2 STRINGS

Untangling the Chaos

Soccer practice was grueling as usual, the November sun casting long shadows over the field while Coach barked out orders. My muscles screamed in protest, but I pushed through each sprint, each drill. Melody and I exchanged exhausted looks between drills, her teasing from earlier in the day temporarily forgotten.

By the time practice ended, the cool evening air felt like a blessing. I was gathering my bag from the sidelines when I noticed a car pulling into the lot. My heart skipped as soon as I saw it—a sleek black Mustang with tinted windows.

I didn't need to see who was driving. I knew.

Xolo Marquez stepped out, his tall, lean frame catching the last of the sunlight. He was dressed casually, but it didn't make him any less striking—a plain white T-shirt that clung to his torso, hinting at the definition of his chest and arms, and black jeans that sat low on his hips. His hair was slightly messy, as though he'd run his hands through it one too many times, and when he turned toward me, the fading sun lit up the warm bronze of his skin.

I froze, my bag slung over one shoulder, my pulse pounding in my ears. He noticed me immediately, his lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile.

"Hey, Sinclair," he called, his voice smooth but edged with something unreadable.

I glanced around. Melody had already disappeared into the locker room, leaving me alone. Perfect.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my tone sharper than I intended. I didn't move from my spot, though.

Xolo's smile deepened as he approached, hands shoved casually into his pockets. "You've been dodging my texts. Figured I'd try the old-fashioned way."

I swallowed, hating how my body reacted to the way he moved—confident, almost predatory, like he knew exactly the effect he had. "Maybe that was intentional."

He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head as his dark eyes studied me. "Yeah, I figured. But you don't get to just ghost me, Sinclair. Especially after..." His voice trailed off, the implication hanging in the air between us.

I crossed my arms over my chest, my bag slipping to the ground. "After what?"

He let out a low laugh, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. "You really wanna play that game?"

My throat felt dry, my chest tightening as the tension between us thickened. I tried to hold his gaze, but the way he looked at me—like he could see right through every wall I'd built—made my resolve falter.

"Fine," I muttered. "What do you want, Xolo?"

"I want to talk," he said, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down my spine. "You're good at running, Jamie, but you're not that good. Not from me."

I opened my mouth to argue but shut it just as quickly. He stepped closer, and I could see the faint outline of tattoos peeking out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt. His cologne, a mix of something woody and clean, wrapped around me, and I hated how much I liked it.

"Look," he said, softer this time, "I'm not here to fight. I just... I don't want things to be weird between us, okay?"

I hesitated, my gaze flicking to his hands, which had slipped out of his pockets. They were strong, his veins visible beneath his skin, and I found myself wondering how they'd feel if he— Stop.

"Things aren't weird," I lied, my voice barely above a whisper.

Xolo chuckled, a deep, rich sound that made my stomach flip. "Sure, they're not."

There was a long pause before I finally sighed, the weight of his stare too much to bear. "Fine. Let's talk. Right here, though. I'm not going anywhere with you."