The morning sun struggled to break through the thick curtains, casting a dull grey light across my room. The alarm buzzed incessantly, pulling me from a restless sleep. I dragged myself out of bed, the cold tiles jolting me awake as I shuffled to the bathroom. The mirror reflected my tired eyes, a testament to another sleepless night. I went through the motions—brushing my teeth, throwing on a T-shirt and jeans, and heading downstairs where the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. My mom had already left for work, leaving a neatly packed breakfast and lunch on the counter for Liam and me.
I shook Liam awake, his groggy protests echoing down the hallway as he reluctantly got dressed. The drive to school was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. The car—a shiny, red sedan, a reward from our grandparents for maintaining good grades—glided smoothly along the road, but the tension inside it was palpable. At school, we parted ways, and I trudged through my morning classes, each one dragging on endlessly.
By the time rugby practice rolled around, the locker room buzzed with energy. The smell of sweat and deodorant hung heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of wet grass wafting in from the field outside. Lockers clanged open and shut as the team got ready, the usual banter filling the space. The locker room was our sanctuary, a place where the outside world faded away, replaced by the camaraderie of the team.. Once practice started, school drama usually stayed at the door. Usually.
Even here, people had their sides. Some followed Charles because it was easier. Others kept their heads down and stayed out of his way.
Charles Easton carried himself like the school belonged to him—tall, attractive, and wearing his senior status like it was a crown. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew he owned the world, his every step exuding an air of superiority. I was lacing up my cleats when he swaggered over, his smirk as infuriating as ever.
"Yo, Lucas," he called out, his voice dripping with mockery. "You better play hard today, Your mom seems like she appreciates athletes."
A few boys nearby snorted. Not everyone laughed.
I looked up at him slowly. "That's the best you've got?"
His smile shifted, just a little. "Touchy."
I stood, not close enough to shove him, but close enough to make it clear I was not backing down. "Keep my mom out of it."
He tilted his head, amused. "Or what? You're gonna run home and tell mommy?"
This time his boys laughed louder. A few others went quiet. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, but I kept my face still.
"All that noise, and not one intelligent thought in it," I said.
The laughter died.
Charles's expression hardened. "What did you say?"
I held his stare. "You heard me."
His jaw tightened, and for a second the whole locker room seemed to pause around us.
Before things could spiral any further, Coach stormed into the locker room and shut the noise down with sheer force of presence. One look from him was enough to kill every mutter, every sneer, every half-whispered insult. His voice cracked through the room like a whip as he split us into two sides and sent us out onto the pitch for the practice match
The second I realized I was on the opposite side from Charles, my whole body tensed.
Great.
Just what I needed.
Outside, the field was slick with morning dew, the kind that sat on top of the grass and made every boot slip half an inch before biting into the ground. The air smelled of wet earth, mud, and cut turf. Everyone was keyed up, shoulders tense, jaws tight, bodies already braced for impact.
The coach called for a scrum.
The forwards from each side stepped in and packed down opposite one another, shoulders wedged together, boots digging for traction. I took my place at the side, crouched low as scrum-half, eyes fixed on the tunnel, every muscle switched on.
"Crouch. Bind. Set."
The packs smashed together hard.
There's nothing clean about a school scrum. It's all boots slipping, bodies straining, lads grunting and shoving for ground that barely matters in training. I rolled the ball in and tracked it along the side, staying low. It came to the back, our number 8 got control of it with his feet, and the second it was free, I grabbed it and moved it on fast.
But before I could even straighten up, something smashed into me from the side.
Not a tackle on the ball. Not legal pressure. Just raw force.
Charles nailed me
Charles came flying in from the side and absolutely flattened me, way after the ball had already left my hands. His shoulder drove hard into my ribs and sent me skidding across the wet grass. The breath burst out of me on impact, my back slamming into the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth. One second I was up, the next I was staring at wet grass, lungs burning, ribs screaming.
The whistle blew straight away.
Dirty hit.
I sucked in a ragged breath and pushed myself up on one elbow, fury rising faster than pain. "What the hell, Charles?" I shouted. "I didn't even have the ball!"
Charles just looked down at me with that stupid smug grin of his, like he'd been waiting for the chance.
