Page 9

“Then you have to fix this.”

“The damage is done. There is no fixing it, Sam.”

“Yes, there is, George. Make him confess, just as he made you.”

I let out a dry, hollow chuckle. “He doesn’t feel guilty for what he did to me. He feels proud. He isn’t going to confess. It’s over. Coach is going to kick me out any second.”

Sam stepped closer, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. “It’s not over. I’m still the Captain. And you're still my brother. I’m going to convince Coach. I’ll say I saw the whole thing, he framed you, he swung first. I’ll get the rest of the O-line to back it up."

I looked at him, stunned. "Sam, I’m burned. Don’t risk your career for me. Standing up for a 'bully' could ruin your draft stock, too.”

"Then let it. I said you’re my brother, and I’m standing by you,” Sam snapped, his jaw setting in that stubborn line I’d known for a decade. “If Sig doesn't feel guilty, then use his pride. Let him brag about it. Trap him like he trapped you. Do whatever the fuck it takes. Bring him to his fucking knees.”

I met his determined gaze and finally nodded.

“Good. I’ll go talk to Coach.”

I watched him walk away, his cleats echoing down the hall like a drumbeat. He was willing to risk everything for me. I couldn’t let him down. Santiago had crossed the line. I had asked for forgiveness; I may have deserved his cruelty, but I didn’t deserve to have my life burned to the ground.

I wasn't going to let him get away with it. Whatever it took, I’d bring Santiago to his knees.

Chapter Four

Santiago

My eyes burned as I stared into the mirror. The cold porcelain of the sink was the only thing keeping me anchored. I leaned heavily against it, forcing myself to look up, forcing myself to face the man in the glass.

My eyes were a bloodshot, watery mess. The tear tracks on my cheeks were still wet, catching the harsh, buzzing overhead light of the bathroom. I reached up and traced one of the damp trails with a trembling finger. It looked so real. It looked so real to everyone out there, too.

“He just lunged at me,” I had sobbed, my voice breaking in a way that made my stomach turn. “I didn't do anything, I swear, he just attacked me.”

They bought it. Right now, they’re probably out there comforting each other, whispering about what a monster George is, completely blind to the fact that they just witnessed a performance of perfection. I manipulated them, and I was good at it.

I gripped the edges of the sink until my knuckles turned white. "He deserved it," I whispered to the empty room. My voice sounded hollow, bouncing off the tile. "He deserved it." I tried to convince myself.

“He did. George bullied me for months, now he wants to be a saint.” He needed to face it, and traditional rules weren’t going to cut it. I did what I had to do to reveal his true nature. To win.

But as I stared at my reflection, the justification tasted like ash in my mouth. A sickening weight settled deep in my chest. Reminding me that I stooped so low. I did exactly what I hated.

Years ago, I made a promise to myself; a sacred, unbreakable vow forged in the wreckage of my past: I will never be a victim again. I swore I would never let anyone see me small, weak, or pleading. I was going to be the one who stood tall, the one who held the power.

Yet there I was, intentionally shrinking myself. I put on the performance of a wounded dog, crying fake tears and weaponizing my own vulnerability just to destroy a man. I didn't just play the victim; I became the very thing I despised, all for a tactical advantage.

I turned on the faucet, letting the freezing water run over my hands before splashing it onto my face. It shocked my skin, but it didn't wash away the grime coating the inside of my skull.

George was ruined, just like I wanted. But looking at the red-eyed stranger in the mirror, I couldn't help but wonder, why did it not feel like a victory?

George

I PULLED MY PHONE FROM my bag. My lock screen was a digital graveyard, notifications flooded the display with social media mentions, blurry screenshots of the Jumbotron, and that final, panicked video from the parking lot. The internet was already tearing me limb from limb.

I ignored the insults; the accusations and searched for Sig’s handle. He hadn't posted anything yet. He was likely savoring the silence, waiting for the perfect moment to hammer the final nail into my coffin.

I sat down on the wooden bench, my massive frame making the old timber creak under the weight. I began to type, my fingers steady now, fueled by a cold, concentrated fire.

George: You won. Coach is done with me. The scouts aren't calling. Are you happy now?

It was pathetic. It was a white flag. It was exactly the surrender he wanted to see.