Willow Creek

Friday, August 28th, Early Morning, WCHS Gymnastics Facility

Morning light spilled through the high windows of Willow Creek Gymnastics Facility, catching tiny clouds of chalk dust and turning them soft gold in the air. Lexie Monroe stood at the edge of the spring floor, hands on her hips and breathing steadily. Her practice bun was falling apart, with dark strands sticking to her temples, and chalk dust covered her forearms. She was barely five feet tall, with the compact build of someone who’d spent years in gymnastics; lean muscle and precise movement in a frame that always seemed smaller at rest than in motion. She was tired. Years of gymnastics had trained her not to show it, but the signs were there if you knew where to look.

Coach Emily Foster stood near the corner of the floor with her arms crossed and her whistle hanging around her neck, watching with the patient expression of someone who had seen every version of Lexie Monroe and was entirely unimpressed by the exhausted one.

"Again."

Lexie let out a slow breath through her nose. "Coach. I stuck it."

"You stuck a version of it."

"Is there more than one version?"

"There's your version, and there's the version I want to see at East Ridge in November." Foster tilted her head. "Run it again."

From the bleachers, Bobby McKenzie made a sound. Not quite a laugh. More like he was trying very hard not to have one.

Bobby sat stretched across the lowest bleacher row like he'd been there for a while and had made his peace with it. His long legs extended, one arm draped over the back of the bench, dark curls going in several directions at once, the way they always did before he'd properly woken up. He'd clearly rolled out of bed early to drive Lexie to practice and hadn't fought too hard against the evidence of it. Beside him sat two coffee cups and a Tupperware container of what she already knew were chocolate chip banana muffins, because Bobby had been making them for her since freshman year and had never once changed the recipe, knowing she'd riot if he did.

Lexie looked toward the bleachers, narrowing her eyes, giving him a pointed look.

He pressed his lips together immediately, eyes wide with innocence.

She pointed at him. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was sitting here very quietly," he said. "Supportively. With muffins." He lifted the Tupperware as evidence.

Coach Foster glanced toward the bleachers with the particular expression she reserved for Bobby, somewhere between amusement and resignation.

"Boyfriend over there going to keep laughing, or—"

Bobby immediately raised both hands. "Whoa! Emotional support human. I provide moral support, along with transportation and baked goods."

Coach Foster raised an eyebrow. "Uh, huh."

"He did drive me here at six-fifteen," Lexie offered, because it was true and she believed in acknowledging facts.

"Six-fifteen," Bobby confirmed, then looked at Foster. "So, I feel like I've done my part."

Foster's mouth moved in something that wasn't quite a smile.

"One more pass, Monroe."

Lexie turned back to the floor and shook out her arms, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. One more. She could do one more. She reset her starting position, focused on the far corner of the mat, and let everything else fade away; the fatigue, the bleachers, the sound of Bobby quietly rearranging the muffin container. Then she ran. For a few seconds, exhaustion disappeared beneath routine and repetition. This was the part she knew how to do. The tumbling pass carried her from one skill to the next, and when her feet touched down, she stayed there. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but controlled. She held it, chest rising with a hard breath. She stuck it and knew immediately it was hers.

Coach Foster tilted her head in a way that meant she was satisfied but wouldn't say so directly. After two years, Lexie had learned to read that as a standing ovation.

"Better."

"I'm going to go ahead and hear that as excellent," Lexie said, slightly breathless.

"You can hear whatever you want. See you Wednesday for first week conditioning." Foster made a note on her clipboard and headed back toward the equipment room, already moving on to the next thing on her list.

Lexie grabbed her water bottle, took a long drink, and walked to the bleachers to sit beside Bobby. She didn’t quite collapse, but it was close. He opened the Tupperware immediately and held it toward her without a word. The smell reached her before she even grabbed a muffin: warm banana, melted chocolate, and a hint of cinnamon underneath. Bobby always added cinnamon but never said anything about it. She took one, bit in, and for a moment, her tiredness faded.

