Alex MacQuoid~Bleacher Meeting

The gym is almost empty now.

The roar of the crowd has faded into the hum of overhead lights and the squeak of a janitor’s cart somewhere down the hall. Alex MacQuoid sits halfway up the bleachers, jersey damp, elbows on his knees, staring at the court like the game might still be arguing with him.

You find him there without meaning to.

He doesn’t look up at first. When he does, that familiar edge is gone—no smirk, no smart comment locked and loaded. Just exhaustion. Relief. Something quieter.

“You played like an idiot,” you say, because old habits die hard.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. But we won.”

You sit beside him anyway.

The space between you is small. Smaller than it’s ever been. Your shoulders almost touch. His knee bounces, restless, adrenaline still humming through him. There’s dried tape on his fingers, a faint scrape along his forearm you don’t comment on—but notice.

For a minute, neither of you speaks.

Then he says, softly, “You were right. About pushing it.”

That stops you.

Alex MacQuoid doesn’t admit things. Especially not to you.

You turn toward him, really look at him, and whatever you were about to say evaporates. His eyes are still bright from the win, but there’s something raw underneath—like the noise finally dropped and left him alone with himself.

“I just didn’t want to let anyone down,” he adds.

Something in your chest tightens.

Your hand moves before you overthink it, resting briefly on his wrist. Grounding. Careful. He stills instantly, like the whole world narrowed to that single point of contact.

When he looks at you again, the tension between you is different now. No longer sharp. Warm. Pulling.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I never actually hated you.”

You smile, just a little. “Liar.”

He leans closer—not cocky, not rushed. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t.

The kiss is quiet. Unshowy. The kind that feels earned. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, grin gone completely.

“Guess we’re not enemies anymore,” he says.

You nudge his shoulder. “Don’t get used to it, MacQuoid.”

But you don’t move away.