Zoë
The air outside the library hits me like a slap—cold, sharp, carrying the bite of rain and exhaust. It’s a rude awakening after the climate-controlled hush of the stacks. My boots crunch on the gravel path, the sound too loud in the stretched space between Gio and me.
Silence.
He doesn’t look at me. He just walks—long stride, purpose-driven, tension rolling off him in a way that vibrates against my skin. The deal is done. The terms are set.
The quiet feels like we’re moving toward a cliff edge.
“Where are we going?” I ask, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. The strap digs in, a physical reminder of the weight I just agreed to carry.
“Penalty Box,” he says.
I stop. “Absolutely not.”
He takes two more steps before he registers I’m no longer beside him. Then he turns. The streetlamp catches the hard line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. He looks exhausted.
He also looks like he doesn’t care what I want.
“It’s a Wednesday,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “The team will be there. The gossip mill will be operating at maximum capacity. Walking in there with you right now isn’t a narrative, Gio. It’s a suicide pact.”
“Exactly.”
He walks back toward me, closing the distance until he’s crowding my space again. He does that—invades my perimeter like he owns the zoning rights.
“They’re expecting me to hide,” he says, voice low. “They’re expecting me to hole up in the townhouse with the blinds drawn. If we show up at the Box—if we get a table, eat food—it tells them I’m not scared.”
“It tells them you’re stupid,” I counter.
“It tells them the story is changing.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes.
“You wanted to see how this works, Zoë? This is how it works. We don’t run from the noise. We get louder than it.”
I stare at him.
He’s serious.
He’s proposing we walk straight into the lion’s den—the place where every rumor gets dissected over cheap wings and lukewarm beer—and perform the first act of our arrangement.
“You’re using me as bait,” I say.
“I’m using you as a shield,” he corrects. “And you’re using me for access. We both get what we want.”
I hate that the logic holds. If I want Elena Moretti—if I want the door that opens—I have to pay. The currency is my reputation. The venue is a sports bar.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m driving.”
“No.”
“I’m not getting into your car, Gio. I don’t trust your temper behind the wheel right now, and I’m not letting you drive us to the Penalty Box.”
His jaw ticks. He looks like he wants to argue, then checks the impulse. “Fine. We walk.”
The Penalty Box is exactly what it sounds like. Dark wood. Neon signs advertising domestic beer. Walls plastered with framed jerseys—players who went pro, players who didn’t. The air inside is thick with fried food, yeast, and testosterone.
Loud in the specific way sports bars are loud. Televisions blare replays from two nights ago. Pool balls crack. Laughter roars.
