“A journalist then,” I decided, and my thoughts went straight to Ari. She could do it. She could break the story. In the past few years, she’d amassed a decent amount of a following and respect. “I know someone who’d be willing to talk to you guys. Write a story.”
“Then what?” Weston shook his head. “If people know, Axe and Bill will refute the claims. It’s our word against theirs. Covee, people aren’t like you. On a whole, they don’t care. A couple of football players get knocked around, so what? People already think we’re idiots ready and willing to get brain damage for this sport. They’ll say we knew what we were getting ourselves into.”
I blinked, wordless. I couldn’t argue with him because his prediction was accurate. At least, from my experience with Taylor and Elena. People would say these guys knew what would happen.
“Then, there’s something in between,” I decided in a low, wondering voice. “Between my answer and yours. Something we’re not seeing.”
“If it is, I don’t have time to figure it out,” Weston said. He reached up to brush his thumb across my neck. I leaned into his touch. “Axe and Bill want the favor by the end of next week. If I don’t do it, then things are going to change, things are gonna get harder.”
“You can’t-”
“I’m not,” he said and pressed his forehead against mine. “I’m not hurting Dakota. I never could, I don’t know why I even considered trying to convince him. But I will hurt them.”
“How will that solve anything?”
“It’s not supposed to. Do you honestly think some breaking story is going to stop men like Axe and Bill? Maybe they’ll get fired. They’ll find another job with all their connections. Maybe next time at a high school. You think if college students won’t speak up, high schoolers will?” Weston explained.
“You…” I trailed off. He had a point. A stupidly violent point.
“My way is supposed to teach them a lesson. Scare them. It’ll ruin me, I know. Still, I want to burn my house down before they do it for me. I want that control.”
“Will you wait? Let me talk to my friend first,” I said. “She’s smart. Together, we’ve covered a lot of stories. We show people the truth. And she’s good at getting them to care.”
“It. Won’t. Work,” he mumbled in a tired voice. “I’ve tried to get people to care. It’s rare.”
“But not impossible,” I said in a pleading tone. I reached up to run my fingers across his jaw. “Please? Give me some time.”
Weston opened his eyes. The swirling colors of blue and green were sad. His shoulder sagged, giving into defeat. I nudged my nose against his to remind him I wasn’t giving up.
“You have the next few days,” he told me. “Once we get back to campus, I’m doing this my way.”
I nodded. “Deal.”
Chapter 33
“Relax for the night,”Weston begged when he saw me open my laptop.
For about a half-hour, Weston worked on cleaning up his childhood bedroom for us to sleep. His blue sheets with helicopters smelt of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Once he finished washing, he laid out a towel for me to shower while he went out to grab our food.
Now, he stood in his doorway with a frown and a bag of Chinese food. He wore an expression of disappointment as he eyed the notebook on my lap.
“I wanted to get a head start on some research,” I explained while tugging a blanket around my shoulders. “I emailed Ari, but she won’t get back to me until tomorrow. Different time zone.”
“Let’s talk about that later,” he ordered while walking over to lay out our dinner at the foot of the bed. “I told you, we’re trying to be who we would have been. Can you indulge me? At least for a little while.”
I bit my lip, weighing the pros and cons. He read my debating expression and cocked his eyebrow up in response.
“Or do I have to indulge you to get your attention, Cove?” he offered.
A small laugh escaped my lips. My stomach fluttered with a familiar feeling of desire. “Maybe.”
“Are you offering an appetizer?” He chuckled when I gave him a weak shrug. “Still too shy to ask? How many times do I have to offer for you to understand I’m always down?”
“I’m not shy,” I refuted and reached for the pair of chopsticks he held out.
“Then what do you call the red in your cheeks?” he tested while opening a box of noodles. The powerful smell of soy sauce filtered into the air, overwhelming the room.
“Anxiety,” I told him after a few minutes of thinking.
