He doesn’t respond right away. Quiet is his language. It sits on my shoulder like weight.
Then, almost like he can’t help the precision, he nods at my stick. “You’ve taped that thing three times.”
I stop. Look down.
He’s right. The blade’s already sealed. Clean. Perfect.
Fuck.
I pick up the phone.
Unknown group chat. Someone added me five minutes ago. No intro. No context. Just a screenshot sitting at the top like a corpse.
It only takes one asshole with my number and a platform that doesn’t care what I consent to.
A campus account. The Briarcliff Whisperer. Anonymous handle. Text post, stark white against black.
Guess which star hockey player has a secret DUI arrest that his rich daddy swept under the rug? #BriarcliffWhisperer
Overnight.
Of course it’s overnight.
My throat goes tight. Recognition hits first.
This is worse.
“Jesus,” Adrian mutters, leaning in before I can stop him.
“Don’t,” I snap.
He straightens immediately. No apology. No pushback. Just a clean retreat like he touched a hot wire and decided he likes his skin. “Alright.”
The chat starts moving.
Who is it?
Rossi?
No way.
Money talks, I guess.
My jaw locks. I don’t type. Don’t react. Don’t give it oxygen.
Silence has always been the rule in my family. The first one. The only one that mattered. You protect people. You protect the name. You take the hit and keep your mouth shut because it gets handled above your head.
Except it doesn’t feel like handling anymore.
It feels like handing them the leash.
The locker room door opens, and Dante walks in, gear bag slung over his shoulder. He slows when he clocks my posture. Assessment—like he’s checking for blood he can’t see.
Cole follows, quiet, eyes sweeping once across the room and landing on me like a measurement.
Declan drifts in a second later, silent, gaze sharp as he takes in the tension radiating off the wall.
No one asks what’s wrong first.
