“Max,” I say, polite but flat. Part of the job.
He keeps pumping my hand, playing to his audience, pretending we were tight. Truth is, Leo was the one who called him a friend—until that night. The night Max tried to put his mouth on Eden and I gave him a warning. After that, Leo was done with him.
Max finally lets go, turning back to his buddies, riding high on the performance.
Coach’s voice slices through the tunnel.
I don’t need to look—I feel her—but I do anyway. She’s beside Coach and Rowan, hair yanked back, face set in thatcool, untouchable mask she’s worn all week. Every time she throws it up, it guts me. Shuts me out.
Max glances over mid-laugh. The second he clocks her, his grin turns mean.
“Well, if it isn’t Carverette,” he says, loud enough to carry down the tunnel.
Eden stops dead. Color drains from her face. Her grip on the iPad goes white.
My stomach knots. Something’s off. She looks like she’s staring at a past she didn’t invite.
Her lips part, close. She drags in a breath that doesn’t want to obey.
“Max Miller.” It scrapes out of her.
What the fuck is this?
He chuckles, oily. “Still remember me, huh?”
She isn’t smiling. She isn’t blinking. I watch it hit her in waves—recognition, then horror, then something older and sharper. Her knees dip, lock. Shoulders set.
Her eyes cut up to him, then down, then to me, and back. A fight is happening inside her, and it’s not a small one.
I move a step, ready. “Eden?—”
She shakes her head once, eyes on Miller. Her voice is raw, bare.
“You.”
Not recognition. Not greeting. An accusation.
38
RECKONING (EDEN)
The tunnel goes silent.
Max’s smirk wavers. “Good to see you too, Carverette.”
My throat burns. The words tear out before I can stop them. “It was you.” My stomach turns to stone. My knees want to give out. Seven years vanish, and I’m back in that room, back in that body that couldn’t fight. The Garden roar collapses to nothing, just blood in my ears.
He straightens, jaw tight. “Still dramatic, I see.”
No. Not dramatic. Remembering.
I step forward, shoulders locking, fury punching through shame. My voice rips out, jagged.
“You were at that party. You put something in my drink. You took what wasn’t yours. What I wasn’t ready to give.”
The iPad slips from my hands, hits the concrete with a crack. I don’t care. I’m moving, launching at him, slamming him back into the wall. My fists knot in his jacket, every muscle trembling with the years I buried the memory.
“You drugged me!” My voice shakes, then steadies, sharper. “You raped me!”
