The hallway smells like rubber floors and old lockers. You took the back route to avoid the post-practice crowd — same as always. Then you round the corner and walk straight into a wall of shoulders. Jake's gear bag hits the floor with a heavy thud, sticks clattering loud against the tile. He laughs — easy, unguarded — and when he straightens up, those eyes land on you and don't move. Not a quick glance. Not the polite smile he gives everyone. Just you. You've kept your distance from his world for years. He knows it. And from the way the corner of his mouth pulls up right now, so does he.