Boston High

Watched

As James got ready for class, pulling on his jeans and sneakers, his mind kept drifting back to what he'd read the night before. Multiple accomplices. Still inside the school. He'd stared at the ceiling for a long time after that, turning it over, before sleep finally took him.

He pushed it down now. Locked it away. There was nothing he could do with it at seven in the morning.

A basketball scholarship was the plan — his performance on the court had already caught the attention of a few scouts. But more than the prestige or the money, he wanted to stay close to home. Boston College, maybe. Northeastern. Somewhere he could still be there for his mom, who had raised him alone through the divorce, working long nursing shifts to give him everything he had. The least he could do was stick around.

He headed to Tricia's house the way he always did — cutting through the side street, hands in his jacket pockets, the morning air sharp against his face. They had walked to school together since before everything changed between them, back when they were just friends who happened to live four blocks apart.

He was waiting in her driveway, scrolling through his phone, when she appeared at the front door. The moment she spotted him, her face broke into that smile — the one that still made his chest tighten no matter how many times he'd seen it. She ran the last few steps and launched herself at him. James caught her easily, stumbling back with a laugh. She was so much shorter than him that her feet barely grazed the ground when he held her. He liked that. He liked the way they fit.

When they finally pulled apart, she slipped her hand into his, fingers intertwining naturally, like they'd been doing it for years. They walked toward the school gates together, the morning sun warm on their backs.

He'd been turning something over in his mind all night — beyond the headline, beyond the conspiracy. Something closer and quieter.

"Tricia. We've never really talked about what happens to us after we leave school."

She glanced up at him, expression thoughtful but not worried. "I don't know, Jimmy. But I know we'll be fine."

There was something in her voice — that quiet confidence she always had — that made him want to believe her, even when he wasn't sure he believed himself.

"We'll pick this conversation up after classes," she added, squeezing his hand.

James nodded. The knot in his stomach didn't go anywhere, but with her hand in his, walking through the school gates in the early light, it felt like maybe she was right.

He passed through the metal detector without incident. The security guard barely glanced up.

________________________________________

Right now, there were two things demanding his focus: class, and the high school championships that had finally resumed.

They had been three games from the semifinals when everything stopped. Back then the season had felt unstoppable — the crowd louder every night, teachers dismissing them early on game days, the whole school moving to the rhythm of basketball. Then the shooting happened, and the building changed overnight. Practices were cancelled. The gym, usually alive with noise, sat locked and dark for weeks. Nobody talked about basketball. It felt wrong to.

Slowly, things had returned. Not the same — never quite the same — but steady enough. Laughter had come back to the cafeteria. The ball was bouncing again. The tension that once hung over the hallways had eased into something quieter: relief, and the fragile beginnings of hope.

For James, stepping back onto the court felt like getting a piece of his life back. Three games to the semifinals. Three chances. Scouts were in the stands, and he intended to give them something worth watching.

He moved through his classes on autopilot, taking notes without absorbing much. In the hallways between periods he found himself watching faces without meaning to — a habit he hadn't had a week ago. Most people just looked tired. Scared still, in that low-level way that had become the new normal at Boston Memorial. Nothing stood out.

Nothing he could name, anyway.

________________________________________

After the final bell, he changed into his practice gear and hit the court. The gym was already alive — sneakers squeaking on polished wood, balls bouncing in uneven rhythm, laughter and trash talk layered over the sharp smell of rubber and sweat. The kind of noise that meant things were normal again.

There was always competition among the teammates — for starting spots, for the coach's attention, for bragging rights after practice. But there was brotherhood underneath it. Whatever happened in the locker room stayed in the locker room. When it mattered, they had each other's backs, and everyone knew it.

James picked up a ball and dribbled twice, the echo carrying through the empty bleachers. He moved to the wing and pulled up for a three.

Clang. Off the rim.

"Too much shoulder," Marcus called, tossing the ball back.

James reset. Feet set. Knees bent. He let the breath out slow.

Swish.

Coach's whistle cut through the gym as the full squad assembled. Drills started fast and stayed that way. James sprinted the floor, caught a cross-lane pass in stride, crossed left, then right. The defender bit on the hesitation. James rose. For a moment the gym went quiet in his head — just the hum of the lights, the spin of the ball, the clean open air above the rim.

It dropped straight through. No rim. Pure.

His teammates slapped his back as they ran past. Someone called out, "Scouts gonna like that one."

James didn't answer. But a small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

For the first time in a long while, the future didn't feel far away. It felt close enough to touch.

________________________________________

Practice ended with Coach blowing three sharp whistles. Players peeled off toward the locker room in groups, loud and loose the way they always were after a good session. James hung back to gather the stray balls, stacking them on the rack one by one, taking his time.

By the time he pushed through the locker room door, it was empty.

He didn't think anything of it. Sometimes he was last. He moved to his locker, worked the combination, and reached for his jacket.

The shove came from behind — sudden and hard, his face slamming into the cold metal door before he even understood what was happening. Pain cracked across his cheekbone. His hands shot out instinctively, catching himself as fingers grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him around.

He couldn't see a face. Whoever it was stood behind him, breath close to his ear, voice low and deliberate.

"Stay out of it, Jimmy Olsen."

James went completely still.

Nobody called him that. It was his dad's name for him — a private thing, never used at school, never used anywhere outside family. The fact that this person knew it landed like a second blow entirely separate from the physical one.

"I don't know what you think I've done," James said, his voice steadier than he felt.

The grip on his collar tightened. "You've been asking around. You've been paying attention. That stops now."

"I haven't asked anyone anything."

"Then keep it that way." The voice dropped lower. "You're a good basketball player, James. It would be a shame if something happened to those hands."

The grip released. Footsteps moved quickly toward the far exit — the one that led out to the side of the building, away from the cameras. The door swung open and shut.

James stood alone between the lockers, heart hammering, cheek throbbing. He turned slowly. The room was empty. No face. No name. Nothing he could take to anyone.H

He sat down on the bench and pressed his fingers to his cheekbone, checking the damage. It would bruise. He'd have to say he took an elbow in practice.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the floor.

He hadn't been investigating anything. He'd read a headline and gone to sleep. And somehow, someone inside this school — someone who knew a name only his father used — had already decided he was a threat worth warning.

Which meant one of two things. Either they were watching him far more closely than he'd realised.

Or someone close to him was talking.

James picked up his bag, stood, and walked out into the evening air. The cold hit his bruised cheek and he winced against it.

He pulled out his phone. Tricia's name sat at the top of his messages, her last text still there from this morning — a simple heart, sent when they'd parted ways at the school gate.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he pocketed the phone without responding and started walking home alone.