Broken Hands

4. Forming Storms

Grayson stepped into the nearly deserted school halls, moving like a ghost in the closing hours. The silence felt like a balm to his mind, steadying him. But under it all, he could feel the weight of his own thoughts creeping in, gnawing at the edges. He liked the silence but hated being alone in it, Savanna had basketball practice, Russell was on the soccer field, and Julian was already gone for ice skating. He wasn't supposed to be here either—he was supposed to be on his way home, changing into something less suffocating than his uniform, bracing himself for yet another dreaded therapy session.

His phone buzzed, and he glanced down: a message from Mrs. Stitches—his less-than-affectionate nickname for his therapist, Mrs. Denis. She'd been "working on him" for a year now, a switch recommended by his last therapist. Alex swore it was helping, though Grayson doubted it. Maybe the nightmares weren't quite as intense, but that didn't mean he was better; maybe he was just getting used to it.

She'd written, "Hello, Grayson. I'll be waiting for you to log in at 6 p.m."

He rolled his eyes, shoving the phone back into his pocket. Today, he didn't want to log in, didn't want to sink into that chair and dive into his mind with her voice as a guide.

He strode down the hall, catching snatches of complaints from a few students lingering around. As he pushed open the door to the soccer field, a gust of wind whipped through his hair, scattering his thoughts. He set his gaze on the soccer field. The team was out there in full force, bodies colliding and voices sharp over the noise. Russell was easy to spot, commanding the field with his usual focus. Grayson watched him for a minute. Russell had always been the golden child—driven, responsible, and almost too perfect. Uncle Damien had drilled that discipline into him, tough love and all. Not that it didn't scare Grayson a little. Damien was always on some assignment, working high up in criminal justice, and the longer he stayed away, the more Grayson relaxed. At least with Alex, things were a little easier. The man was almost always exhausted from his job as a corporate lawyer, and he let things slide, especially with Grayson. Maybe Grayson was taking advantage, but a little slack here and there couldn't hurt.

With a lazy stride, Grayson settled on the bleachers, glancing over at Russell's girlfriend, Emily, and her posse, their chatter filled with giggles and dramatic whispers. Emily was classic cheerleader material—blond hair, green eyes, a grin that could melt butter, and an attitude to match. She and Russell made sense to everyone, a picture-perfect couple. Grayson wasn't judging, though. Just because she was loud, aggressive and overly confident didn't mean she wasn't worth a second look. Judging by her friends' sneaking glances at him, he was hardly invisible.

Emily caught sight of him, her green eyes narrowing with a playful glint. "Hey, Grayson," she greeted, flashing a wide smile. He nodded back, trying not to let his gaze linger on her fresh makeup for too long. Her friends grinned beside her, leaning in as if he were the next big thing.

"Why don't you play soccer?" one of her friends, Ava, asked, only for Emily to elbow her.

"I don't see the point, Ava," he replied, his attention drifting back to the field where Russell had just snagged possession of the ball.

Ava's eyes went wide, and she whispered, "He knows my name?" in a mix of disbelief and excitement. Emily's smile wavered at that.

"So, what do you do for fun?" Emily asked, her gaze sharp with some hidden edge.

"Live," he replied, his voice unintentionally coming out in a low, steady tone.

Emily squinted at him, her friends too busy gawking to catch his answer. But before she could respond, a sharp "PAUSE!" from the coach snapped their attention back to the field.