Chapter 63
Kieran's POV
Coach Anderson's office smelled like burnt coffee and old textbooks.
I stood by the door, shoulder against the frame, while Oliver Martin leaned against the filing cabinet with his arms crossed. Logan sprawled in one of the chairs like he owned the place, spinning a pen between his fingers. Tyler sat perfectly straight in the other chair, his polo shirt crisp enough to cut glass.
"Gentlemen." Coach Anderson set down his mug. "I wanted to discuss the recent physics exam results before we dive into F=ma prep."
My stomach tightened. I'd expected this conversation, but that didn't make it easier.
"Tyler." The coach's voice was neutral. "You've been with the competition team for three years. Your family's invested in top-tier tutors. You scored ninety-five."
Tyler's jaw worked. "Yes, sir."
"Oliver, you got ninety-eight. Solid work." Anderson turned to Logan. "Logan, ninety-two. Good improvement from last month."
I kept my face blank, but my right hand curled into a fist in my hoodie pocket. The scar tissue pulled tight across my knuckles.
"Kieran." Anderson looked at me directly. "Three weeks on this team. Perfect score. In twelve years of coaching, I've never seen anyone progress this fast."
The room went silent. Tyler's knuckles whitened around the armrest.
"I'm assigning you and Oliver to rotate leading the problem sessions," Anderson continued. "You'll both be team captains for the F=ma prep. Kieran, you'll take the first session this afternoon."
"Coach—" Tyler started.
"This isn't a democracy, Mr. Ashford." Anderson's tone was final. "I need my strongest students teaching the material. That's Kieran and Oliver right now."
Oliver nodded once, his expression carefully neutral. Smart. He wasn't picking sides.
Tyler stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. "Understood, sir." His voice was perfectly controlled, but when he pushed past me toward the door, his shoulder hit mine hard enough to make me step back.
The door slammed behind him.
Logan whistled low. "Well. That went great."
"Dismissed," Anderson said. "Session starts at five. Don't be late."
---
I grabbed my backpack from my locker, mind racing.
"Hey." Logan appeared beside me. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"That was pretty brutal in there." He lowered his voice. "Tyler's not gonna take this well."
"Not my problem."
"Kieran." Logan grabbed my arm. I jerked away automatically, and he held up both hands. "Sorry. Just—watch your back, okay? Tyler's got friends. Rich friends who don't like being embarrassed."
I shouldered my bag. "I'll be fine."
"Yeah, well." Logan shifted his weight. "For what it's worth, you earned it. That exam was insane."
Something in my chest loosened slightly. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Just don't let them mess with your head." He paused. "And maybe don't be late to your own teaching session. That'd be bad optics."
I almost smiled. Almost.
---
4:40 PM. The science building hallway was crowded with students between classes. I kept my head down, heading for the stairs, when voices drifted over from the AP Chemistry doorway.
"That Southie scholarship kid is teaching us?" A girl's voice, pitched to carry. "Coach must be losing it."
"I heard his test score was fake." A guy laughed. "The Whisper says those scars on his hand are from juvie fights. Probably cheated somehow."
My steps slowed. I shouldn't listen. Shouldn't care.
"Please." Brooke Martinez's voice, louder than the others. "Summer's been helping him all semester. Victoria Hayes probably donated to the physics program. He's just a charity case they're showing off."
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
Logan appeared at my elbow. "Don't." His voice was low. "Not worth it."
"I wasn't—"
"Yeah, you were." He steered me toward the stairs. "Come on. Let's get coffee before the session. You look like you need it."
I let him pull me away, but Brooke's words echoed in my skull. Charity case. Like everything I'd earned was just someone else's pity project.
---
I arrived five minutes early, but every seat was already taken. Thirty students, maybe more. The silence felt like a funeral.
I set my notebook on the desk at the front and turned to the whiteboard. Someone had written "GOOD LUCK" in tiny letters in the corner. Summer's handwriting. My chest tightened.
I picked up the dry-erase marker with my left hand and started writing the first problem. My handwriting was messier than it used to be, the letters slightly crooked, but legible.
"Excuse me." Tyler's voice, polite as poison. "Your writing's a bit hard to read. Could you maybe rewrite that? For everyone's sake."
I turned. He sat in the front row, expression perfectly concerned.
"Sure." I kept my voice flat and erased the board, rewriting the equation more carefully.
Three iPhones lifted in the back row. Click. Click. Click. The shutter sounds were deliberately loud, echoing off the walls.
"Look at his hand," Ashley whispered, just loud enough for the room to hear. "Two fingers are completely bent. Like a claw."
"So creepy," Zoe added. "No wonder he always hides it under the desk."
My left hand tightened around the marker. The plastic creaked. I didn't look at them. Didn't acknowledge it. Just kept writing, breaking down the gravitational force problem step by step.
"The key is decomposing the force vector," I said. My voice came out steady. Flat. "You need to identify the normal force component first."
Someone in the back snickered.
I kept talking.
---
Halfway through the second problem, Tyler raised his hand.
"Yes?"
"I'm confused." He tilted his head. "I thought you'd use a more elegant approach. You know, since you got a perfect score and all."
The room shifted. Students leaned forward.
"This is the standard method," I said.
"Right, right." Tyler nodded slowly. "It's just—I guess I assumed you'd have some special technique. Since you did so well on problems you'd, you know, practiced before."
The implication hung in the air like smoke.
"Maybe he got the test early," someone muttered from the side. "Heard people do that sometimes."
At least ten phone screens glowed in the dim light. I caught a glimpse of an Instagram notification on one: a private group Tyler had created. The photo showed my right hand, zoomed in, the scars and bent fingers on full display.
The group chat was filling with comments. "Disgusting." "Looks like a horror movie." "Classic white savior complex." "His mom washes dishes in Southie." "They're just using him for diversity points."
I kept writing. Kept talking. My voice didn't shake. But my left hand gripped the marker hard enough that my knuckles went white.
Logan sat in the front row, spine rigid, hands clenched under the desk until his knuckles matched mine.
---
I finished the third step and turned back to the board. "Any questions before we move to—"
"Maybe you should take a break." Tyler's voice was all concern. "You look tired, Cross. We could reschedule if you're not feeling well."
Quiet laughter rippled through the room.
"Yeah, maybe he needs to rest."
"Or call Summer to help?"
"Poor guy. Must be exhausting carrying all that baggage."
The chair scraped. Loud. Harsh.
Logan stood up, the sound cutting through the murmurs like a knife. He turned to face Tyler, spine straight, voice deadly calm.
"Shut. The fuck. Up."
Silence.
Complete, ringing silence.
Logan's hands were shaking, but his voice didn't waver. "All of you. Just—shut up."
Tyler blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Logan's jaw was tight. "He's up here teaching because Coach asked him to. Because he earned it. And you're all sitting here being assholes because you can't handle that someone's better than you."
"Logan—" Oliver started from the back.
"No." Logan's voice cracked. "I'm done. I'm done watching this happen and pretending it's okay. You want to know why Kieran got a perfect score? Because he's smarter than all of us. And instead of learning from him, you're tearing him down because he doesn't come from the right zip code."
Ashley's face went red. "We weren't—"
"Yes, you were." Logan's voice dropped. "And it's disgusting."