I sit there, cap still in my hand, feeling the weight of both of them pressing down on me.Coach’s quiet defense.My dad’s cold dismissal.The two of them couldn’t be more different.One sees me.The other sees the version of me he wishes I’d be.
My dad stands, still wearing that half-disappointed look he always keeps in his back pocket.He stares down at me for a beat too long, to make sure I’m ready for whatever shitty parting words he’s about to throw my way.
“Don’t fuck it up,” he says flatly.No warmth.Just pressure, like always.
Then he turns and walks out without saying another word, the door swinging shut behind him.
Coach exhales and gets up from his seat and walks around the table.“Reece,” he says, calm but firm, “you don’t owe him anything.You’ve earned this.”
I exhale.“It’s always been this way, Coach.”
He nods.“I know.Perhaps it’s a good thing you’re leaving that house next year.That place hasn’t been good for you in a long time.”He points to the Mayfair cap.“This is your chance to figure out who you are.Not just a player.But a person.”
“Thanks, Coach.”I walk toward the door, cap in my hand.
The hallway is lively, buzzing like always during lunchtime, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, voices echoing off the walls in a chaotic, messy rhythm that’s just part of school life.I weave through the crowd, still riding the high.My fingers curl around the brim of the Mayfair cap in my hand, brushing over the stitched logo.It’s real.It fucking happened.
But then I hear it.
“Guess he needed practice, huh?”
Sweet on the surface, rotten underneath.That voice could peel fucking paint off the walls.
Nicole.
She’s standing dead center in the cafeteria, right under the harsh fluorescent lights, with her small audience gathered around her.Every eye in the room begins to turn toward her, feeding off the tension it always does.
Her voice rings out again, this time louder.
“Poor Sam.She gave up her virginity for a two-hundred-dollar bet and didn’t even get a thank you.”
Laughter erupts around her, ugly and harsh—the kind that makes your skin crawl.
I freeze in the doorway, my vision narrowing until all I see is her.
Red.
She’s standing there, caught in the spotlight of every stare in the cafeteria.Frozen.Exposed.
Nicole is positioned directly in front of her, with all her minions surrounding Sam, blocking any escape routes.
Sam’s face is pale, eyes wide, lips slightly parted as if she wants to speak, but no words come out.
And the worst part is no one is fucking stepping in or stopping it.They’re all watching it unfold.
Nicole keeps moving, eyes fixed on Sam.
“Tell me, was he any good, Sam?Or was it part of the assessment, you know extra credit for cock?”
My stomach turns.
Nicole’s minions laugh loudly and forcibly, as if it’s the funniest joke they’ve ever heard.They soak it up, playing their role, eager for her approval.
But the rest of the cafeteria doesn’t join in.They simply stare— silent and uncomfortable— because they all know exactly what Nicole is like.
And ever since Tia was knocked off her throne, Nicole has been worse.Meaner.Louder.Crueler in ways that aren’t even subtle anymore, to remind everyone she wants to run the room.
This isn’t gossip; it’s a public execution.
