"Jenna, pass it!" Jackson yells. I smoothly pass the ball over to him, who passes it over to Owen, who shoots it straight into the goal. The sound of a door opening to my left draws my attention away from the game for a second before a cheer erupts from our team, and a groan choruses from the other. 

"Rematch. Tomorrow." Alex demands. He's not happy; this is the third time his team have lost to us this week. It's Wednesday. Owen jogs over to me and kisses my forehead.

"Nice pass." He says through my hair.

"Good goal." I return, looking up and grinning. He looks down at me and smiles too. I stand on my tiptoes to try and shorten the size difference, and he leans over to close it completely. He touches his lips to mine briefly before Jackson mutters "Get a room, you two." I pull away from Owen, pick the football up from the floor and aim at Jackson's head. Direct hit. He's caught off guard and turns round to confront me. Everyone else starts whooping in a silly high-pitched voice, and I resist the urge to throw the ball at all their heads too. It would be a pretty unfair game of dodgeball though. Mrs Parker is jogging over to us, and saying something, but I can't hear her until she gets closer. 

"-bell's about to go. Throw me the ball and I'll put it away for you. Hopefully won't be too late for lesson."

Jackson picks up the ball from the ground, mimes chucking at my face and then tosses it lightly to the teacher. Mrs Parker watches our banter with an amused smile before catching the ball.

"I guess I know who won." She jokes before turning around and jogging back to the PE shed. 

"Go on, off you go to lesson." She calls over her shoulder. 

I go to pick up my bag and quickly glance at my phone.

"Shoot." I mutter. "How'd it get so late?" I throw my bag over my shoulder and start to run towards Maths, but the bells rings before I reach the edge of the pitch.

"Shoot" I say again. I would swear, but I always have been brought up to never swear, with the threat that I'd go to hell if I did. Fifteen years of following my mother’s superstitions is a difficult habit to break, and I’m not about to try now.

"Jen, stop running." Owen's voice breaks my train of thought. "We're late already. Doesn't matter by how long, right? Late is late." I don’t slow. Being late is one of the most humiliating things. When you walk through the door and all your classmates stare at you, and you have to explain why you're late in front of the whole class. It's even worse when you don't have a valid excuse. My palms grow clammy as I half-run toward the door. By the time I’m standing outside the classroom my heart is pounding, and I can’t tell if it’s a result of playing football, the speed walk to the place I stand now, or the stupid fear I think is building. I breathe once, twice, and then push the door open.

As I expect, everyone looks up. Most people go back to their work again instantly, but it's still enough to freeze me on the spot for a second. I don't think I'll end up pursuing a career as an actor. 

"Why are you late?" Mr Yearwood demands. I don't have a good excuse, that he will approve of anyway. He doesn't care about football or follow any sport. The only excuse that he will accept other than being out for an appointment is that the computer science and technology club ran overtime. I can picture him at my age, with dark eyes from staying up all night playing computer games and coding and a smaller pair of glasses that his eyes are glaring at me from behind now. "Well?"

"Umm," I try and debate between the truth or a lie. Blaming the coding club for running over would be an excuse he would tolerate - probably the only excuse he would tolerate - however the only two members are already here, awaiting my answer. A small part of me notices how similar they look, little Mr Yearwoods in the making.

I could say I was out for an appointment, but he always needs a doctor's note as proof. Something I do not have.

Or I could just tell the truth. My mother’s voice echoes in my mind: Honesty is the best policy.

 "I'm sorry, sir, my football game ran overtime." 

I can tell what he's thinking without him saying anything. How dare you waste valuable time you could be using to solve quadratic equations by kicking a ball around! He glares at me and speaks through his teeth.

"Go and sit down. Now." I walk quickly to my seat without looking away from the floor. I'm in my seat and have my book out within twenty seconds. I realise that in my hurry, I never said goodbye to Owen. Great. Something else to have to face. 

"Right, class. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you have to substitute all the numbers in..."

My face flushes and I try to concentrate on the lesson.