Kisses and Chaos

Offbeat

(Ethan’s POV)

The echo of sneakers fades before the bell does.

Another practice done, another day of chasing perfection that doesn’t exist.

Coach Harper’s whistle cuts through the air, sharp as ever. “Good work today, Reynolds.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I say automatically. It’s what he expects. It’s what everyone expects.

The gym smells like sweat and pine cleaner, a mix that should feel like home by now. The lights hum above me, that low buzz that syncs weirdly with the uneven thump in my chest.

I press a hand over my heart, just for a second. The rhythm’s off again — not bad, not dangerous. Just… not right. Like a song that skips half a beat and pretends it didn’t.

“You good?” Coach’s voice pulls me back.

“Yeah,” I lie, straightening. “Just catching my breath.”

He nods, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Keep an eye on that pace of yours. Don’t push it too hard. You’ve got heart, kid, but that’s only half the battle.”

“Got it.”

He gives me that look — not pity, just caution — before heading for the locker room.

When the door swings shut, the silence feels heavier than the drills. I sink onto the bleachers, staring at the ceiling until the lines blur.

Arrhythmia. Sounds poetic when doctors say it. Feels like betrayal when you’re on the court. One second you’re flying; the next, your own heartbeat can’t keep time.

It’s not fatal, not anymore. But it’s a reminder — that no matter how clean your stats look, something inside you refuses to follow the playbook.

I exhale and grab my phone, thumb hovering over the notes app. Sometimes I write things down when I can’t talk about them.

But today the words don’t come.

So I just sit there, waiting for my pulse to calm down, pretending that it doesn’t feel like failure.

---

By the time I make it outside, the sun’s already melting into the parking lot. Heat rises off the asphalt like smoke.

Adela’s waiting by her car, leaning against it like she’s posing for a magazine she doesn’t even know she’s on the cover of. Sunglasses, gloss, confidence — everything that says I’m fine even when she isn’t.

When she spots me, she waves, all smiles. The kind that looks effortless, but I’ve been with her long enough to know how much effort that takes.

“Hey, superstar,” she calls. “Coach still running you into the ground?”

“Pretty much,” I say, grabbing my water bottle. “Man’s allergic to rest.”

She laughs — soft, practiced. “You love it.”

“Maybe.”

There’s a pause, one of those half-comfortable, half-loaded silences. She’s studying me like she’s trying to read my face, but she won’t ask what’s actually on my mind.

That’s the thing about Adela — she knows how to be seen, not how to be known.

“Your dad asked me to remind you about that dinner tonight,” she says, scrolling her phone.

“Yeah. Seven o’clock. Can’t wait to sit through another performance.”

She lowers her phone. “Ethan.”

“I’m kidding,” I say quickly, but she doesn’t buy it.

Her voice softens. “You know he’s proud of you, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “In the way you’re proud of a trophy. Polished, silent, always on display.”

She sighs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You make it sound like you hate being good at things.”

“I don’t hate it,” I say. “I just hate that it’s the only thing anyone sees.”

She opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to comfort — but then her phone buzzes again. She glances down, frowns, and whatever moment we might’ve had dissolves.

Probably some group chat, probably some gossip. Cleverly High doesn’t know how to stay quiet.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She locks the screen fast. “Just more drama.”

I nod, pretending I don’t notice her shoulders tense. Pretending I don’t see my own reflection flicker across her sunglasses — half-there, half-not.

We stand there in the heat for a while, side by side, pretending to be the couple everyone thinks we are.

But something’s changed. I feel it.

It’s not anger, not guilt — just distance. Like a song that used to mean something but now plays too loud.

I clear my throat. “You ever feel like you’re doing everything right, but it still feels wrong?”

She looks at me like she’s not sure if it’s a trick question. “All the time,” she says finally.

Her honesty surprises me. For a second, I see the girl underneath the gloss — the one who gets nervous, who hides it behind filters and perfect smiles.

And I wonder if maybe we’ve both been acting for so long, we forgot who started the show.

Before I can say anything, her phone buzzes again. She checks it, winces, then looks up at me with that same soft guilt. “I gotta go, babe. Rain check later?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She kisses my cheek, the kind that feels rehearsed, then slides into her car. The engine purrs, the music starts, and she’s gone before I can wave.

The silence she leaves behind feels louder than the gym ever did.

---

I stand there a moment longer, the sunlight dipping low, the world humming out of sync. My pulse stutters again — a soft reminder.

Even my body knows the beat’s off.

---By the time I pull into the driveway, the sky’s gone lavender — that weird color between calm and exhaustion.

Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, too big to feel warm, too quiet to feel lived in. The kind of place that looks good from the outside but hums empty once the door shuts.

The lawn’s perfect, the lights automatic, the air thick with gardenia from Mrs. Taylor next door. Everything in this neighborhood is too clean, too curated. Even the silence feels expensive.

Inside, the smell of roasted chicken hits first — dinner courtesy of our housekeeper, because my dad doesn’t always cook. He’s at the table, suit jacket off, tie still on, posture crisp.

