're worth fifty an hour, Cross. Your time is worth that. Your knowledge is worth that. And I'm not offering this as charity—I'm offering it because you're the best physics student I've ever coached and my nephew would be lucky to learn from you."
Silence again. I could practically feel Kieran's internal war through the wall.
"The condition," Coach Anderson continued, "is that you use at least part of that money for PT. Not all of it. I'm not asking you to choose between your sister and yourself. But some of it. Deal?"
More silence. Then, so quietly I almost missed it: "...Deal."
"Good." Relief flooded Coach Anderson's voice. "Saturdays at ten a.m., starting this week. I'll text you the address."
"Coach?" Kieran's voice was rough. "Thank you."
"You don't owe anyone a perfect future, Kieran." Coach Anderson's words were gentle. "You've already done more than enough."
I heard footsteps approaching the door and panicked, scrambling to my feet. The Pop-Tarts box slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a soft thud. I bent down frantically to grab it, my face burning, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The door swung open.
Kieran stopped dead when he saw me, his eyes widening. We stared at each other for a frozen moment—him in the doorway, me crouched on the floor clutching a dented box of Pop-Tarts like an idiot.
"...How long have you been out here?" His voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his jaw.