He nods slowly, accepting this the way he accepts most things—without judgment and without follow-up questions. He slides a package of scones into the display case, each one placed with the same obsessive care he gave the muffins. “Kyle says thinkingtoo much is bad for you.”
“Kyle thinks everything is bad for you.”
“He’s usually right.”
I can’t argue with that.
Another clusterof summer school students rolls in around nine, and for a while, I’m lost in the rhythm of orders. Oat milk latte, extra hot. Cold brew with vanilla. Matcha something-or-other that takes four steps and makes me question my career choices.
Alex handles the register surprisingly well; his interactions with customers are limited to the minimum words required to complete a transaction. “Size? Name? Card or cash?”
Around nine-thirty, the rush dies down to a trickle, and I flip the little clock sign on the counter that says BACK IN 15.
I grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge behind the counter and drop into one of the chairs near the back wall, where customers can’t see me. My legs stretch out, and I tip my head back. Every muscle in my body is still sore from Saturday night’s Olympic sprint across campus, and sitting down is cathartic.
Alex appears a moment later, settling into the chair across from me. He has a glass of water and a scone he broke in half, eating it in tiny, meticulous bites. For a full minute, neither of us speaks. Then Alex looks up from his scone.
“What was it like?” he asks.
“What was what like?”
“Jail.”
I take a long sip of water, buying time. “Honestly? Imagine being crammed into a concrete room the size of a bathroom with six other guys, all but one of whom are naked and don’t have any concept of personal space.”
Alex’s eyes widen fractionally. A normal person wouldn’tcatch it, but I’ve spent enough time with him to read the micro-expressions.
“Gerard curled up on the floor like a giant hairless dog and fell asleep in about three minutes,” I continue. “Drew and Jackson spent half the night arguing about whether the university owes us emotional damages. Nathan snored. And the bench—” I wince at the memory. “The bench was this slab of concrete that I’m pretty sure was designed by someone who actively hates the human spine. My ass went numb within twenty minutes, and I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean, I literally could not feel my ass.”
Alex blinks. “That sounds terrible.”
“Itwasterrible. And cold.”
“Did you sleep?” Alex asks, pulling apart another tiny piece of scone.
“An hour at most. Hard to sleep when Nathan’s snoring rivals a malfunctioning garbage disposal, and Drew kept muttering legal precedents in his sleep.” I pause, turning the water bottle in my hands. “But it wasn’t all bad.”
Alex tilts his head.Go on.
“Ryan was there.” I don’t miss the way my own voice softens. Traitor. “We talked for the first time in years. And yeah, the circumstances were objectively terrible—me naked, us freezing, sitting on what amounted to a medieval torture device—but it was also kind of…” I search for the word. “Refreshing. To be in the same room without him running away.”
Alex considers this, chewing thoughtfully. “What happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“The consequences.” He says it plainly, the way someone might ask what time the store closes. “For the pool and getting caught.”
“That’s the million-dollar question. From what I’ve gathered, Dean Morris isn’t expelling anyone—apparently, the boosters would have his head if he kicked out the championship team. But he’s not letting it slide either.”
“So what then?”
“We find out tomorrow.” I drum my fingers against the water bottle. “There’s a meeting. Ten a.m. at the library, which is a weird place to hear our verdict, if you ask me. Everyone who got caught has to show up. Gerard, Drew, Nathan, Jackson, me, Ryan—the whole crew.” I grimace. “In clothes, presumably, though nobody specified.”
Alex processes this with a slow nod. His eyes drift to the window, where a pair of students cross the sunlit quad with iced coffees from the rival café down the street.
“Kyle’s worried,” Alex says after a beat, and the admission clearly costs him something, because his gaze drops to his scone and stays there.
“About what? You two pulled the greatest vanishing act since D.B. Cooper.”
