The roof of the school is made of rough, grey cement, speckled with darker stains and faded paint lines that overlap in a disorderly patchwork of old sports markings. The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, casting long, slanted shadows through the towering chain-link fence enclosing the rooftop. Its warmth clings to the concrete, making the whole space glow with a golden haze. The same metallic netting stretches above like a steel canopy, a cage to stop balls from flying off the edge. It also prevents the students from climbing the fence and potentially falling, or jumping to their death. The school tells us that it’s to prevent vehicles from flying into the school and landing on the roof, but we know the real reason.

  Painted lines in faded white outline a half-sized football field, their chalky texture worn thin in high-traffic areas. One side has a pair of goalposts roughly painted onto the wire fence, the lines patchy and uneven where the paint skipped over the mesh. Additional markings crisscross the cement for netball, volleyball, and even mark the creases of a rough cricket pitch. It’s a multipurpose enclosed arena for students who don’t get access to real grass for training. It works well enough for practicing any indoor-based sport, especially since the few proper fields are either privately owned, unavailable to rent, or already booked out. For the rest of us, this rooftop is all we’ve got.

  Before I even open the door to the rooftop, I hear it, the sharp cries of pain cutting through the buzz of movement outside. My heart jolts and I burst through the door, eyes scanning the fenced half-field frantically.

  It doesn’t take long to identify Ernie on the field.

  There he is. The shortest and skinniest player out there. His usually tidy brown hair is wild from the game, and his white t-shirt, now snug with age, clings to his thin frame. But the cries don’t appear to be coming from him. He’s crouched beside another boy, his expression focused and gentle as he talks softly, offering support.

  A heavy breath of relief escapes me.

  Nearby, crouched beside the injured player, is Mrs Zhang, the supervising teacher for the tryouts. In her late thirties, she’s composed and direct, her sharp dark eyes focused as she inspects the boy’s ankle with steady hands. Her whistle hangs loosely around her neck, forgotten for now as she calmly talks him through the pain.

  “Did you hear a noise when the collision happened?” she asks, her voice brisk but steady.

  The boy grimaces and shakes his head.

  “Alright, let’s see if it’s just a sprain then. Extend your foot by pointing your toes down. You can go slowly if you’re not sure how much it’ll hurt.”

  He hesitates but follows her instructions, his foot moving without further complaint. Mrs Zhang nods.

  “Now bring your toes back towards you, pointing them up to the sky.”

  He manages most of the motion, but the strain shows more clearly this time. His face tightens and a sharp squeal slips through his teeth.

  “Good, good, that one hurts a bit more. Now try rotating your ankle clockwise.”

  He barely gets through the beginning of the motion before his jaw clenches tight. He tries again twice, but stops short again and suppresses a wince before shaking his head.

  His voice comes out strained and small as he helplessly forces out the words, “I can’t.”

  Mrs Zhang leans back slightly, her tone calm but firm.

  “It might only be a sprain, but it could be worse. You will need to get some ice on your ankle to keep the swelling down, and elevate your leg above horizontal to stop your blood from rushing to the area. After that, head to the nearest clinic and get an X-ray to see if there’s anything more serious needing medical attention."

  She rises and points to two nearby boys. “Matthias, Aiden, help him off the field. Let him lean on your shoulders and guide him down the stairs. Support him from both sides and take it slowly.”

  They react immediately, moving with quick but careful steps toward the injured player.

  Matthias, tall and broad-shouldered with short sandy blond hair that spikes neatly upward, carries the kind of clean-cut discipline you’d expect from someone with a strict upbringing. His serious expression suggests he’s handled situations like this before.

  Aiden is leaner, with sharper features and a mess of dark brown curls that don’t quite match the perfectly ironed shirt he’s wearing. There’s something quietly self-assured in the way he walks, as though it would be impolite to question Mrs Zhang’s request.

  Together, they each take one of the boy’s arms over their shoulders, forming a steady triangle of support. The boy limps between them, keeping his injured foot lifted, and they begin the slow walk toward the stairwell without needing any more direction.

  Ernie watches them go, a flicker of readiness in his posture like he’s about to rise and follow.

  “Ernest, you stay here and finish the tryout. He’ll be fine with those boys.”

  As he stands again, I can see the raw grazes on both his knees, red and peeling from the scrape of the cement. My stomach twists. This is not a place for him.

  My eyes drift along the edge of the field, scanning the group of onlookers gathered along the outside of the fence. And then I see her.

  Roselyn is leaning lazily against the mesh, lined up with the goal box near the edge of the rooftop, arms folded, her oversized sunglasses catching the afternoon light. Her dark brown hair is straightened to perfection and draped over one shoulder. That thermal black top is paired with fitted jeans clearly chosen more for fashion than function. Of course she made it out of bed for this. Why not go to school while skipping school, as long as it’s for a cause I’m against.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Cheering loudly for Dom and Ernie, her voice is overly sweet and entirely forced. Her exaggerated praise makes it obvious how much she’s going to enjoy using this moment to pull Ernie out from under my protection and into Dom’s lost little flock of sheep forever. I might not be at school much longer, but I am going to stop this while I still can!

  The crowd outside the fenced field is made up of around fifty students, some trying out for the team, some girls using any excuse to flirt for attention, and plenty of others who are just bored with nothing better to do. It’s probably a good thing family can’t get past school security, because there’s barely room for anyone else along the sidelines. And this is just for a tryout! But for these boys and girls, it’s everything. A shot at social standing, a chance to move up into a more popular friend group, and maybe even earn the right to sit on my school floor at lunchtime.

  A cluster of younger girls keeps letting out high-pitched cheers, especially when Ernie gets the ball. A few of them are from his year, their school uniforms already half-untucked and hair twisted with ribbons like they’re trying too hard to look casual.