"Okay," she said, once she'd finished half of it. "These are really good."

Bobby looked over at her. "I know."

"I mean, actually good. Like, notable."

"I've been making these for you since freshman year, Lexie."

"And they keep getting better." She pointed the muffin at him. "That's the remarkable part. There's growth happening."

He smiled despite himself, the kind of smile that reached his eyes, and looked back at the floor. "You're just saying that because you want another one."

"I'm saying it because it's true and because I want another one." She took another bite. "Both things."

She reached for her coffee cup. Picked it up. Tilted it. Empty. She stared into it for a moment, feeling quietly betrayed, as if she’d expected more from a coffee cup.

Bobby noticed. "When did you finish that?"

"...On the way here."

"We left your house at six-fifteen."

"I needed the caffeine."

He looked at her. She looked at him. Then she eyed his coffee cup, which was sitting within easy reach.

"Lexie."

"It smells so good."

"Because I made it exactly how—" He stopped. "Don't."

She was already reaching for it.

He pulled it back two inches, which wasn't really far enough to be a serious objection, and she took it anyway and had a sip before he could mount any real defense.

Bobby sat back with the expression of a man accepting his circumstances. "That's mine."

"You made it sweet."

"Because that’s how you like it."

She looked at him over the rim of the cup with a small, unhurried smile. "Then it's basically mine."

"That logic is—" He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth was doing the thing where he was trying not to let a smile through. "I made that for the drive home."

She had another sip and handed it back before he could argue further. "Thank you. Very good coffee."

"You're impossible after practice."

"I'm very tired after practice. Yet, I’m still saying nice things about your muffins." Lexie reached into her gym bag and grabbed a soft, familiar hoodie. She pulled it over her tank top. The sleeves hung past her hands, and the hem dropped below her hips. It was huge on her, which was exactly why she loved it.

Bobby glanced over. Paused. His eyes narrowed. "...Is that my Strokes hoodie?"

Lexie paused, then looked down at the faded print on the chest. The Strokes. She looked back up at Bobby.

He was staring at the sweatshirt with an expression that had shifted from teasing to something more genuinely aggrieved. "I've been looking for that all summer."

"Have you?" She adjusted the sleeves and grabbed her bag. "That's so weird."

"Lexie! It was in your closet, wasn't it?"

“I cannot confirm or deny."

"You stole it."

"You left it."

"At your house."

"Exactly."

Bobby looked at her with the patient expression of someone who had known her long enough to understand that this battle was already over, and he had not won it. "That's my sweatshirt."

"It fits me really well."

"It's a large."

"It's cozy."

"You look like you're wearing a sleeping bag."

"A very comfortable sleeping bag." She pulled the sleeves down deliberately, fabric pooling over her hands, and gave him the sincerest look she had available. "I'll get it back to you."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Lexie."

"Soonish." She stood and picked up her gym bag, sweatshirt sleeves dangling past her fingertips. "Come on, I'm starving. Let’s grab a real breakfast."

Bobby picked up the muffin container and glanced at the ceiling, as if silently complaining about his bad luck. Then he stood up and followed her, because of course he did.

Outside, the morning had warmed up while they were inside. Late August brought that soft California heat, the kind that carried a hint of salt from somewhere nearby. The parking lot was almost empty and quiet, with only birdsong and the distant hum of the town waking up.

Bobby's dark gray 4Runner sat near the entrance where he'd left it, the windshield catching the light. Lexie walked beside him toward the truck, sweatshirt sleeves covering her hands, holding the strap of her gym bag over one shoulder, and a muffin in the other. She was already thinking about eggs and what else might be in the fridge at home. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a deep rumbling of an engine note threading itself into the quiet parking lot. It wasn’t loud or flashy, just present, with a low, clean sound that caught Lexie’s attention, causing her to look up before she even realized it.

