I think I’m in the clear—until I look up.
Mayson’s watching me. Not in the usual bestie way, either. This is the squinty, suspicious kind of look she gives when she knows I’m lying. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracking me with her eyes while I stretch.
She corners me on the way to the locker room, towel around her neck, and sweat still dripping from her hairline.
She nudges me with her shoulder. “What, you get abducted by aliens or just oversleep?”
“Neither,” I say. “But thanks for the faith.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’ve got that ‘don’t ask me questions’ face.”
I open my mouth.
She cuts me off. “And I’m not asking.Yet. But if this has anything to do with Mads, I will murder him in cold blood.”
I genuinely have no doubt in my mind that she would, and I love her for that.
If it comes down to it, I’d be glad to bury him and her stepbrother in the same shallow grave.
I change fast. I don’t shower. Just rinse my face, re-braid my hair, and walk out of the locker room with my phone already in my hand.
I found it on my way out of the apartment, wedged between the couch and the wall, in a spot I definitely hadn’t gone near, because Mads was sleeping there. I don’tthinkhe took it, but who knows?
I’m sure he is still plotting schemes against me, while I am way too preoccupied by everything else going on to even consider something like wrapping all his toiletries in several layers of aluminum foil, with a bonus layer of duct tape.
That’s not a bad idea.
It might be a fun way to take my mind off of this morning.
Whoever did this knew I’d moved. Knew my schedule, my alarm. Knew Mads’, for that matter, because they also knew I’d be alone.
Whoever messed with my stuff had to be looking for something. And the only thing that makes sense is the drive.
But the thought sticks, twisting in my gut. If someone went to the trouble of tearing through my things, then maybe this isn’t just hazing receipts and a few ugly stories.
When I finally cracked the password, I thought I was in the clear. But even then, the file wouldn’t open—just error screens and corrupted fragments staring back at me. My contact had promised instructions, the same way she’d promised the password that I ended up figuring out on my own. Now it’s been days without a word. Radio silence.
Which leaves me with nothing but questions. If the drive really is just what she said—proof of hazing at Briarwood—why lock it down? Why make it feel like classified intel instead of screenshots and spreadsheets?
Maybe whatever’s on that drive is worse than I thought. Bigger.
Either way, I need to figure it out. Fast.
Chapter 8
Mads
Ihate game day.
Not the actual game. That part’s fine. Good, even. That part’s what I’m here for. But everything leading up to it? Absolute torture.
The team has rituals. Clown-coded ones. Dante insists on eating an entire rotisserie chicken beforehand like he’s bulking for a Roman gladiator match. I have no idea how he doesn’t puke. Zayne won’t speak to anyone for the full hour before kickoff, which is super fun for locker room morale. And Matteo has this terrifying pre-game playlist that’s 80% angry Gregorian chanting and 20% DMX.
Me? I like quiet. Space. Maybe a moment to myself where I can remind my ever-spinning brain what a football is before someone tries to break my ribs. I’m not one for speeches, though being captain means I’m stuck giving them. I keep it short—say what needs saying, nothing more. Get your heads on straight, do your job, don’t fuck it up. Then I shut up and let the silence settle, because that’s what I need before the whistle.
But today, I don’t get that.
Today, I get Blake.
