“Fine. I’ll do it,” she says, her eyes moving towards the phone in my hand. “But if you ever use that, I’ll make sure you choke on it.”
I nod, agreeing with her threat. “Fair enough.”
She grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and walks out without another word. The heels of her boots echo down the hallway. I stay behind, staring at the drawing of the bleeding crown; it’s not just art. It's a prophecy.
My phone buzzes again.
My blood turns to ice; my heart grows painfully slow. The room tilts. June. Ezra. It didn’t make any sense. I scroll down, unable to process the news. There’s a blurred screenshot, with a timestamp that places them together two weeks before her death. I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t need confirmation. I know that room. I know that bed, and I know all those tattoos. They belong to Ezra. And I know what this means. Wasting no time, I storm out of the room, making my way towards the locker room. By the time I reach the dead fields, the boys are already gathering. Nico’s face is pale despite all the purple and green bruises that adorn his face. Zayden’s mouth is clamped shut, and Ezra stands in the center, unreadable as ever.
Wyatt is the first to speak. “Is this fake?”
Ezra doesn’t answer, because it’s not. And suddenly, everything we built—every lie, every alliance, every sacrifice—is hanging by a thread, and who knows who's holding the scissors.
Chapter Twelve
Zayden
Ijust wanted to play.
Escape the confines of my room and breathe. I should have known that there’s no such thing as peace in a place that harbors so many secrets. If it’s not one thing, it’s always another. Villalargos is the gift that keeps on fucking giving, and this time, I’m actually not mad. The internal satisfaction of not being wrong has the corner of my lip lifting slightly. I’ve never trusted any of these assholes, and Ezra… to me, he is no different than the donors. It’s something about him that makes me feel uneasy, makes the alarm bells in my head go off. Alerting me that he’s not what he appears to be.
My gaze roams between the boys, and everyone looks at Ezra—waiting for an answer. I don’t give a shit. All I wanted was a distraction from the conflicting emotions that swim inside me. Resentment and grief wrestle for the spotlight within my heart, unable to decide which one of them is winning. One always comes with the other, and maybe that’s exactly what I’m supposed to be feeling. After all, my father is dead.
The field is a war zone, and the tension is so thick it’s almost suffocating. Adrenaline and testosterone run high, and not the way it surges before a game, but the kind that demands violence. I can see the disgust written all over Nico’s face. My eyes momentarily land on Thiago, who looks at Ezra like a puzzle he’s trying to decipher. Could it be that, for once, Safra wasn’t aware? Which makes me wonder about the timing of all this?Why now?It’s been months, so what is the goal?
If all these secrets are beginning to be exposed, what secret comes next? I bite the corner of my nail, eyes darting between Nico and Ezra, as my friend demands answers.
“You’re not gonna say anything.”
Ezra doesn’t speak, not even when Nico steps forward, every intentional step filled with anger. I move with him, and my hand meets his chest.
“Back off, Zayden…” he snaps, and still, I remain where I am, meeting his glare with nothing but a warning.
“It’s not worth it.” Nico's eyes narrow into thin slits, his brows drawing together as he looks at me in disbelief.
“Not worth it…” He chuckles as he mockingly echoes back my words, shaking his head before swiping away my hand in one swift movement. “All of you are so fucking full of shit.” With that, he shoves past me, beelining straight towards Ezra. Thiago moves fast, stepping between them.
“Nico, Stop.”
Of course, Nico does the opposite.
Instead, his fist flies, giving Ezra barely any time to dodge it. Once again, his fist pulls back and surges forward. This time, Thiago catches the second swing… with his face. What a beautiful, yet punchable face. The blow lands hard, causing Safra to stumble, his hand flying towards the spot where Nico’s fist connected. His gaze flicks up to Nico, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.
I don’t think… I just move, grabbing Nico by the collar and dragging him out of the chaos before he digs himself into more shit. He fights me at first.
“Let me the fuck go,” he snarls.
I don’t, and once he realizes I’m not letting up, he gives up. We move deeper into the fields, towards the storage unit outside the locker rooms. Still holding on to his collar, I pop open the metal storage unit and grab one of the soccer balls.
Right now, Nico doesn’t need words. He needs an outlet, and for as long as I’ve known him, this has been ours.
Field therapy.
I drop the ball to the ground. Eyeing it curiously, his feet move towards it before one lands right above it. The ball is nestled safely beneath the sole of his shoe; he's not in proper cleats, but for now it will do. The field is half frozen, the grass brittle beneath our feet. The wind bites into my bones, but neither of us complains.
Nico’s foot continues to hover over the ball, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kick it straight into my chest. But he doesn’t, he just taps it forward, and well, I chase it.
Without a word, we fall into a familiar feeling. This is how we’ve always dealt with shit—by moving. The ball skids across the frost, my shoes slip when I kick, and my knees collapse into the grass. Nico is fast, already cutting through the field with sharp, controlled strides. He traps the ball with the inside of his foot, pivots, and drags it back with the sole before flicking it forward again.
