Silent.
I watch him walk off—heading, I think, toward the medics already moving in—blood dripping down his knees.
But then he turns to his coach on the sideline and makes a quick rotation gesture with his fingers.Sub me out.
The whole stadium lets out another disappointedoooh, and yeah—even I’m shocked.
He’s clearly not that injured. And yet he wants out.
I can feel my teammates looking at me—surprised, kind of pleased, though trying to hide it. Like they can’t believe we’re basically being handed this win.
But I don’t feel pleased. There’s this sticky guilt in my chest, like—what the hell did I do?
And what the fuck happened to Sawyer Moon?
CHAPTER 3. TRICK OR TREAT
The gay club Eric takes us to on Saturday is calledThe Velvet Flute. I only find that out when we’re already in line for face control out front—because all week, he’s been calling itTVF.
Which, yeah, makes total sense now—he knew I’d say no the second I heard the full name. And yes, it means exactly what you think it means. The logo’s a giant neon sign of a mouth licking a flute. Like, with tongue.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” I say, turning to Eric, who’s grinning like an idiot—at me and at my brother.
Eric’s dressed as Conan the Barbarian, which basically means he’s almost naked except for some leather-fur shorts, sandals, and way too many accessories.
People are actually staring at him—because his muscles look like he’s been dehydrating for three days.
“The Velvet Flute? Seriously?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s so cliché.”
“It’s post-ironic,” Eric says, laughing, one hand on the handle of his oversized sword. “Reviews said it’s the biggest and best gay club in Dallas. Don’t worry, it’s not as kinky as it sounds.”
“They said the cocktails are good too,” my brother Nick adds, tipping the giant striped hat from his ridiculous Cat-in-the-Hat costume.
I sigh and leave out the part where I don’t even like cocktails. No need to be the buzzkill.
The line moves fast, and soon we’re at the front, facing the bouncer—a big bald guy in a black T-shirt and jeans. The only Halloween part of his outfit is a pair of vampire fangs, which I only notice when he looks straight at me and says,
“Take off your mask, please.”
I peel the plastic up off my face and look at him. I’m wearing one of those Squid Game guard uniforms—which, yeah, I know, not the most original costume—but at least it keeps me anonymous.
For a split second, I see recognition flicker in the bouncer’s eyes.
Then he smiles and says, “Congratulations on the win this week, Mr. Woods.”
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a quick smile, though I’m already itching to pull the mask back down.
He waves all three of us inside—but doesn’t recognize Eric. Which always kind of amazes me, honestly. Sometimes I think Eric has an actual superpower—he takes off his soccer uniform and suddenly people just see a hot guy, not that guy.
And yeah, I envy that. Especially now, because this mask is already starting to suffocate me.
We walk into a dark vestibule and follow the thump of music into a packed upper level—a balustrade overlooking the bar and dance floor below, both crammed with people in Halloween costumes.
Some are basic—devils, angels, vampires, housemaids. Others are just…weird. I spot a falling Tower of Pisa, a bottle of Tylenol, a pregnant Edward Cullen, and what I think is a torn condom.
Eric steers Nick and me down the stairs, his hands hovering at our backs like he’s afraid we’ll get lost in the crowd—or trip over our own ridiculous costumes.
I’m already seriously considering taking off my mask. I can barely see, and honestly, I doubt anyone could recognize me in this green strobe lighting anyway.
