Bloodsport- l.s •Unbelievers Harry's POV•

Chapter 6

The next time he saw Louis, he was leaning against his locker at school. He was wearing a black t-shirt with sleeves that were folded up to the tips of his shoulders. It was almost December, but his arms were still naturally tanned and smooth. He didn't even flex, yet his biceps looked sculpted. His hair was soft, as if newly washed, and it hung down into his eyes. Harry hated how outrageously good-looking he was, especially when he wasn't planning on talking to him again. This thing was over.

Louis only noticed that Harry was across the room when Zayn walked past and began rolling a tobacco cigarette on top of his maths book. Louis glanced over at Harry, and it almost seemed like he was about to walk up, but swiftly changed his mind. He raised a brow towards him, but Harry jerked his jaw away. He didn't want to hear him out.

He continued ignoring Louis for the following days. At football, he simply did as instructed, and he planned not to speak a word in Louis' direction during his own practice hours. Louis frequently looked like he wanted to say something, but Harry kept his promise to himself and didn't let him get close enough to talk.

In addition to ignoring Louis Tomlinson, he gave his parents the cold shoulder. He didn't want to speak to them, either. However, they were both suddenly and inexplicably spending all of their free time at the house. One day he found them eating biscuits and drinking tea in the sitting room after football practice. He tuned out their attempts at conversation and instead headed up to his room. The following day went on similarly, but Harry drove to Zayn's house to avoid them instead.

On Wednesday, he was on his way to practice when the inevitable happened. He was strolling between the main building and locker rooms, but when he turned the corner, he stopped dead. Then he spun around and strode the other way. He stalked off, but he heard her call after him.

"Harry — Harry, please stop!"

"No." He shook his head firmly.

"Come on!" He heard her voice as she hurried after him. He felt a deep, nauseating discomfort in the middle of his chest begin to build, and a claustrophobic fog threaten his personal space as he heard her close in behind him. Her hand touched his arm — not harshly, but it was enough for him to stagger.

"Stop! Fuck," he breathed, taking two steps back. She stopped, and he found himself staring at her furiously. She was wearing the same puffed jacket she always did during winter. Her hair was straight that day, and her eyes looked sharp-edged. Harry had once thought she looked nice, but now all he saw were teeth and lips like blood.

"Harry, I want to talk. That's it."

"But I don't want to hear it! Please just stop texting, and waiting around for me! I don't want to be near you."

Her face was twisted up in emotions he couldn't gauge. "I just want to talk."

"Jas!" His stomach was turning in on itself. "We're not friends anymore. We're never going to be friends again. You're the one who made sure of that."

"What you did to me wasn't very nice, either."

"What you're doing now is worse. Leave."

She was silent for a few seconds before she crossed her arms. "Fine."

He turned and began back towards the locker rooms.

"Harry!" she called, and he stopped for the barest second to hear her say in quiet without inflection, "Just don't forget that I know."

He shook his head, stomach on the way up to his throat. "You were my friend," he mustered out, speaking without looking back.

"And you were mine," she said.