Blake
Iswig my beer, only half listening to Will regale a story from the weekend before.
Truthfully, I wish I’d just gone home with Calla after the match.
Call me whipped, I don’t care. But now that we’re together – officially – without all of this fake dating stuff in between us, I find myself wanting to be with her every moment I can get.
She’s addicting and I can’t get enough. The feel of her eyes tracking my every movement this morning, while I ran up and down the pitch, was enough to send me dizzy with desire.
No wonder we lost; I could hardly run for the hard-on in my shorts. My head wasn’t in the game at all, instead focused on Calla and the way her painted on jean shorts made her legs appear ten times longer and the way her white crop top kept riding up, allowing me to see a sliver of her stomach.
Stretching out my aching calves under the sticky table, I feel my phone vibrate in my jeans pocket.
I smile to myself hoping it’s her.
Wiggling my phone from my pocket, I swipe open my notification panel, my stomach dropping to the floor when I read the text message I’ve been sent.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: CALLA BECKER IS A LIAR
A hyperlink follows the random text message.
I can’t explain why I click on it, it could be scam for all I know, but I’m tapping the link before I can fully comprehend, watching a white circle spin around before a grainy video loads across my screen.
It’s loud in the pub, not surprising really, the crowd around me laughing and joking, drunkenly singing along to the music pumping through the overhead speakers.
Standing, I tip my head towards the door of the pub, my phone gripped so tightly in my hand I can feel it beginning to cramp. “Sorry, I need to take this. I’m just gonna head outside for a second—”
“I’ll come with you,” mutters Dean,fishing his vape out of his jean pocket.“I’m desperate for a hit.”
Navigating through the throngs of people, I find a quiet space outside, leaning up against the exposed brick wall while Dean wanders off to the smoker’s corner.
I hit play without hesitation.
A pixelated view of what appears to be the women’s bathroom comes into view, the seedy camera zooming down upon someone in the stalls. I realise with a jolt of my heart that it’s Calla, her phone pressed to her ear, before her husky voice crackles through the speakers.
“The fact that Blake is Grey Millen’s older brother? Yeah, I think so. I think—”
My stomach drops, landing somewhere on the pavement in a heap.
I desperately try to focus back on what Calla is saying, but it’s hard when all I can hear is the loudwhooshof my blood thrumming through my ears.
“Hisbrother, Car,” Calla repeats. “I remember his face being splashed all over the papers, how he was supposed to make the Olympics when he—”
Bile burns the back of my throat, threatening to expel itself all over the cracked pavement.
I want to press stop, to turn it off, but I can’t look away.
The video rolls forward, this time showing me an overhead view of Calla and her friend, Carmen, sitting in what must be the staff room.
I flick my eyes down to the time stamp sitting in the bottom right-hand corner; 1:15 p.m.
“I truly thought he’d back out,” I hear Calla say. “And then when I started on the rules—”
I flinch.
Carmen frowns. “So, you were testing him? Or trying to find out how far you could push him?”
I inhale raggedly, my heart splintering into a thousand pieces in my chest, cutting me as deep as Calla’s words.
