The banquet hall shimmered with warm lights and polished silverware, a hundred little reflections bouncing off the trophies lined up like glimmering bait. Lockwood had taken the championship, and the team had shown up sharp to the celebration. Pressed suits, glittering smiles, all bravado and bruises healed just enough to make for good stories. June Rivera sat near the end of the long table, twisting the stem of a glass between his fingers and watching the light catch on his half-empty champagne. The Vipers were in good spirits, and it was infectious. Even June—quiet, closed-off, and usually on the edge of the celebration—was trying to let himself feel something like pride. They’d won. He’d scored the winning goal with ten seconds on the clock. He didn’t choke. He didn’t freeze. He’d done it. And now he was here, with a drink in his hand and a medal around his neck. He hadn’t even invited Elias. That alone felt like a small rebellion. He didn’t know what he’d do about summer. Maybe stay on campus. Get a job, fake an internship, claim he was training. Anything but going back to that apartment with its too-nice furniture and too-tight silences and the too-long gaze Elias always held when he thought June wouldn’t notice. June took a sip of his drink, letting the alcohol fizz across his tongue. Not too fast. He wanted the blur, the edge softened. But not blackout. Not stupid. Not vulnerable. At the far end of the room, he spotted Tariq Jafari, Lockwood’s eternally golden goalie, a walking sunbeam in a baby-blue suit, waving someone over. June didn’t pay much attention. Tariq knew everyone. Always hugging someone, always introducing new faces. It was part of his charm, part of why June could stand him even when he was unbearably optimistic. The noise of the banquet blurred around him. Laughter. Clinking glasses. Then he heard that voice. June froze. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t even directed at him. But it slipped into his ears like a thread pulled tight. Familiar in a way that went deeper than memory, like it had been buried under his skin for years. Suddenly, he was thirteen again. Hiding behind a dumpster behind a diner off the highway. Clothes soaked through from the lake he’d crossed to avoid being spotted. Shivering so hard his bones felt like they’d crack. He remembered the smell of wet asphalt, the burn in his lungs from holding back sobs. And then there had been warmth. A jacket, thick and smelling like cinnamon and detergent, placed gently over his shoulders. A bowl of soup set beside him. Words, soft and uncertain, from a boy who looked barely older than him. No questions. No pity. Just kindness. June never asked his name. Never got a second look. He ran again that night, afraid if he stayed too long, he’d be taken back. And over the years, he’d convinced himself it was just a dream. Just something his mind made up to give him hope. But here he was again. The voice was older, deeper. But it was the same. He turned slowly. Tariq was beaming, arm slung casually over the shoulder of a young man in a tailored jacket, cheeks still flushed from the drink or maybe from laughter. He looked like he belonged. Sharp smile, easy presence, that familiar spark in his eyes. That same softness June remembered when everything else had been cold. "—and this is someone I wanted you to meet," Tariq was saying, voice bright and cheerful. June couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t a dream. The boy who had saved him had a face. And now he was standing ten feet away, and June had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do. People were looking at him. Waiting. June’s hands were clammy. He blinked, heart stuttering like a skipping record. Right. Words. He needed to speak. "June," he said, voice a little rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "June Rivera. Uh. Striker." The young man looked at him, and June swore he could feel his entire skeleton rattle. Did he recognize him? Did he see past the sharp suit, the styled hair, the flattened chest and steady posture? Did he see the thirteen-year-old boy who had been stuck in the wrong body back then, shivering behind a dumpster? The one who never got to say thank you. Or worse: Did he not remember?