Andrew Lane was indeed dazzling on the court, and Zoe Young thought his skills were even better than he had boasted to her. When she had just arrived at the sidelines, she didn’t even have time to distinguish the team uniforms. The very first moment she looked up, she saw a boy in a light blue jersey jumping in the direction away from her. His beautiful back slowly descended after reaching the highest point, the basketball spinning as it left his hand, swishing cleanly through the net in one smooth motion, giving people the illusion of a slow-motion replay.

After scoring, the boy turned around and smiled radiantly amid the cheers.

It was at this moment that Zoe Young realized that Andrew Lane truly shone on the basketball court. Or rather, he had always been a shining presence, just usually keeping it restrained, leaving enough space for himself and others.

What a wonderful boy.

In that instant, Zoe Young finally admitted that even if she had once harbored a trace of blame just to make herself feel better, under the blazing midday sun, it had all evaporated.

Andrew Lane should always be smiling so brightly. He shouldn’t have to grit his teeth and lower his head while his mother hit him on the back of the head in frustration, nor should he have to stand there, red-faced and silent, under her own out-of-control accusations. Zoe Young’s gaze gradually drifted away from the tense game on the court. The high, deep blue September sky became a giant screen, playing a silent film called the past. The shouts turned into distant, crackling noise. She recalled everything about this boy Andrew Lane, and suddenly realized that as long as she was involved in his life, there would always be some kind of mishap—either he was unlucky, or she was. And vice versa.

Zoe Young snapped back to attention and looked at the court.

I came to watch the game—don’t tell me you’re about to lose?

On the court, Thomas Chase had already made a tremendous effort, but Class One was indeed a class that was excessively quiet. The boys generally lacked athletic talent, and in the balance between academics and sports, Class One and Class Two perfectly demonstrated God’s fairness.

Class Two was far ahead. As the game neared its end, both sides grew a bit impatient. Class Two thought Class One was sore losers, while Class One thought Class Two was winning unfairly. Several calls about fouls and traveling sparked disputes. When the referee once again signaled two free throws and possession for Class Two, the boys and girls from Class One on the sidelines erupted, a large group shouting, “We’re done, we’re done, just let them win,” and left the sidelines together, heading toward the teaching building.

“If you can’t handle losing, don’t play!”

“We can’t handle losing, or is it your class that’s playing dirty? So many sneaky moves during the game, the referee’s blind, but are we blind too? Look at what’s happened to our class monitor!”

A girl from Class One pointed at the freshly treated wound on Thomas Chase’s temple, visibly agitated.

Andrew Lane felt a bit awkward; it was indeed his elbow that had accidentally hit Thomas Chase’s temple when he landed.

“Everyone calm down, there’s a referee on the court, just play the game, what are you all so worked up about!” Thomas Chase tried to control the situation, but with so many people on the playground, his voice was a bit hoarse. The spectators on both sides had already started arguing among themselves, boys rolling up their sleeves, girls with hands on hips—the scene was raw and chaotic.

Just like elementary school kids. Zoe Young stepped aside to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. She knew the real issue wasn’t the basketball game. The relationship between Class One and Class Two was just like that between Class Three and Class Seven in the liberal arts track. For these still immature kids, any poorly managed rivalry could easily turn into mutual hostility and slander.

No one knew who threw the first punch.

Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Everyone was ready, just waiting for the first shot of the August First Uprising.

Zoe Young watched the brawl on the court with her mouth slightly open. In her impression, the usually overly “proper” students of Class One were now fighting with total commitment, with not a trace of their usual airs.

This kind of thing would make the headlines, especially since it was between Class One and Class Two.

No matter how mature, sensible, or academically outstanding they were, in the end, they were still a bunch of teenagers. Locked in classrooms from morning to night during puberty, their hormones could only vent their frustration through acne. Now, finally given the chance, they could have a good fight—no matter if it was right or wrong, no matter if it was thoughtless.

Youth has the right to be thoughtless.

Zoe Young only hesitated for a moment before hurriedly squeezing into the crowd. She had always hated crowded places, hated physical contact with others, hated smelling other people’s body odor, being stepped on or shoved… But at that moment, she didn’t even think before rushing in.

