His expression doesn’t shift.
“We all deal with consequences for our actions, don’t we, Rowden?”
I roll my eyes at that comment. He’s just gonna keep spewing this same old bullshit?
“You’re about to make another bad decision,” I warn. “When karma comes back to bite you in the ass, remember I tried to warn you.”
Coach clenches his jaw tight. “You might want to stop talking now.”
I shrug. “You might want to remember who you’re dealing with before you go blackmailing me. You might think you canuse my future as something to hold over my head, but I think you forget you have a future at risk too.”
There’s a beat. I step back first.
“I’m very good at ending plays,” I add evenly. “Don’t make me start looking at you like one.”
He can keep trying to fuck with me. Keep benching me, pretending this is about my shoulder.
If he really thinks I leaked the story and this is his way of getting back at me, he’s wrong. I get the feeling there are others who’d gain more from this than I would.
When I walk back into the locker room, the guys are all quieter than they were before. Like they were holding their breath.
“Again?” Owen asks, like he already knows.
“Yep.”
“He still sayin’ it’s about your shoulder?” Kade asks.
“That’s what he’s callin’ it anyway.”
Nobody says anything else. But it’s there, hanging in the room with us.
I sit down at my stall and start putting on my pads. While I’m sitting out, I know they still want me suited up so they can play it off like I’m playing backup goalie.
My phone buzzes on the shelf behind me. I stand to grab it, noticing a message came through from an unknown number.
I almost put it back, but then I notice it’s an attachment. Instead, I click to open it.
There’s a photo.
It takes me a second to place it. It’s angled from above, like someone is standing over a table. Or a desk.
And then it hits me. It’s the desk in my bedroom.
I recognize the leather strap first in the background. It’s my black notebook. The same one I’ve been using to write gamenotes, but more recently to track everything that hasn’t lined up with Coach.
I was sure I packed it for this trip. Thought it was in my bag with the rest of my stuff. But my luggage isn’t even with me right now.
The strap in the background is Brinley’s backpack. There’s a faint tear near the buckle. I’ve noticed it before, every time she slides it off her shoulder.
I look back at the notebook. My handwriting stretches across the page—notes crammed into the margins with dates, random observations, and Coach’s name written more than once.
My stomach drops, and I collapse onto the bench again.
Another message comes through.
Unknown: Didn’t take her long to tell your secret too.
Unknown: Some people don’t know how to keep things to themselves.
