The rage made me sloppy. It cost me my crease. I won’t make that mistake again. Coach wants professional distance? Fine. I’ll play from the shadows. I’m not backing down—I’m just going dark.
Chapter 6
Talia
Thesilenceofmydorm is a fading echo. The noise of the main hall is a physical assault slamming into my skull.
It's not just the muffled chaos of a hundred conversations ricocheting off high ceilings; it’s the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the rumble of carts, the heavy thud of a textbook dropped like a gunshot. A door bangs somewhere down the corridor, and my shoulders spike like a fist swung too close.
I keep my head down, hoodie pulled low, hands shoved deep in my pockets. The strap of my bag slices across my chest like a shackle. My spine remains rigid, taut with tension that promises violence. I am not a tightly coiled spring—springs just react. I’m a fighter already losing the war.
I’m just trying to get to class. Trying to be invisible.
But the noise follows me, today wearing a new texture. A new name.
“…Reid just lost it, man…”
I don’t turn my head. I keep moving.Don’t listen. It’s none of my business. Don’t let it in.
“…doesn’t make sense. Reid is a machine. He doesn’t talk, let alone fight…”
“…had him pinned by the throat. They said he looked like he was going to kill him…”
My pace quickens. It’s not the violence that rattles everyone; it’s who committed it. The campus isn’t buzzing about a fight; they’re whispering about a glitch in the system. The stone wall cracked. The machine broke.
My world is small by design. I have my room, my classes, my fiercely guarded circle of friends. That’s all I can handle. I’m furious this—this disruption—is invading even that sanctuary.
“…Coach Addison ended practice early. Cleared the room…”
My father’s name slaps me hard enough to stop my breath. My heart kicks against my ribs, a wild animal desperate to escape. I feign checking my bag, letting a wave of students wash past, their voices a watercolor blur of rumor and exaggeration. But it doesn’t matter.
The fact that his anger is a headline in the hallway makes bile rise in my throat.
Reid. Declan Reid.
The name doesn’t fit the image: the man I saw at the bar, the one who checks the exits, the solid wall of heat pressed against me. The man who waited until my door was locked. He was a fortress of control. He was still. He was quiet.
I should’ve known. Still water always hides the most dangerous undertow.
I shake my head, tug my hood lower, pushing back against the current of bodies, unease curdling into that familiar, quiet dread. I need to find Clara. I promised I’d meet them for lunch.
It’s an act of reclamation. A test. He doesn’t get to take this, too. He doesn’t get to have cafeterias. He doesn’t get to have friends. Forcing myself to go is the only way to win. If I start avoiding anything linked to his name, I’ll have to stop existing.
I spot them through the glass doors. The sprawling Titans table at the center of the room—the new normal. A knot of navy and gray hoodies occupies the loudest part of the cafeteria, like they’ve claimed center ice here, too. A phantom image fills the empty stretch near the end: black hoodie, head down, green eyes taking in everything.
You can do this. It’s just noise.
The cafeteria is hell reborn. Louder. Brighter. I push the door open, and the clang of silverware against ceramic, the scrape of chairs, the high, sharp laughter—all hit me like a punch. Overhead lights glare off stainless steel and glass, too bright, too exposed.
I weave through the tables, shoulders tight. Every step is a choice.Don’t flinch. Don’t run.My boots squeak on the tile, and my heart rockets as I almost lose my footing. I don’t. I keep going.
I slide into the one empty seat Clara saved for me. She pushes a tray toward me with a small smile—soup, a roll, something normal.
“I got you the least threatening food in the building,” she says, a little joke nestled in the words.
“Low bar,” I mutter, but the corner of my mouth twitches. Familiar is work. She remembered I like soup, that I can usually manage soft food when everything in me is locked up. The gesture makes my throat burn, and I hate the vulnerability it stirs.
The table is packed. Me, Clara, Zoë, Genny, and Maya, mixed in with Adrian, Gio, Dante, and Cole. One quick, anxious scan confirms the two at the center of the rumors aren’t here. No Rylan, which isn’t surprising. No Declan.
