Clara is pale, eyes huge. “He's... he's not bluffing,” she says, looking at Adrian. “He’ll do it. He’ll fire Coach tonight.”
“He’s got the lawyers,” Adrian agrees, voice hollow. “If we drop this, Coach is dead in the water. If we don’t drop it… he’s dead in the water.”
The Linelooks shattered. The air feels like the aftermath of a hit in the boards—everyone stunned, wind knocked out, unsure which way is up. We have the bomb, but he's called our bluff. He's willing to let it go off, as long as it takes us with him.
Maya stares at her screen, finger trembling over the trackpad. “I can’t,” she whispers, looking at Talia. “Talia, I can’t do that to your dad. If I hit send, he calls the Board.”
I look at Talia.
She’s staring at the blank laptop screen where Maya’s draft still glows in black and white. At first, I think she’s frozen. Her shoulders are rigid, jaw tight. But when I look closer, really look, I see it: she’s not shaking. She’s not crumbling.
She’s furious.
She stands up. The movement is sudden enough that my hand slips from her leg. She doesn’t seem to notice. She looks at Maya.
“He's right,” Talia says, voice so cold it makes my skin prickle. It doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t crack. It slices. “He thinks we're kids. He's counting on us being too scared to fight back. He's counting on me being the 'distraction' he can scare off.”
She turns her head, eyes finding mine. Blazing with a fire I’ve never seen—not on the ice, not in the tunnel. This is different. Sharper. Focused.
“But he’s lying,” I say, the logic clicking into place in my head.
Talia nods, seeing it too. “If we wait, he fires my dad quietly. He spins it as negligence. He buries him.” She turns back to Maya. “But if we publish now? If the story breaks that he’s blackmailing the program?”
“Then firing him looks like retaliation,” Dante finishes, stepping forward from the doorway. Dark eyes gleam. “It becomes a whistleblower case. He can’t fire the Coach without confirming the story.”
“The article is the shield,” I say, standing up. My blood is humming now. Not fear. Strategy. “It’s the only armor Coach has. We have to move before he makes that call.”
Maya looks between us. Fear is still there, but the logic is taking hold.
“Talia,” I say, voice rough. “Your dad...”
“My dad taught me to fight,” she says.
She pulls her phone from her hoodie pocket. Fingers move fast, typing a short message. I see the screen over her shoulder.
Dad. Don’t answer the phone tonight. Trust me.
She hits send, then sets the phone face down on the coffee table with a decisive click.
Her chin lifts, just a fraction, enough that the overhead screen-light carves a hard line along her jaw. “He's wrong about one thing. He's not the one holding the grenade. We are.”
I look at her. Really look. At the girl who flinches at slamming doors and still walked herself across campus at night. At her strength. Her fire. Her stubborn, reckless, impossible courage.
I take her hand. Fingers cold. She lets me lace mine through them anyway. I squeeze. She squeezes back, firm, no hesitation.
I look around the room. At Adrian. Clara. Dante. Genny.
“We do this together,” I say. “Or not at all.”
Adrian nods. Dante crosses his arms and gives a sharp chin lift. Genny cracks her knuckles.
Maya looks at us—the joined hands, the line we’re drawing—and a slow, dangerous smile spreads across her face. “With pleasure.”
She hits the key.
“It's live,” she says.
No dramatics. No countdown. Just that. All that.
