The setting sun was a bruised, sickly purple over the Dukes Lacrosse field as the final whistle blew, the sound echoing off the bleachers like a gunshot. My lungs were burning, a sharp, metallic tang of blood in the back of my throat, and my jersey was soaked through with a mix of sweat and the synthetic grit of the turf. I had played like a man possessed. Every sprint, every brutal body check, every goal I hammered into the net was fueled by the cold, hard knot of Nicholas Kensington’s face in that photograph. I wasn't just playing a game; I was exorcising a ghost that had no business haunting my world.
As I made my way toward the sidelines, my heart still hammering against my ribs, a group of girls—sophomores, by the look of their eager, wide-eyed expressions and the way they clutched t