She glanced toward the parking lot entrance. A dark Triumph Trident 660 rolled through slowly, easing into a space at the far end of the row with the unhurried ease of someone entirely comfortable in their own momentum. The rider wore a black helmet and a dark motorcycle jacket, sitting with the settled, straight-backed posture of someone who'd been on that bike long enough that it no longer required thinking. The engine cut. He pulled the helmet off in one smooth motion. Dark hair fell forward before he pushed it back with one hand. He had sharp features and serious eyes, the kind that moved with careful attention, scanning the gym entrance, the street, and the town beyond, as if Willow Creek was a map he hadn’t learned to read yet.

Lexie stopped walking. New, she thought. Or at least, not from here.

His gaze moved across the lot until it found her; calm and unhurried.

Lexie didn't look away quite fast enough.

It lasted maybe two seconds, his eyes meeting hers across the distance. His expression didn’t really change; he just took her in before she broke the moment by looking toward Bobby’s truck, which was a perfectly good thing to focus on. Beside her, Bobby had gone quiet. Not in any obvious way. Not something she could point out clearly. Just a small, subtle pause in the easy movement that was always around him. The way he usually bounced when he walked or absentmindedly spun his keys was gone, just for a moment.

She tugged the sweatshirt sleeve over her hand and cleared her throat. "Come on." She kept walking toward the truck. "I wasn't kidding about breakfast. I'm actually dying."

Bobby glanced once toward the far end of the lot; she felt it more than saw it. Then he looked at her. Then he unlocked the 4Runner. "Yeah," he said.

His voice was easy. Normal. It was almost exactly like always. Almost.

Friday, August 28th, Late Morning, Park Residence

Lucas Park’s new bedroom looked less like a bedroom and more like a storage unit that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Boxes were stacked near the closet. A duffel bag sat in the corner, looking like it planned to stay there. His desk was put together, but the chair was still in three pieces against the wall. A framed family photo rested on a box labeled KITCHEN MISC, the kind of thing that happened when you moved quickly and packed even faster.

He dropped the last box near the window and immediately felt the full weight of the morning settle into his shoulders. Then he flopped backward onto the mattress, the only thing in the room that was exactly where it belonged, and looked at everything. Blank walls. Half-open boxes. Suitcases were shoved into corners because nobody ever bothered to unpack them properly on day one. Nothing looked like his room yet. Nothing felt like it either.

Downstairs, cabinet doors opened and closed in a steady rhythm he recognized; his mom moving through a new kitchen, mapping it out, finding the logic of someone else's storage choices and disagreeing with most of them. His dad's voice carried up through the floor, low and patient. His mom corrected something. His dad offered an alternative, then a pause.

"Well, where do YOU want them?"

Lucas chuckled to himself. New kitchen, same debate about where things were supposed to go. It was the sixth time he'd started over in a new house, surrounded by blank walls and unfamiliar rooms, knowing everyone else already had their place in the world around them. They had their friends, their routines, their history. He was the one arriving late to the story. He was used to it. At least, he told himself he was. Whether that was the same thing as being okay with it was another question entirely.

A knock against the open doorframe pulled Lucas from his thoughts. His dad leaned there with his hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease amid the half-unpacked chaos. Out of uniform and wearing a faded gray T-shirt with an old pair of jeans, Colonel Andrew Park somehow still carried himself like he was conducting an inspection rather than checking on his son. His gaze moved over the room, taking in the boxes, the scattered furniture pieces, and the duffel bag in the corner.

"Helping or hiding?" he asked.

Lucas sat up and glanced at the boxes around him. "I'm sitting near boxes."

"I don't think that counts."

"I just moved the last one. I'm in recovery mode."

His dad stepped over the duffel bag and stood near the window, looking out at the street below: the quiet cul-de-sac, the neighbors' driveways, the unfamiliar but ordinary shape of a new neighborhood on a weekday morning. "You'll settle in," he said. Not as reassurance exactly. More as a statement of fact from someone who had watched it happen enough times to know it was true.

