“Thanks, Coach,” I manage.
He squeezes my shoulder once more, then turns to lay into the boys about the couple of stupid penalties they took.
The hallway to the locker room is cleared of media; the reporters have gotten their sound bites, their quotes. Most of the parents who made the trip are waiting in the hallway or already gone.
But standing just at the end of the entrance, in a little pocket of artificially polite space, are Alistair and Beatrice.
He looks exactly the way he did at the gala—perfect suit, perfect tie, expression carved out of stone. She’s in a dark coat over a silver dress, lipstick still bulletproof.
They drove two hours on a Friday night.
They drove two hours just to remind me who owns the leash.
“Declan,” my father says, like an order. “A word.”
The room dips. The music seems to get quieter. A couple guys glance between me and the door and quickly look away.
I strip my chest protector off, hang it on the hook, and step toward the hall. Adrian catches my arm as I pass, his fingers closing around my taped wrist. Quick squeeze.You got this.Then he lets go.
The hall is bright and cold, concrete sweating under the fluorescent lights.
My father doesn’t bother with small talk. “Why wasn’t the photo in the Chronicle?” he asks. No preamble. Just that.
My stomach drops, but my face stays numb.
“What photo?” I say, because I want him to say it. I want to hear him name the thing he thinks he owns.
“Don’t be cute,” Beatrice says, voice knife-sharp. “The gala shot. The one from the terrace. The one the Chronicle photographer took for the donor spread.”
The one where you let me kiss you, she doesn’t say, but it’s there. Her eyes are sharp, bright with humiliation she’s trying to disguise as irritation.
Before I can answer, footsteps echo down the hall. Maya and Cole appear around the corner, moving in a loose, easy step together.
Maya sees us, takes in the three of us in a single glance. Her gaze flicks from my taped hands to Alistair’s suit to Beatrice’s too-bright lipstick. Her eyes sharpen, the way they do when she smells a story.
Cole shifts immediately. He moves closer to her, angling his body so he’s slightly in front, shielding her. Not hiding her—standing with her.
The contrast hits me in the chest. Beatrice is standing on me, her hand already reaching to brush lint off my shoulder, claiming the asset. Cole is standing for Maya.
My father sees the notebook in Maya's back pocket. He sees the press lanyard.
His expression instantly smooths. The anger vanishes behind a polished, political mask. He isn’t going to argue in front of a witness. He isn’t going to let a student journalist see the strings.
“We’ll discuss the schedule later, Declan,” he says, his voice suddenly warm, loud enough for them to hear. “Excellent game, son.”
The switch is terrifying. It’s effortless.
Maya nods politely as she passes, but her eyes linger on me. She knows. She was the one who killed the photo.
When they’re out of earshot, the warmth drops off my father’s face like sloughed skin. The silence he leaves in its wake is heavier than the yelling.
“The photo,” he repeats, his voice barely a whisper now. “Why wasn't it run?”
This is the part where the old version of me backs down. Where I apologize for an error I didn’t make, promise it won’t happen again.
My jaw locks. Talia’s voice threads into the moment, uninvited.
If you cared, you’d choose me in the light, not the dark.