"Aww," he said, all mocking, "little Lucas can't take a hit?"
That did it.
I saw red.
Something inside me snapped so fast it didn't even feel like a decision.
One second I was on the ground.
The next I was driving into him.
I hit him high and hard, both hands fisting in his jersey as we crashed together. Then the punches came—wild, angry, ugly. My knuckles cracked against my cheekbone and jaw. I felt one clean shot land, then another smashing into bone . Charles swung back, but by then I was too far gone to register anything except the red, blinding surge in my head.
Voices exploded around us.
"Lucas! Stop!"
"Leave him!"
"Coach!"
Hands grabbed at my shoulders, my arms, the back of my shirt. It took several teammates to wrench me off him, my boots gouging through the wet turf as I fought against their grip. I was breathing like I'd just played eighty minutes, chest burning, fists throbbing, my whole body shaking with leftover adrenaline.
Charles had blood at the corner of his mouth and nose .
And just like that, the rage drained out of me.
What was left behind was cold and heavy.
I knew before Coach even said a word that I'd crossed a line.
By the time I was sitting in the principal's office, mud was still drying on my socks and my knuckles swollen and raw, the full weight of it had settled in. The detention slip in my hand felt like a death sentence, the ban from the rugby team only adding to the weight of the day.
The detention room was a stark contrast to the chaos of the field. The moment I stepped in, I was struck by the room's odd sense of grandeur. It was like stepping into a different era—a study room from a century ago, with brick-patterned wallpaper and dark oak bookshelves lining the walls. The floor was polished wood, the kind that creaked underfoot, and the air was thick with the smell of old paper and leather-bound books. Portraits of historical figures—Oppenheimer, Einstein, Newton, Darwin—stared down at me from their gilded frames, their expressions solemn and severe.
I let out a long sigh, my body sinking into one of the heavy wooden chairs. I fumbled with my phone before tossing it onto the table in frustration. My eyes wandered to the nearest bookshelf, and I grabbed a book at random. The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton—an unexpected choice, but somehow it felt right.
"Aren't you an interesting fellow? You don't look like the reading type," a voice broke the silence, light and teasing.
I looked up, surprised to see a girl sitting a few seats away, half-hidden behind a thick copy of Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. Her hood was pulled low over her head, but I could see the sharpness in her light brown eyes as she watched me.
"Never judge a book by its cover," I replied, a bit defensively, though I couldn't help but be intrigued.
She set her book down, revealing a wry smile. "What are you in for?"
"You make this sound like a prison," I said, arching an eyebrow at her.
She shrugged, her smile widening. "Isn't it? The institution, the rules, the authority figures breathing down our necks?"
"Touché," I admitted, unable to suppress a small grin. "I beat up Charles Easton."
Her eyes lit up with amusement. "Well, look at you. A nerd with a strong right hook. Where's Charles now?"
"He's probably nursing a broken nose in the nurse's office," I said, trying to sound nonchalant, but there was a hint of pride in my voice.
"Serves him right," she said with a chuckle, her laugh light and almost musical. "I'm Ava, by the way ,Ava Harlow."
"Harlow?" I repeated, recognizing the name. "Any relation to—"
"Don't even ask," she cut me off, her tone playful but with a hint of exasperation.
"I'm Lucas Howard," I introduced myself, feeling an unexpected sense of ease with her.
"I know. We're in the same art class," she replied, picking up her book again but keeping her gaze on me.
"Right," I said, mentally kicking myself for not noticing her before. How small was my world, I wondered, as I settled back into my chair and opened my book.
For a while, we read in comfortable silence, the ticking of the old clock on the wall the only sound in the room. After a while, Ava broke the silence again.
"Is it your first time reading it?" she asked, nodding towards my book.
"No, it's my fifth," I replied, getting lost in the familiar text.
"What's your favourite quote?" she asked, her voice soft, almost as if she was afraid to break the calm that had settled over us.
"Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold," I quoted, feeling the weight of the words sink in.
She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that made something inside me relax. "That's surprisingly poetic."
I chuckled, surprised at how light I felt, despite everything that had happened. Time seemed to pass quickly as we talked, the tension from earlier in the day slowly fading away. Ava was easy to talk to, and for the first time in a while, I didn't feel like the world was weighing down on my shoulders.
