Chapter 7: The Pressure and the Panic
Rae's POV
I’ve never been inside the boys’ locker room before. Spoiler alert: it smells like a combination of sweat, body spray, and crushed dreams.
I mean, that’s probably just me projecting.
I was standing awkwardly in front of the metal lockers, clutching a duffel bag I found at the foot of Lucas’s bed—my bed, for now. My fingers curled around the strap as if it were a lifeline. Maybe it was. Because today, I was supposed to go to hockey practice.
As in, skate. Hit things. Lead a team. Be the Lucas Park that everyone apparently worships.
Someone whistled low behind me.
“Yo, Cap’s looking pale today.”
I turned. A guy with curly hair and a jawline that could slice paper grinned at me. He slapped my shoulder—hard.
“You good, man?” he asked. “You look like you just saw midterms printed on your forehead.”
“Ha,” I said weakly. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
He nodded sympathetically. “Same. Coach is gonna kill us today.”
Great.
We shuffled into the rink, which was approximately one hundred degrees colder than my soul. The skates were already in my locker. I sat on the bench, trying to lace them up, but my fingers felt thick and useless. It took me three tries to get it right.
“Lucas, you good?”
Coach’s voice boomed from behind me. I jumped.
“Yes,” I said, trying to stand. I almost fell flat on my face.
Coach eyed me. “Don’t forget, scrimmage today. You’re leading the blue team.”
“Right,” I said, heart thudding so hard I was sure it echoed in the ice.
Practice started. I managed to wobble my way onto the rink without dying. The team split up. I watched from the center, pretending I knew what any of these plays were called.
Then the puck dropped.
Chaos.
The scrimmage began at full speed, and I was two seconds behind everyone. Someone passed me the puck, and I flinched. It bounced off my stick and skidded into the boards.
“Park, what are you doing?” someone yelled.
I chased after it, skates slipping, legs wobbling like baby deer limbs. My stick connected—barely—and I moved forward. My lungs were burning.
A guy from the other team—number 11—swerved in front of me. Our shoulders collided. I spun out, arms flailing, and landed flat on my back.
Stars. I saw actual stars.
People shouted. Skates sliced past me. Someone leaned over and offered a hand.
“Lucas,” they said sharply. “What’s going on with you today?”
I blinked up at him. I didn’t even know his name.
“Just… off,” I muttered, taking his hand.
When practice ended, I limped off the ice and collapsed onto the bench. My hair was soaked. My arms ached. My ego was dead.
Coach came over, arms crossed. “That was the sloppiest practice I’ve seen from you in two years.”
“Sorry, Coach,” I said quietly.
“You need to pull it together, Park. If there’s something going on—”
“I’m fine,” I said too fast.
He looked at me for a long second before nodding and walking away.
I buried my face in the towel, wishing I could disappear into it.
Back in Lucas’s room, I peeled off the sweat-stained jersey and dropped onto the bed like a corpse. I had no energy left to even pretend to be him. My muscles throbbed. My pride was a puddle on the floor.
But my phone buzzed. Again.
And again.
Three new messages. From people I didn’t know.
Kaylee: “Hey, you okay? You looked out of it today.”
Nate: “Yo, if you’re skipping physics again, at least send me the notes.”
Unknown Number: “Lucas, I saw you in the art wing earlier…?”
I blinked at that last one.
Wait. Art wing?
I scrolled up. There were more messages from yesterday. Some about the party. One from someone named Stella with a heart emoji. Ew.
And then there was one from this morning.
Jamie: “Can we talk?”
I stared at it.
Was this the same Jamie I saw walking with Lucas last week? The one who always wore high ponytails and never smiled at anyone below her status?
Now she wanted to talk?
Was it because I didn’t acknowledge her? Because I didn’t flirt back?
Was that… was that something Lucas usually did?
I tossed the phone onto the bed and groaned.
This life—his life—was exhausting.
I got up and opened the mini fridge. Protein bars, Gatorade, and an energy drink I couldn’t pronounce.
No chocolate. No sketchbook. No peace.
I missed my room. My real one. The one with posters, chipped nail polish bottles, and crumpled pages of art assignments I never submitted. I missed my weird lamp and the cracked corner of my mirror.
I missed… being invisible.
Because being seen was a lot scarier than I thought.
The next morning, I took extra time getting ready, trying to look like someone who hadn’t just humiliated herself on the ice. I pulled Lucas’s hoodie over my head and prayed no one talked to me at school.
No such luck.
As soon as I walked in, Kaylee waved me over at my locker. Her perfectly lined eyes narrowed when she got closer.
“You really don’t look good,” she said bluntly.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
She tilted her head. “Are you sick or something?”
“Just tired,” I said. “Bad night.”
She leaned closer. “You know, people are talking.”
My stomach twisted. “About what?”
“About you.” She looked around before whispering, “They said you were… in the art wing yesterday? Staring at the sculpture hallway?”
I froze.
How did they know that?
“I mean,” she continued, “that’s just not you. You don’t even know where the art wing is.”
I gave her a tight smile. “Maybe I just felt like exploring.”
Her eyes flickered with suspicion. “Well… I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you better snap out of it before Saturday. The scouts are coming.”
My stomach dropped. “Scouts?”
“For hockey,” she said slowly, like I was a child. “You knew that, right?”
I nodded, even though I absolutely did not.
She stared at me for another beat. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I managed a nod, but my voice cracked. “Yeah. Totally.”
Lunchtime was somehow worse.
I walked into the cafeteria and stopped cold.
There was a poster hanging near the entrance. A huge one. Bright colors. Bold letters.
ART SHOWCASE: NEXT FRIDAY
Underneath, in small font: “Submissions due by Monday.”
A group of girls passed me, giggling about who would win this year. I stared at the poster, heart hammering.
That was my dream.
Not Lucas’s.
Mine.
And right now, I had zero drawings, zero ideas, and zero motivation.
I needed to go to the art wing.
I started walking.
It was like muscle memory took over. Down the east hallway. Past the auditorium. Left at the big window.
When I opened the art room door, my heart leapt.
There was a smell—paint, paper, glue—and it was like breathing again after drowning.
But the room wasn’t empty.
Someone was sitting at the back table.
Sketching.
I froze.
He looked up.
My heart stuttered.
Lucas.
Not in my body. Not in his usual clothes. But unmistakably him.
He looked at me the way someone looks at a ghost.
“Rae?” he said.
I blinked.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
He stood slowly, dropping his pencil. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Is it really you?”