The Film Room

The winning streak continued. Three games. Three blowouts.

Caleb Hart was back on the radar. The scouts returned. The town was buzzing.

But Caleb seemed less interested in the pep rallies and more interested in Thursday nights.

"The film room," Caleb texted her. *8:00 PM. I got the janitor to let me in.*

The film room was a tiered lecture hall deep in the athletic complex. It was dark, smelling of dry-erase markers and carpet.

When Iris arrived, Caleb was already there. He had the projector running, displaying game footage of their next opponent, the Westside Titans.

"Hey," he said, standing up from the front row.

"Hey," Iris said, dropping her bag. "Westside is tough. Their defensive line is huge."

"I'm not worried about their line," Caleb said. He walked up the steps to where she stood. "I wanted to show you something."

He clicked a remote. The screen changed.

It wasn't football footage.

It was a video from the AV Club’s archives. It was from middle school. The 8th grade talent show.

On screen, a younger, knobbier Caleb was trying to play the guitar and failing miserably. In the background, managing the soundboard, was a girl with glasses and messy hair. Iris.

On the video, Caleb broke a string. The crowd laughed. He looked mortified.

Then, the audio cut out. A song started playing over the speakers—Caleb’s song, the original track. The girl at the soundboard had switched to the backing track to save him.

On screen, young Caleb looked at young Iris and smiled.

In the dark film room, present-day Caleb looked at present-day Iris.

"I found this today," he said. "I was looking for game tape and I stumbled on the old archives."

"Why are you showing me this?" Iris asked, her throat tight. "It's embarrassing."

"It's not," Caleb said. He took a step closer. "It's proof. You've been saving me for five years, Iris. And I never said thank you."

He was close now. Too close. The projector light cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

"You don't have to thank me," Iris whispered. "I'm the strategist. It's my job."

"Is that all this is?" Caleb asked. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. "Strategy?"

He reached out. His hand brushed her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were rough, calloused from the football, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

Iris couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. This was the moment. The moment she had replayed in her head a thousand times.

Caleb leaned in. His eyes fluttered shut.

Iris tilted her head up, her lips parting.

*BZZZZZT.*

Caleb’s phone vibrated violently on the desk next to them.

The spell shattered.

Caleb flinched back as if he’d been burned. He grabbed the phone.

"It's... it's the guys," he stammered, his face flushing red in the dim light. "They're at the diner. They're wondering where I am."

He looked at Iris, and then he looked at the door. The conflict was written plainly on his face. The desire to stay versus the terrifying pressure to maintain the mask.

"You should go," Iris said, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears. She stepped back, putting up the wall that had protected her for years. "We're done here anyway. The analysis is solid."

"Iris, I..." Caleb started, looking pained.

"Go, Caleb," she said sharply. "Don't keep the King waiting."

Caleb hesitated for one agonizing second. Then, shamefaced, he grabbed his jacket and left.

Iris stood alone in the dark, watching the dust motes dance in the projector beam, realizing that knowing the probabilities didn't make the heartbreak hurt any less.

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