After the conversation with Ava, the afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the detention room. The once bright, regal room now felt slightly ominous, the portraits on the walls seeming to watch with quiet judgement. The old clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the slow passage of time, each second pulling me deeper into my thoughts.
Ava had returned to her book, her focus intense, but I could feel her presence like a steadying force in the room. There was something calming about her, something that made me feel like I could finally breathe after the storm that had been the day. I found myself glancing at her every so often, wondering what her story was, what had brought her to this room at the same time as me. But for now, I let the silence between us be, content in the companionship.
I turned a page in my book, though my mind wasn't really on the words. Instead, it drifted back to the events of the day—the fight, the anger, the way my fists had connected with Charles's face. My knuckles still throbbed slightly, a dull ache that reminded me of the moment I lost control. But more than that, I couldn't shake the image of his bloodied nose, the shock in his eyes as I struck him.
A part of me felt justified—Charles had pushed me too far—but another part, a quieter, nagging part, wondered if I had gone too far. What would my mom think if she knew? What would Liam say? I hadn't been able to tell them anything yet. The thought of facing them, of explaining what had happened, made my stomach twist with guilt.
A soft sigh escaped me, drawing Ava's attention. She glanced up from her book, her brown eyes searching mine for a moment. I quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in my own reading, but I could still feel her gaze on me, sharp and perceptive.
"Lucas," she said softly, her voice cutting through the thick silence. "Do you regret it?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I didn't answer right away, instead letting the question settle in my mind, turning it over like a stone in my hand.
"Part of me does," I finally admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "But part of me doesn't."
Ava nodded, as if she understood exactly what I meant. "Sometimes, we do things in the heat of the moment that we can't take back. But that doesn't mean it defines who we are."
I looked at her then, really looked at her, and saw something in her eyes—a depth, a knowing—that made me wonder just how much she had seen, how much she had experienced. There was a story there, I was sure of it, but I didn't push. Not now.
"Thanks," I said quietly, appreciating her words more than I could express.
Ava gave me a small smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes, and went back to her book. The moment passed, but the words lingered, giving me something to think about, something to hold on to.
As the detention hour neared its end, the door creaked open, and the principal walked in, his presence filling the room. He was a tall man, with a stern face and greying hair, dressed in a sharp suit that made him look more like a businessman than a school administrator. He looked between Ava and me, his expression unreadable.
"Lucas Howard," he said, his voice steady but with a hint of authority that commanded respect. "Your time's up. You're free to go, but I suggest you think long and hard about your actions today. This isn't over. We'll be having another conversation tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," I replied, my voice respectful, though inside I felt a pang of anxiety. Tomorrow will be another battle.
The principal turned to Ava but didn't say anything. Instead, he simply nodded, and she gave a slight nod in return. It was a silent exchange, one that hinted at something more between them, but I didn't dwell on it. I gathered my things and stood up, feeling the weight of the day settling on my shoulders again.
As I walked towards the door, Ava called out to me, stopping me in my tracks.
"Lucas," she said, her voice firm but kind. "Don't let today define you. Tomorrow's a new day."
I turned back to her, offering a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Ava."
With that, I left the detention room, stepping out into the cool evening air. The sky was painted with shades of orange and pink, the last light of day fading into night. I breathed in deeply, letting the crisp air fill my lungs, and started walking towards the parking lot where my car waited.
As I walked, I couldn't help but think about what tomorrow would bring. The fight with Charles had set off a chain reaction, one that I knew I couldn't stop now. But Ava's words stuck with me, a small beacon of hope in the chaos. Maybe tomorrow could be different. Maybe I could be different.
I reached the car and paused, looking back at the school building, now bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. The day wasn't over yet, but I knew one thing for sure—whatever happened next, I wouldn't face it alone. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had someone in my corner, even if that someone was a mysterious girl in a black hoodie who read Mrs. Dalloway in detention.
As I got into the car and drove away, the weight on my shoulders felt a little lighter, the path ahead a little less daunting. What was felt is to pick up Lucas from the Library downtown but tomorrow was another day, and maybe, just maybe, things would start to look up