“Coach Addison,” he says, like it’s an inside joke. “We should probably talk.”
“We shouldn’t.”
Rylan waves it off. “It got messy. You know how things spiral.”
“I do.”
He leans in slightly, voice dropping like this is a favor. “People screw up. No reason to burn the house down.”
The assumption hangs there—dense and ugly. That I’ll absorb the weight. That I’ll smooth the edges so he doesn’t have to bleed.
“You still have his ear,” he adds. “Thought you could quiet things down.”
Quiet things down.
I let the silence stretch until his smile twitches.
“You want me to talk to Coach Addison for you,” I say. Flat. Exact.
Rylan shrugs. “I’m asking for help. Like before.”
“Coach Addison’s daughter,” I say. My voice stays level. Fact only.
Rylan’s mouth tightens. “That’s not—”
“You ran your mouth about her in front of Declan,” I cut in. “Ignored the warning. Escalated. Kept going.”
Hallway noise swells—laughter, footsteps—but the words stay where they land.
“I didn’t say anything that—”
“You said enough,” I reply. “Enough to shut you down. Enough to end your season.”
His jaw flexes. He glances past me, checking who’s close, then back.
“It got twisted,” he says. “Declan took it personal. Coach blew it up.”
“No,” I say. “You crossed the line.”
He scoffs. “It was talk.”
“It was about the coach’s daughter,” I say. “That’s the line. Period.”
Rylan shifts, irritation cracking through now that the script failed.
“That’s why I’m here.”
There it is, then.
“I need you to talk to Coach Addison,” he says. “Tell him it won’t happen again. Tell him I understand now. I just need another shot.”
He spreads his hands, frustration flashing.
“I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to help.”
The request lands heavy and foul.
Zoë wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t shrink it. Wouldn’t sand it down. She’d name it and stand there while it burned.
