“I’m not gonna sugarcoat this,” she snaps. “I am livid.”
My stomach sinks. “Coach?—”
“No. You listen.”
Her eyes glitter with a mix of anger and fear, the kind only adults who actually give a damn ever show.
“All the social posts. All the gossip. The press. The lawyers sniffing around. The lawsuits.” She shakes her head. “It’s a circus. And Jade—your Jade—she thinks unplugging fixes it. But it doesn’t. This kind of exposure?” She jabs a finger at me. “It can nuke a scholarship career.”
Ice crawls under my skin.
“What do you mean?”
“Universities don’t want drama.” Her voice sharpens. “They don’t care whose fault it is. They don’t care if she’s the victim. If her name keeps showing up next to ‘incident’ and ‘scandal’—they’ll drop her. Fast.”
My pulse spikes.
“She worked her whole life for this,” Coach Roman continues. “And it’s slipping. Because a bunch of spoiled, bored, vindictive girls decided to make a point.”
I clench my fists so hard my nails cut my palms.
“I’m gonna fix this shit for her,” I say.
“You better,” she shoots back. “Or everything she built—everything she bled for—is going nowhere, Leo.”
Her words land like a punch.
I walk out, chest burning, and slam my fist into the nearest locker. The metal dents inward with a sick echo.
Xavier appears like he was waiting.
“Come with me,” he says. “And leave your phone.”
I toss mine into my locker. Tristan does the same. X shuts the door, spins the lock, and nods.
We head out to the quad, choosing a corner behind the science building where the cameras don’t reach.
X checks over both shoulders, then finally speaks.
“Mindy came through.”
My heart spikes.
“She got us the name of the housekeeper’s cousin’s-in-law,” X says, lowering his voice. “The one who actually bought the supplies. Cash. Out of state.”
“And?” I grit.
“And she’s scared,” he says. “She’s got paper receipts. Literal receipts. And an audio clip of Bianca and Nadia asking her to buy everything. Plus the threat about deportation.”
My blood goes cold.
X smirks. “And you know my dad works high up in AI and IT. We can trace, verify, authenticate. Ironclad.”
“Good,” I say. “Pay her a hundred grand for everything.”
Tristan chokes. “A hundred?—”
“Pay her,” I repeat. “She deserves it. And we bring all of it straight to the cops. And the lawyers. No more school board bullshit.”