"Yeah," Lucas replied with a shrug.

Colonel Park rubbed a hand along his jaw, the way he always did when he was deciding how to phrase something. "So, I found out the high school doesn't have a boys' gymnastics team."

Lucas sat up a little straighter. "Seriously?"

His dad nodded. "Apparently the closest program is almost an hour away."

Lucas let out a slow breath and looked back at the ceiling. "Well. That's great."

The dry sarcasm earned him the faintest hint of a smile.

"I know."

A brief silence settled between them.

Then his dad added, "But I made a call."

Lucas immediately looked over. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Coach Foster. She runs the girls' program."

Lucas closed his eyes.

"Dad."

"Hear me out."

"Whenever you say that, I end up hearing something I don't want to hear."

His dad ignored that. "Their team manager graduated last spring. They still haven't filled the position."

Lucas stared at him.

"You want me to manage the girls' gymnastics team?"

"I think you'd be good at it."

"Dad."

"You're organized. You know the sport. It keeps you involved until spring."

Lucas dropped back onto the mattress with a groan.

"You'd make that sound reasonable."

"Because it is reasonable."

Lucas dragged a hand down his face.

"You don't know anybody here yet," his dad continued.

"And somehow you've decided that's an argument for this."

"It's an argument for getting out of the house."

Lucas couldn't really disagree with that. The problem was that agreeing meant talking to people, and talking to people always sounded easier before actually having to do it.

"There's a football game tonight, too," his dad added.

Lucas let out a laugh that held absolutely no amusement.

"Of course there is."

"Yes. There is."

"So your plan is girls' gymnastics manager and a football game?"

"My plan is for you to meet people."

Lucas threw an arm over his eyes.

His dad waited.

Eventually, Lucas sighed.

"Fine."

"Good."

"The game too?"

"The game too."

Lucas groaned into his arm, and his dad's grin told him that counted as a victory.

A few seconds of silence settled over the room. Downstairs, cabinet doors opened and closed in steady succession as his mom continued the impossible task of finding a home for everything. Somewhere else in the house, Lucas' younger sister, Sora was busy questioning a box's life choices. "Why is my lamp in with the bathroom stuff?"

"Hey, Lucas?"

"What?"

"Put some real clothes on before you come down."

Lucas frowned and lifted an arm, looking down at himself.

An old olive-green Army T-shirt, one of his dad's from years ago, hung loosely over a pair of black athletic shorts. The faded lettering across the chest was cracked from years of washing. His dark hair was damp from sweat after spending most of the afternoon hauling boxes through the late-August heat.

"Dad!"

"For the neighbors’ sake, I'd prefer you look like a human being."

Lucas let out a laugh. "I am a human being."

"Debatable." His dad was laughing, already moving back toward the doorway, and thoroughly satisfied with himself. His footsteps headed down the hall with absolutely no urgency whatsoever.

Lucas dropped his arm back over his face. Team manager. Football game. Nobody he knew. Great! He lay there for another minute, staring at nothing, running through the usual questions: Was it worth the effort? Would anything actually stick this time? Would Willow Creek feel like everywhere else, or could it finally be a place he might stay long enough to matter? He didn't have an answer. He never did at the beginning.

His mind drifted, almost without his permission, back to the gym parking lot that morning. He'd only stopped to check the address for the facility and hadn't expected anyone to be there that early. Yet he couldn't seem to get the gray 4Runner parked near the entrance, or the two people heading toward it, out of his mind.

Especially the girl standing near the passenger side. Her dark hair had been pulled back; she wore an oversized hoodie that clearly wasn't hers, the sleeves hanging past her hands. She'd glanced over when he pulled in, probably because engines tended to make people look, then gone right back to whatever conversation she'd been having.

There was nothing strange about that. Still, the memory lingered.

Lucas stared at the ceiling for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then he sat up and reached for his phone to see what time the football game actually started.