Adrian grips the back of my neck, forehead resting against mine for a second. “Proud of you, man. That was history.”
I breathe it in. The noise. The brotherhood. The high.
Gio swings his shirt around his head. “Elm House tonight! Non-negotiable! We are drinking until we forget our own names!”
I shake my head, turning toward my stall. “I’m not—”
Adrian interrupts, grinning. “You’re coming. If Talia comes.”
My stomach drops and jumps at the same time.
He pulls out his phone.
“No,” I growl, reaching for it.
“Too late,” he says, dodging me, thumbs flying. “Already texting Clara. It’s happening.”
Idiots. All of them.
But I don’t stop him.
I leave the locker room clean, dressed, hair damp, adrenaline still humming under my skin. I’m ready to see her—hoping she waited, even though I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty yet.
I step out the back exit, the secure one reserved for players and staff.
And hit a wall.
My father is waiting.
Alistair Reid stands like a blade—sharp suit, expensive coat, expression carved out of cold marble. He’s leaning against the black sedan that pulled right up to the loading dock. He used his academic board credentials to get past security; the pass is still clipped to his lapel.
He invaded the one space that was supposed to be locked.
Beatrice is at his side, immaculate in fur, smiling too tightly.
Perfect.
Of course.
“Declan,” my father says. No congratulations. Just business.
“Did you see the game?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“I saw the display,” he corrects, his lip curling slightly. “And I saw who you saluted.”
My jaw clenches.
“Did you get my message about the consequences?” he continues smoothly.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And I’m not bending for you.”
His nostrils flare. A crack in the façade. “Then the trust fund is frozen. Indefinitely. I’ve already instructed legal to tie it up in litigation until you’re forty if I have to. You won't see a dime of your mother's money.”
I almost laugh.
