Rehearse Lines

Nick

Hockey was my everything for as long as I could remember.

I wasn’t some prodigy when I started. Actually, I sucked. Could barely stay on my feet.

I was that kid who fell during the warm-up laps and took a puck to the face during my first game.

But I kept going. Skated until my ankles bled. Got up after every fall. Worked harder than anyone else I knew because I had something to prove—to myself, to my dad, to anyone who looked at me like I was just another hotshot with rich parents.

Now? I was at the top of my game.

Captain of Crestwood’s varsity team. Leading scorer in the division. My name was already being passed around in D1 scouting circles.

One recruiter even drove three hours just to watch me glide across the ice for fifteen minutes.

If I kept playing like this, I wouldn’t need my parents’ trust fund. Wouldn’t need their names.

I’d get out on my own merit,with a full ride, my future paid for in bruises and blocked shots.

And that? That mattered more than anything.

---

Practice that morning was brutal, which meant it was perfect.

The rink was half-frozen from the broken heater, and my fingers were stiff by the second drill.

Coach had us doing suicides until even Caleb looked like he was going to hurl, but I lived for this kind of pain.

This was the only place I felt like myself. No expectations. No noise. Just me, the stick in my hands, the cold rush of the wind in my face as I tore across the ice.

I didn’t have to smile here.

Didn’t have to flirt or joke or carry the weight of being Nick Marsh—the golden boy, the guy everyone watched.

On the ice, I was just fast. Focused. Free.

---

After practice, the locker room filled with steam and sweat and the sound of guys razzing each other over missed goals and dumb passes.

I sat on the bench, unwrapping my tape, my muscles still buzzing from adrenaline.

That’s when Dylan plopped down across from me, phone already out, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

“Dude. Did you see what Chloe did?”

I glanced up, not really interested. “What now?”

“She hacked the drama club cast list,” he said, shoving his phone in my face. “Swear to God. Posted it on the board this morning.”

I looked at the screen. A photo of the school bulletin board. White paper with a pink highlighter circle.

Cyrano — Harriet Avery

It took a second to register.

“Wait, Harriet? Harriet Avery?”

“You know, the shy one,” Caleb chimed in from the next bench. “The big girl who sits by herself. Kinda ghost vibes.”

“Dude, she didn’t even audition,” Dylan laughed. “Chloe snuck in last night, printed that cast list, and posted it before first bell.”

“Savage,” Caleb said, half-laughing. “So what, the freak’s gonna play Cyrano now? What kind of budget drama is this?”

I didn’t say anything right away.

Instead, I stared at the picture, at Harriet’s name, circled like a bullseye.

She wasn’t totally unfamiliar. I had her in AP Lit last year. She sat in the back, barely talked. But there was this one time she read a poem she wrote for an assignment.

Voice shaking, hands white-knuckled around her paper—but the words were good. Real good. Like she’d written them with blood instead of ink.

And now she was being laughed at. Again.

Because she didn’t fit the mold. Because she didn’t beg to be seen, and that made her an easy target.

I should’ve said something. Told them to shut the hell up.

Instead, I kept taping my stick.

That’s when Dylan grinned like he was about to say something dangerous. “Okay, wait. What if we made this interesting?”

Caleb perked up. “Oh no. That look’s never good.”

Dylan ignored him. “We dare someone,someone she wouldn’t expect to help her. Fake help.

You know, rehearse lines with her, give her tips, act like they care.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s sick, man.”

“Oh come on,” Dylan said. “It’s not like it’d hurt her. She’d get a little attention, feel seen, and then… boom. Rehearsals are over, play ends, we move on. Classic social experiment.”

“Aka a dick move,” I muttered.

But Caleb was already nodding. “You know who should do it though?”

I looked up.

All eyes were on me.

“Nick,” Dylan said, grinning wide. “She’d never see it coming. You’re the guy every girl wants. She’d probably pass out if you smiled at her.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you never back down from a dare,” Caleb said, smirking.

“Unless,” Dylan added, leaning in, “you’re scared. Maybe you’re losing your touch. Afraid she won’t fall for you like the rest do?”

That one landed.

It was never about Harriet. Not really.

It was about the room. About them. About what it meant to say no.

I hated that it worked on me. But it did.

So I shrugged, gave them the lazy grin they were waiting for, and said,

“Sure. I’ll do it.”

Laughter exploded around the locker room. Caleb clapped me on the shoulder. Dylan whistled.

They were already talking strategy, plotting how soon I could "bump into her," how long it would take to make her smile.

But I sat there, staring down at my stick, my grin already fading.

I told myself it was nothing.

But something inside me had already gone quiet.

---

By lunch, the whole school knew.

People had seen the cast list. Screenshots were flying through group chats. Someone added glittery devil horns and posted it to the school’s gossip page.

I grabbed a tray out of habit but didn’t touch anything on it.

Dylan and Caleb were still laughing across from me, reenacting fake lines like, “Oh Harriet, your poetry moves me,” with exaggerated swoons.

Then the double doors to the cafeteria slammed open.

And Zoe Tran came storming in like a Category Five hurricane.

Every head turned.

Her eyes scanned the room like a laser beam until she zeroed in on our table.

She walked straight up to us—no hesitation, no warning.

Dylan blinked. “Oh hey, Zoe—”

She cut him off. “Shut up.”

Her voice cracked like a whip. Dylan actually flinched.

Then she turned on Dylan first. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

Dylan blinked. “It was just a joke—”

“No, it’s bullying,” she snapped, sharp and venomous. “Which makes you a loser.”

Then she turned her glare on me.

And damn if it didn’t make me sit up straighter.

“And you—Nick Marsh. Golden boy. Everyone’s favorite. You think it’s cute playing along with this crap?”

“Zoe—” I started.

“Don’t ‘Zoe’ me,” she snapped. “Put a leash on your dog.”

The entire table stiffened

The whole damn cafeteria seemed to go quiet..

Caleb muttered, “Jesus…”

I stared back at her, jaw tight. “Zoe, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she cut in, voice cracking slightly. “You think it’s funny watching someone break just because she’s not a size two? Because she doesn’t flirt back?”

“She wasn’t even supposed to be cast,” Dylan said weakly. “It’s not like she’s hurt or anything—”

“She cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes, you asshole.”

Her voice rang across the cafeteria like a slap.

I swallowed hard.

Zoe looked like she was shaking from the effort of staying upright. Red cheeks, clenched fists, teeth gritted.

Someone stepped up beside her — Aiden, her boyfriend and fellow cheer captain. “Zoe, babe, let’s just go—”

She yanked her arm away.

“No. I’m going to find Harriet. I don’t give a damn about pizza or practice or reputations.”

She turned back to me one last time.

“And if you even think about going near her, Nick, you better be sure it’s not just for show. Because I swear to God, I’ll burn this place to the ground.”

Then she was gone — stomping out of the cafeteria in her beat-up Converse and wild hair like she owned the place.

Nobody said anything for a long time.

Not even Dylan.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said.

You better be sure it’s not just for show.

But it was.

Wasn’t it?