Lucas Sinclair

The gym is louder than you expected. Not just cheering—echoing cheering. Sneakers squeak against polished wood, the scoreboard buzzes faintly, and the bleachers are packed with people wearing school colors like armor. Hawkins is obsessed tonight. Championship game. Small-town glory. Something normal to hold onto. You scan the crowd anyway. Front rows: jocks, parents, teachers. Upper bleachers: classmates who never show up to anything unless it matters socially. Across the gym you expected to see Dustin and Mike .. maybe even Eddie but they’re not here. Your chest tightens a little when you realize that part. Because you know exactly where they are instead. Down in the basement of the school. Dice rolling. Eddie’s voice echoing off concrete walls. Hellfire meeting night. Campaign finale. The thing that matters to them. And you almost went there too. Almost. The buzzer sounds, snapping your attention back to the court. The team runs out, jerseys bright under fluorescent lights. Applause swells, deafening. Then Lucas steps onto the court. He looks different in the uniform. Straighter. Sharper. Like he’s holding himself together with willpower and muscle memory. His jaw is set, expression calm, focused—like nothing else exists right now except the game. He jogs toward the free-throw line, bouncing lightly on his toes. And then—he looks up. It’s subtle. Barely noticeable. Just a flick of his eyes toward the bleachers, like he’s checking a habit he swore he broke. He’s probably expecting empty space. Instead, he sees you. You’re not waving. Not shouting his name. Just standing there, leaning against the railing, jacket zipped up, watching him like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. For half a second, he freezes. It’s so quick no one else would catch it. The smallest stumble in his rhythm. His brows knit together, like his brain short-circuited. You came. You see it hit him all at once. Confusion. Surprise. Something softer he doesn’t let himself show. Then the whistle blows, and the moment’s gone. The game starts fast. Hawkins plays aggressive tonight. The crowd roars every time Lucas makes a shot, chants his name like it belongs to them. He plays well—really well. Sharp passes. Clean shots. Defense locked in. But every now and then, when there’s a pause—when he’s waiting for the ball or lining up a free throw—his eyes flick back to you. Like he’s checking if you’re still there. You don’t leave. By halftime, your hands are sore from clapping. The scoreboard shows Hawkins up by six. The team jogs toward the locker room, adrenaline high. Lucas wipes sweat from his face with the hem of his jersey, breathing hard. As he heads off the court, he looks at you again. This time, his lips twitch. Just barely. It’s not a smile. More like… relief. The second half is brutal. Tension everywhere. The lead shrinks. The opposing team plays rough. Someone takes a hit and stays down for a second too long. Lucas plays through it anyway. When the final buzzer sounds, Hawkins wins by four points. The gym erupts. People rush the court. Parents crying. Teammates shouting. Someone dumps a bottle of water over Lucas’s head, and he laughs despite himself, breathless and glowing. But even in the chaos—he looks for you. You wait near the exit, letting the crowd thin out. Eventually, Lucas appears, hair damp, jersey half-tucked, expression overwhelmed in that quiet Lucas way where he doesn’t know what to do with all the noise. When he spots you, he stops walking. “Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “Hey,” you reply. There’s a pause. Awkward. Heavy. Like there’s something sitting between you neither of you wants to touch first. “You… uh,” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “You came.” You nod. “Yeah.” His eyes flick down, then back up. “I didn’t think— I mean, I thought you’d be at Hellfire.” “I know.” “So why—” He cuts himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why’d you come here?” The question isn’t defensive. It’s careful. Like he’s afraid of the answer. You take a breath. “Because it mattered to you.” He blinks. “Everyone else chose Hellfire,” you continue. “And that’s fine. They love it. They love Eddie. They love the game.” You pause. “But you needed someone here. And I didn’t want you looking up at the bleachers and thinking no one cared.” Lucas swallows hard. For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Then, quietly: “Im kinda mad they didn't show.” he chuckles “I know,” you say. “I'd be pissed too.” That gets a weak huff of a laugh out of him. “Yeah..” The hallway is quieter now. The noise from the gym muffled behind concrete walls. Lucas leans against a locker, shoulders finally slumping like he’s allowed to be tired. “I keep thinking if I do this—if I play, if I try to fit in—it’ll make things easier,” he admits. “Like people will stop looking at me like I’m… wrong.” Your chest aches. “And does it?” you ask. He shakes his head. “Not really.” You step closer. “You don’t have to choose who you are.” He looks at you, eyes searching. “Feels like I do.” You meet his gaze, steady. “You don’t.” For a long moment, he just looks at you. Then he exhales, slow and shaky. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “Really.” You smile. “Anytime.” Lucas hesitates—then nudges your shoulder with his. Light. Familiar. “You were the only one I was hoping would show up,” he admits quietly.