Someone at the next table laughs too loud. A fork clinks. The sound grates against my nerves.
Adrian clears his throat like he might say something, then checks the time instead.
“Practice in an hour,” he says to the table.
Not to me.
I nod once.
Letting it sit stays an option. Playing contained stays an option. Doing what Coach wants and keeping it from spreading stays an option.
But containment is only half the job.
The other half is deciding who bleeds first.
“Didn’t know I was this interesting,” I say, dry enough to cut. “Usually I have to score a hat trick to get this kind of attention.”
Dante huffs a short laugh. Not relief. Recognition. Acknowledge the blade, don’t flinch.
Across the room, near the glass wall that separates the dining hall from the café line, I catch movement.
Zoë.
She’s in her own lane—coffee in hand, bag slung over her shoulder like she belongs to no one. Lunch traffic flows around her because people make space without realizing they’re doing it.
She’s angled just enough that I know she sees the table.
Sees me.
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t step in.
Everyone else is reacting.
She’s waiting.
People pass between us—students, noise, motion—but the line holds. That deliberate stillness from earlier is back, sharpened. Like she’s watching what silence does to me. What I do with it.
My pulse trips. Annoyed at my own body.
The awareness of her lands in the wrong place—low and hot, like the idea of getting close enough to make her break would feel like winning.
Like losing.
Like both.
I push back from the table and stand.
No announcement. No explanation.
As I dump my tray, I make another choice, clean and cold: I’m not answering a whisper column. I’m not begging campus to believe me. I’m not performing innocence for people who want spectacle.
I’m going to find where Rylan hid the blade. And then I’m going to decide when to turn it.
I glance once more through the glass.
Zoë’s eyes are on me—steady, unreadable, sharp enough to cut.
She gives me nothing.