He doesn’t look up when I walk in. “You’re late.”

“Practice ran over.”

He glances at his watch. “Practice always runs over. You could manage time better.”

“Noted.”

The twins — my little sisters — sit at the far end of the table, giggling over their tablets, whispering about some cartoon. Their laughter fills the space like sunlight through shutters, small and pure.

Dad finally looks up, eyes sharp. “How’s the heart?”

I blink. “Fine.”

“You take your meds this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You tell Coach about the arrhythmia acting up again?”

I hesitate. That’s all it takes.

“Ethan.” His voice dips — not loud, just precise. “You can’t afford to take chances. I won’t watch you throw away a future because you’re too proud to sit out a game.”

“It was just a flutter,” I say, jaw tight. “Not a big deal.”

“A flutter can turn into something serious.”

“Yeah, well, so can living,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

He stares at me a beat too long, the air in the room shrinking. Then he exhales, smooth but tired. “You have a gift, Ethan. Don’t let arrogance make you reckless.”

I nod, biting my tongue, counting the uneven beats in my chest.

He goes back to his food. Conversation over.

That’s the Reynolds way — discipline first, emotion later. Or never.

---

After dinner, the girls race upstairs, and Dad disappears into his office, phone already pressed to his ear. I wander through the kitchen, past the marble counters and chrome appliances, and grab a bottle of water.

The fridge hums louder than it should. I lean against the counter and stare out the window — the backyard’s empty, pool lights flickering blue.

Sometimes, when it’s quiet like this, I hear my mother’s voice. Not words, exactly — just the rhythm. The soft way she used to hum while doing dishes, off-key but soothing.

She died when I was thirteen. Heart failure.

That irony isn’t lost on me.

Dad doesn’t talk about her. He keeps her framed picture in his office — not on display, just tucked between books. I found it once while looking for a charger. Her smile looked like mine. That’s probably why he hides it.

I take a sip of water, the cold hitting my chest in that uneven rhythm again. My heart skips — one-two-pause-three — like a song stuck on the wrong verse.

I check my phone, partly out of habit, partly to escape the quiet. Notifications pile up — team group chat, spam mail, a meme from one of the guys. I swipe them away.

Then one catches my eye.

Unknown Number: Hey. It’s Amara.

For a second, I think it’s a prank. We haven’t talked in weeks — not since the hallway thing, not since Adela’s weird tone that day.

My thumb hovers over the screen. The blue light from the phone reflects off the window, right over my face — like I’m caught between two versions of myself.

Curious wins over cautious.

> Ethan: Hey. What’s up?

No reply. Just the three dots, blinking like a heartbeat. Then they disappear.

I wait. Two minutes. Five. Nothing.

The silence presses in again.

I set the phone down, rub my temples. It’s probably nothing. Maybe a wrong number. Maybe a ghost of a moment I misread.

But part of me — the part that still replays that day in the hallway — wonders why she’d reach out now.

I shouldn’t care. I have Adela. I have the game. I have the plan.

Still, I check my phone again before going upstairs. Just in case.

---

I flop onto the bed, headphones in, music low. Something slow — Bryson Tiller, maybe. I can’t tell anymore.

My heartbeat syncs with the bass for a while, then skips again. I press my palm to my chest, breathe in deep, out slow. The rhythm stutters, then evens out. Barely.

The doctor says it’s manageable. That as long as I don’t stress, I’m fine.

Which is like telling the ocean not to move.

My mind drifts — to Adela, to her laugh that doesn’t sound the same anymore. To Amara’s text. To my mom’s hum.

Everything’s out of time.

I glance at the clock. 11:47.

The phone buzzes again — same number.

> Amara: Sorry if this is random. Just needed to ask you something.

I sit up. My pulse spikes, arrhythmia be damned.

> Ethan: You’re not being random. What’s going on?

The dots appear again. Then—

> Amara: It’s about Jayla.

The words hit harder than they should. Jayla.

Of course. Everything somehow comes back to her lately.

I start to type, but stop. The ache behind my ribs returns — dull, rhythmic, like a drumline I can’t tune out.

Downstairs, I hear my dad’s voice through the office door, muffled but commanding. One of my sisters laughs somewhere. Life goes on — clean, choreographed, fine.

I stare at the text again.

It’s about Jayla.

Something about that phrasing — not gossip, not drama, just urgency — makes my pulse skip harder.

I want to ask a hundred things, but the words feel heavy, stupid. So I just type the simplest one:

> Ethan: What about her?

No answer.

The dots flicker once, then vanish.

---

Outside, the sprinklers start up, hissing like static. The sound fills the silence, steady and offbeat all at once.

I lie back, phone still in my hand, heartbeat syncing and stumbling in equal measure.

Sometimes, it’s not the things that go wrong that scare you.

It’s realizing the rhythm might never go back to normal.

The room feels too big, too quiet, too staged. The trophies gleam in the dark, staring back like eyes.

And somewhere inside me — just under bone and breath — the beat skips again.

---