Chapter 53: Midnight Logic and Half-Buttons

(Trish's POV)

School was finished for the day, and it was game time.

Mthland High stadium was thick with the scent of cut grass and the electric hum of a city that had been waiting for a miracle. In the locker room, the silence was heavy. Joseph sat on the bench, methodically taping his wrists, his eyes focused on a spot on the floor that only he could see.

"The scouts are in Section 4," Christian said, leaning against the doorframe as he buckled his shoulder pads. He looked like a general preparing for a siege. "They aren't just here to see a win. They are here to see if Mthland has a brain. I'll handle the line. I'll read their formation. You just get the ball where it needs to go."

Joseph stood up, his helmet under his arm. "Let's give them a show, Christian. One for the books."

The game was a masterpiece of grit and strategy. Every time Central Tech tried to break through, Christian was there, his defensive intelligence acting like a secondary coach on the field. He moved his teammates like chess pieces, shutting down lanes before the opponent even knew they were open.

And then there was Joseph. He was a lightning bolt in a blue jersey. In the final quarter, with thirty seconds on the clock, he dodged a blindside blitz, rolled to his left, and fired a forty-yard rocket into the end zone.

The whistle blew. The scoreboard flashed: MTHLAND 28, TECH 21.

The field was instantly swallowed by a sea of students. It was the first time Mthland High had ever qualified for the All-State Football Competition. The "Golden Boy" was hoisted into the air, a king among his subjects, as the chant of "Mthland! Mthland!" shook the bleachers.

By 11:00 PM, the glory had shifted to the dim, neon-soaked pavement outside "The Vault." I had spent my night at the kitchen table with Miss Britney, staring at a history textbook that looked like a foreign language. But the worry in my chest wouldn't quit.

"Men in clubs do stupid things, Trish," Miss Britney had whispered earlier, her eyes fixed on the clock. "Especially when they think they’re invincible."

I rushed over to 9th Street where our winners were hosting their celebration in a toxic club, too toxic for highschoolers.

I found him leaning against a dumpster, his tie undone and his eyes barely tracking the streetlights. He was leaning on a teammate who looked just as far gone.

"Where is your car, Joseph?" I demanded, marching up to him.

"Car?" Joseph slurred, a goofy, lopsided grin spreading across his face. "Cars are for people who can't fly. We’re going to All-State, Trish! We’re going to the moon!"

"You're going to the sidewalk if you don't stand up straight," I snapped, hauling his massive arm over my shoulder. He was dead weight. The "Sleeping King" was officially a hundred-and-ninety-pound anchor.

"I’ve got him," I told his teammate, who stumbled away into the night.

The walk home was a nightmare of staggering steps and muttered curses.

"You total moron," I hissed as we rounded the corner toward 7th Street. "I am supposed to be a scholar. I am supposed to be analyzing the fall of Rome, but instead, I am analyzing the way you can't walk in a straight line."

Joseph let out a long, happy sigh, his head lolling onto my shoulder. "You're... you're really soft, Trish. Like a cloud. A mean, yelling cloud."

"Shut up, Joseph."

Suddenly, his knees buckled. I tried to brace him, but the sheer physics of his size won. We both crashed down onto the pavement. I landed hard on my hip, the cold concrete biting through my jeans.

"Ow! God!" I yelled, sitting up and looking at him. He was sprawled out on his back, looking up at the sky as if he were lying in a field of daisies. He didn't even realize he'd fallen.

Frustration boiled over. I reached out and kicked his sneaker. "Get up! You giant, uncoordinated, beautiful idiot! I hate you! I should be studying! My future is on my desk, and my present is sitting on the ground with a guy who smells like cheap gin!"

I kicked him again, but he just let out a soft, sleepy chuckle, his eyes fluttering shut. "You're... so loud."

"I have to be loud because you're deaf and drunk!" I hauled myself up and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back into a standing position with a strength I didn't know I had. "Walk. Now. Or I swear I will leave you for the stray cats."

I walked him the rest of the way, my shoulder screaming and my heart racing. He was half-asleep, his breathing heavy against my ear, a champion who couldn't even find his own front door.

Midnight struck with a heavy, final thud as I finally wrestled the front door open. Joseph’s face as his knees gave out one last time. I didn't have the strength left for a graceful transition. I simply let out a sharp, ragged exhale and let his arm slide off my neck, watching him slump carelessly onto the hardwood floor of the entryway.

"There," I panted, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of a trembling hand. "You’re home. Happy now, your Majesty?"

Joseph didn't answer. He just let out a soft, rhythmic snore that vibrated against the floorboards, his "Golden Boy" aura completely replaced by the smell of stale beer and bad decisions.

I straightened my back, wincing as my spine cracked in three different places, and tiptoed into the living room.

The TV was still on, muted, casting dancing blue light over the couch. Miss Britney was fast asleep, her head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle and her hands loosely clutching a prayer book.

Seeing her like that, so still, yet so clearly exhausted from the stress of Marcus’s return made the anger in my chest evaporate instantly.

I grabbed the soft, knitted blanket from the armchair and draped it gently over her shoulders, tucking it in around her chin.

"Rest now, Mom," I whispered, my voice thick with a sudden, unexpected emotion. I reached up and quickly dried a small, stray tear before it could hit my cheek. "You’ve been through enough for ten lifetimes." I said to her finally before giving her a light kiss on her forehead.

Then I stood there for a moment, watching her breathe, before I turned back to the "problem" in the hallway. I groaned, my muscles screaming in protest as I grabbed Joseph under the arms and began the slow, agonizing drag toward his bedroom. Every inch felt like a mile. I was making tight, muffled moaning sounds with every tug, my teeth grit so hard my jaw ached.

Finally, I got him onto his mattress. He rolled onto his back, his breathing coming in heavy, jagged bursts, and I noticed the dark patches of sweat clinging to his shirt. He looked miserable.

As I stood over him, Anaya’s voice from earlier that afternoon suddenly rang through my head like a bell. “What do you guys do when you're all alone in that big house? How are you not just a puddle of melted butter?”

My heart rate, which had just started to settle, spiked again. I looked at the buttons of his shirt. A dangerous, midnight idea began to swirl in the back of my mind, a curiosity that had no business being there while he was in this state. I reached out, my fingers hovering over the first button, then I jerked my hand back as if the fabric were made of hot coals.

"Get it together, Trish," I hissed to myself.

But then, I looked at how the collar was digging into his neck, making him toss and turn.

"Well... I can’t exactly leave him to sweat through the night, can I?" I justified, my voice a mere breath in the dark room. "It’s a health concern. It’s humanitarian aid."

With trembling fingers, I began to unbutton the shirt. One. Two. Three. As the fabric fell away, revealing the broad, lean muscle of the guy who had just carried the pride of Mthland on his shoulders, my brain decided to check out entirely. The midnight thoughts weren't just swirling anymore; they were a hurricane.

The realization of what I was doing, and what I was thinking hit me like a cold bucket of water. I stood up so fast I nearly knocked over his nightstand. I bolted out of his room, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, and didn't stop until I had slammed my own bedroom door shut.

I leaned back against the wood, breathing heavily, my face burning in the dark.

"Okay, Trish. Focus," I whispered, pressing my cold palms to my cheeks. "Exams. Focus on the exams. And the New York project. You are going to be a successful author. A professional. A legend."

I walked over to my desk and stared at the stacks of paper, trying to force the image of Joseph’s room out of my mind.

"Maybe then," I muttered, a small, defiant smirk finally breaking through my panic, "when I have that New York contract in my hand, then I can do whatever it is I just planned on doing."