I stared at the thin wall separating my room from his. I would usually hear him moving around, whether it was the creak of Aleksey’s mattress or him muttering when his alarm went off. But this morning, the other side of the wall was dead quiet.
Staring at the blank plaster did nothing except drag back up all the memories: the way his face shut down every time he tried to ice me out, the flat tone he used when he reminded me what Hastings would do to a guy with no backup plan.
Aleksey had spelled it out to me a dozen times, and I’d nodded along and then kissed him anyway, because wanting him had always been louder than thinking straight. Now his scholarship was gone, his draft spot was dead, and the only thing my stubborn ass had managed to do was prove him right.
I reached across and rubbed the bite mark on my shoulder, pressing into the scar tissue until it ached. A dull pressure locked up behind my ribs. No more weight pinning me to the mattress. No more rough grip on my hip. The silence in the room pressed in from all sides until breathing felt like work.
I pulled a hoodie over my head and stepped into the hallway. The old floorboards groaned under my weight, and the usual noise of the house, the low chatter, the distant thud of a door closing, cut off the second I cleared my door.
For months now, my last name and Elliot’s captain patch had bought me a thin layer of tolerance in this place. Nodding in the stairwell, maybe a few words here and there. Nothing warm, but functional.
That layer was gone.
Angel Perez stood near the top of the stairs with three other guys. They were talking fast in hushed voices, but the second my door clicked shut, the conversation died off.
Four sets of eyes locked onto me.
Perez held his ground, his upper lip curling before he shook his head and looked away. One of the guys behind him shifted his weight.
“Hey,” I started, taking a step forward. “Did he text you after he left?”
Perez let out a short, ugly laugh and finally met my eyes. “Are you serious right now?”
“I just want to know if he got to the station.”
“He’s gone, Johnston.” Perez jerked his chin toward the stairs. “That’s the whole point. You don’t get to check in on him anymore.”
Before I could answer, Perez turned his back and headed down the wooden stairs, the other three falling in behind him without a single glance back. Retreating into my empty bedroom, I snatched my phone off the bed just to have something to look at.
A voicemail from my mother sat in the queue from late last night. I hit play. Her polished country club voice asked about my classes, chatted about the weather, kept things light in that practiced, distant tone she used to skate over rough patches, and I deleted it before she finished her sentence.
I pressed my thumbs into my eyes until spots bloomed against the dark. Waiting around for Aleksey to walk back through that door was going to drive me insane, and option A was let him go, let the resignation stick, let Hastings win.
I couldn’t do it.
If I’d helped bury him by refusing to back down, then I’d unbury him the only way the Johnstons knew how. Throw money and influence at the problem until Hastings flinched.
Grabbing my keys, I headed downstairs and walked down the street to where my car was parked in the frat house lot. It was the only place I knew of that I could get total privacy for the phone call I was about to make.
I slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut against the wind outside.
Starting the engine, I chewed hard on my bottom lip to steady my racing nerves. As the car’s Bluetooth connected, theloud dial tone for my father’s private number came through the speakers.
The ringing stopped.
“Karter. I’m in between meetings,” my father answered, his smooth boardroom voice filling the car. “What is it?”
“Hey, Dad. Sorry to interrupt,” I started, forcing a polite, casual tone. I needed to play this perfectly. “How are the merger negotiations going?”
“We are finalizing the paperwork tomorrow. Get to the point, please.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “Right. Umm, there is a situation with the hockey team. One of my teammates, Aleksey Zotov, just got hit with a totally baseless Title IX complaint. Trenton Wright filed it because he is pissed about ice time. Aleksey is a good guy, Dad, but he cannot afford to fight the administration. I was hoping you could make a call to Mr. Hastings. Maybe send one of the firm’s lawyers to look into it?”
An inaudible sigh came through the speakers. “I am already fully aware of the situation. Gerry Hastings called me at six o’clock this morning.”
My grip tightened on the wheel. Hastings. Of course, the Athletic Director had the major university donors on speed dial.
“Then you know they are railroading him,” I pressed, trying to keep my voice steady. “We need to help Aleksey.”