She had to pull Andrew Lane out.

Even though Class Two hadn’t lost, things had still ended up like this. If Andrew Lane got beaten up, Zoe Young thought she might have to seriously consider transferring schools.

She didn’t know who was yanking hard on her ponytail. Zoe Young cried out in pain, frowned in annoyance, and turned to glare. It was a girl she didn’t recognize, who glared back and shouted, “Why are you pushing me?”

Zoe Young was taken aback. “Oh, sorry.”

The girl had been ready for a big argument or even a fight, but at Zoe Young’s response, she suddenly deflated, staring at her like she was a weirdo as Zoe Young turned back and squeezed into the crowd again.

She recognized Andrew Lane’s jersey, number 7. From a distance, she spotted a number 7, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him to the sidelines, only to look up and realize it was Thomas Chase.

“Uh,” Thomas Chase managed a strained smile, “Zoe, thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Zoe Young waved her hand, “I grabbed the wrong person.”

With that, she continued searching for any sign of Andrew Lane.

She couldn’t find him, no matter what. Zoe Young reached back to touch her now-crooked ponytail, then just pulled out the hair tie and let her hair down, retying it into a low ponytail to prevent anyone from pulling her hair again.

As she was looping the hair tie for the second time, Zoe Young suddenly felt a pair of hands cover the end of her ponytail, take the hair tie, finish the last loop, and gently smooth her hair.

“Were you looking for me just now?”

Zoe Young turned around, and there was Andrew Lane in front of her, as if he had dropped from the sky—though clearly he’d landed face-first.

The corner of his eye was bruised, his cheekbone swollen, but his smile was even brighter than when he scored.

Charlotte Lee only saw Thomas Chase being swallowed up by the fighting boys. The flailing fists were intimidating—she could even imagine what it would feel like if one landed on her own face.

But she still didn’t give up, standing on the edge, craning her neck to look inside, searching for that person. Just as she got a little closer to the center of the fight, someone grabbed her arm.

“Stay back, what if you get hurt by accident?” It was Charles Johnson.

Charlotte Lee was a bit annoyed. She shook off Charles Johnson’s hand and continued circling the edge, watching the chaos. She happened to catch a glimpse of Ray Cindy, standing far away from everyone, hands in his pockets, leaning against the basketball hoop, a smile on his lips.

He looked like he was really enjoying the show.

Pervert. Charlotte Lee cursed in her heart, though she had to admit that watching the game, her feelings were complicated. She shouted for Class Two, trying to catch Thomas Chase’s attention, as if hoping he would notice her, even wanting to make him, her “opponent,” angry—though she knew herself how childish and naive that was.

She even hoped he would lose badly. Really hoped so.

Suddenly, Charlotte Lee saw the white number 7 she’d been looking for being pulled out of the fight by a girl. It turned out to be Zoe Young.

The two of them exchanged a glance, both surprised. Zoe Young said something, then quickly turned away to keep searching through the crowd. Charlotte Lee suddenly felt that Zoe Young looked very guilty, almost like a little wife searching for her missing husband after a shipwreck—frail but determined—even though she’d grabbed the wrong person.

She no longer needed to pay attention to the fight, her gaze fixed on Thomas Chase, who was trying to persuade other students to return to class. Charlotte Lee had told herself countless times that she’d just finally met someone even more dazzling than Andrew Lane, and so she’d mistakenly fallen for his brilliance. But just now, when Class One was far behind and Thomas Chase led his hopeless teammates like a tragic hero, still refusing to give up, it moved her.

She even felt a pang of heartache, hoping his defeat would humble his perfect image, yet not wanting to see his pride broken. She probably cared more about Thomas Chase’s loss—even if it was just a small basketball game—than he did himself.

Finally, she mustered the courage to walk over, and while no one was paying attention, softly asked, “You didn’t get hurt by accident, did you? …Is your forehead okay? Did it get hit?”

Thomas Chase didn’t seem to have time to talk, giving her a quick smile: “I’m fine, don’t worry, hurry back to class, it’s dangerous here.”

Then he turned and went back to breaking up the fight.