  Ernie is getting a lot of touches on the ball during a possession and passing drill, darting around his marker with quick feet and controlling the play with confident, deft little touches. A few girls from his year are cheering him on a bit too eagerly for my liking, though his two closest mates are right there with them, laughing, clapping, and calling out encouragement every time he lands a clean pass. Roselyn is yelling too, backing Sabina, Sam, and whoever else, but her voice sounds more forced than her support for Dom and Ernie. It all feels fake, too loud and too inflected, like a performance of her own for the players on the field.

  The tryouts unfold as a series of quick drills. Ernie’s group is running a possession and passing rotation, moving in a circle while Mrs Zhang barks instructions from nearby. Despite his size, Ernie moves with confidence, both fluid, and nimble. He continually slips free of his marker with ease, using short taps to keep the ball under control. His touches are clean, and his passes land exactly where they need to. Surprisingly, he shows no sign of pain from his grazes at all.

  Fifteen minutes pass, and Mrs Zhang blows her whistle sharply. She calls the players in to hear their fate.

  “Stop and gather around!”

  “Tíng xiàlái, guòlái jíhé!”

  She then names Dom to continue as team captain and pulls him aside for a brief discussion about potential selections.

  He stands tall beside her, arms crossed, sweat clinging to his white shirt like it’s part of the look. His dark hair is damp, pushed back messily in that accidental way that somehow makes him look even more smug. Of course he pulls off the just-finished-training thing like it was designed for him.

  At the end of their chat, he smirks, already feeling the power go to his head.

  Mrs Zhang stands firm at the centre of the half-field, voice raised just enough to be heard over the crowd. “These are the names of those selected for this summer’s starting XI.”

  She reads them out, starting with the returning players: “Domenik, Sabina, Sam, Rosa, Matthias, Mishil, Lei…” the names we already knew. Then, she says the four new names.

  “Erin, Marco, Ramona, and last of all, Ernest.”

  I see Ernie’s back straighten the moment his name is called. His face lights up, shifting from the doubt that had been growing with every name announced before his. His eyes go wide with disbelief, then his mouth curls into the kind of beaming smile that only appears when your dream suddenly feels real. The girls behind the fence scream like someone just won the lottery. His friends start chanting his name, arms raised like it’s a music festival. It’s very annoying.

  Mrs Zhang continues to name the reserves in the squad, but the damage has already been done.

  Before I can move, Dom steps forward, grabs Ernie’s hand and pulls him into a one-armed embrace and gives him a firm thump on the back. “Congratulations and welcome to the Central High Platapussys, mate! You’re going to be our centre-mid this season!”

  I scoff, too surprised to hold it in. I doubt that inappropriate team name will make it past league approval, but Dom says it like it’s carved in stone.

  This is my cue.

  I storm through the wire gate and onto the half-field, grabbing Ernie firmly by the wrist to pull him away from the close group of celebrating players. His shirt is damp and clings to his thin frame, and he barely notices me at first.

  “We are leaving now Ernie!”

  He becomes aware of my presence again, still glowing with joy, and asks me contently, “Could I please just have a few more minutes to chat with my new teammates.”

  I shake my head, trying to keep my voice steady. “These are not going to be your teammates. I can’t let you stay on a team with that destructive kind of influence as your role model!”

  Laughter erupts behind us.

  Sam lifts his shirt to show off his non-existent abs while flexing his right bicep at the same time. “Hey, I can roll with being a model too! Look at my huge muscles, amazing fashion sense and, of course, my X-factor. What a man!”

  Sabina helps the situation for a change and slaps his shirt back down. “Stop it. No one wants to see that.”

  He grins and relaxes his bicep, continuing to ramble in the background about his model potential.

  Dom steps in close to approach me. Too close. He stands just thirty centimetres away, his smirk curved smugly into his face.

  “Are you really going to stop him from becoming a football star just to keep him away from me for another year?”

  That’s an easy answer. I meet his gaze, unwavering. “Yes! We all have to compromise, and he’s getting the better end of this one by not having to spend more time around you than absolutely necessary.”

  Dom shakes his head, his smile slow and sleazy. “We will see how well hiding Ernest’s talents work out for you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap, my voice rising before I can stop it.

  But he only winks at me, pats Ernie on the shoulder and strolls back toward the rest of the team.

  As Ernie and I leave the roof and start down the stairs, I try to explain myself, to justify it all so he’ll understand why I did what I did.

  “You understand, don’t you Ernie? Dom will use whatever power he can to control your life, and there’s no future in the direction he’s heading. I don’t want him dragging you into a life of crime with him.”

  I catch it in my peripheral, a group of girls from his year glaring at me like I just kicked a puppy. They’re already gossiping about me, eyes full of venom, spinning whatever version of the story makes me the villain. I guess sometimes I have to take whatever comes my way if it means putting Ernie first.

  The moment breaks. Ernie and I walk silently to the rooftop door, then begin the long climb down the stairs. My legs ache from the height but my mind races more than my feet.

  Beside me, Ernie stares at the wall ahead, deep in thought, his expression unreadable.

  “I know what you did was to protect me,” he finally says. His voice is quiet and calm, despite his disappointment. “I know you care about me. And even though I really wanted to play, I mostly just wanted to see if I could get in.”

  I’m a bit taken aback at his honest maturity.

  I brush his messy fringe hair away from his forehead and reply gently, “I know, sweetie.”

  We keep walking down the stairs, floor by floor, down toward the school exit and the quiet streets beyond.

  I just hope I can protect myself on the way to work the same way I’m protecting Ernie from Dom. If I can do that, I’ll be able to finish school, earn some money, and one day make things feel truly safe for both of us.