Chapter 3
Blake
Ishove a handful of questionably expired protein bars into my duffel bag and try not to scream.
The room is starting to look so empty now.
Mayson’s half has been bare since the beginning of the Rites.
One day, I came home from class and all her stuff was just…
gone. No warning. No apology. Just a text that said, “Don’t be mad, I swear I’ll explain later,” followed by a photo of her annoying-as-hell stepbrother gripping her favorite throw pillow like a trophy, stone-faced and smug.
He didn’t even bother with a smile—just that blank, self-satisfied look he wears when he thinks he’s being clever.
The kind of face that says he knows he’s inconvenienced someone and he’s proud of it.
That’s Colin’s whole thing—power plays. Stealing, hiding, dragging things out just to remind people he can.
Everyone knows he thrives on control, the kind that doesn’t matter to anyone but him, and somehow that only makes him more unbearable.
I hate that he chose her as his mark, and I hate even more that both of us are in these ridiculous situations.
She’s been living with him ever since. Claims it wasn’t her idea.
That it’s “just temporary.” But she still sends me blurry morning selfies in his hoodies, and even her complaints—“he eats like he’s prepping for the apocalypse,” “his room smells like the inside of a gym bag”—have started to sound suspiciously not-mad.
Which is exactly what this feels like now.
Not quite a kidnapping, but close. A premeditated relocation, at best. Because even though Mads couldn’t have known Doc would go full scorched-earth and exile us to the Birch Unit, I’d bet everything in my Venmo balance that he wanted it. That he counted on it.
Sometimes I wish he’d just taken a damn scholarship back in the UK instead of coming to Northgate. Played for one of those universities where the jerseys have crests and the fans chant in complete sentences.
And now I’m about to be stuck in a team-issued apartment with one bathroom, no Wi-Fi, and the human embodiment of my last fucking nerve.
Packing your entire life away in the span of a few hours should be illegal. I swear I just unpacked all of this. Organized my shelves, folded my clothes, figured out which drawer doesn’t stick. And now I’m cramming everything back into a duffle I didn’t plan on touching again until winter break.
It’s whiplash. Emotional whiplash. Drawer emptying induced whiplash.
I’m too irritated to do this with any kind of methodological approach. If it fits, it’s coming. If it doesn’t, it’s getting left behind.
The best I can hope for is that Coach releases us from our punishment (banishment) on good behavior sooner rather than later. I have too much on my plate and mind right now to also have to deal with being in such close quarters with Madsen Keller.
There’s a knock at my door, and I let out a frustrated breath that blows a sweaty strand of hair off my forehead.
I open it expecting maybe Mayson would come to rescue me with snacks and commiseration since I texted her about this shitshow. What I get instead is Mads.
Leaning on a dolly.
Stacked with empty boxes.
And standing just behind him, looking deeply apologetic and somehow still angelic despite the context, is Luca Marquez—sweeper, actual cinnamon roll, and the only guy on the men's team I’d voluntarily share oxygen with.
I love Luca for many reasons, but the one that stands out the most in my memory is because during preseason freshman year, when I sprained my ankle and was crying outside the locker room door—more out of frustration than pain—he sat next to me on the concrete and offered me half a crushed granola bar and a full breakdown of Love Is Blind.
It wasn’t the injury that got to me. I’ve played through worse. What broke me was the fact that I couldn’t prove myself in that moment, couldn’t shut everyone up about the new girl from a no-name program with a partial scholarship. I hated that they’d see me as weak, even for a second.
Luca didn’t try to tell me it was fine or that I’d bounce back. He just made me laugh until I forgot I was pissed, which, for someone like me, is basically a medical miracle.
He’s also the kind of person who texts you good luck before every game and always remembers your coffee order.
If I ever go to prison, there’s a 75% chance it’s because someone did something to upset him.
Or because I was caught with a drive full of incriminating evidence I’ve yet to send to the police, but that’s neither here nor there.
Luca makes it easy to forget that I don’t really let most people in.
Most of the time, I keep my guard up, handle my own problems, and push through whatever’s in front of me without waiting for backup.
But he has this way of slipping past all that without asking permission—like how he’s here right now and will likely be both mine and Mads’ saving grace.
And maybe that’s why I’d throw hands for him without a second thought.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, already halfway to slamming the door. But I do feel guilty about it, because Luca doesn’t deserve my wrath.
“Hi,” Mads says, annoyingly upbeat. He stops the door from closing all the way with the toe of his shoe. “We’re your court-ordered moving crew.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“No, but you need it,” he says, nudging the dolly forward with cocky ease.
His eyes flick to the wobbling top box in my arms, and before I can tighten my grip, he slides the dolly under the bottom one and steadies the stack without breaking stride.
It looks casual, effortless—like he’s just being a pain in the ass—but the way he shifts his body between me and the doorframe tells a different story.
If I trip, I’ll hit him first. If the boxes slip, he’ll take the weight.
And he does it without saying a word about any of it.
I’m about to push the way he makes me falter somewhere down deep, and tell him exactly where he can shove that dolly, when Luca hits me with a small, awkward smile—half-cringe, half-wave.
“Hey, Blake,” he says gently, like I’m a skittish cat and not a girl holding a clothes hanger in my free hand like a weapon.
“He tried to use his captain daddy voice to rope half the team into this, but I figured it would be safer for him and more bearable for you if only I supervised.”
Goddamn it.
I can’t be mad when Luca is here being all nice and helpful. That would be morally wrong.
“Fine,” I mutter, stepping back. “But if either of you so much as sideways glance at my underwear drawer, I’ll set you on fire.”
“Understood,” Luca says. “I vow to avoid eye contact with anything even remotely lacy.” He tosses me a box that has the words soccer related shit written on the side in green Sharpie. “I labeled all the boxes. And color-coded them. I hope that’s okay.”
I’m going to bake him cookies. Or knit him a thank-you scarf. Or legally adopt him. I haven’t decided yet.
“No promises,” Mads mutters as he brushes past me and starts stripping my bed of its linens.
I should stop him. I should say something. But my brain is too busy trying to process the fact that he’s about to put his gross man hands on my pillowcase.
“You don’t even want to know how fast I can snap one of these hangers,” I warn. “And I am fairly confident I could effectively shank you with the broken plastic.”
Mads holds up both hands in surrender, but the smirk on his face says he’s not actually sorry. “Relax,” he says. “We’re just here to help.”
He grabs a box off the top of my nightstand and rips the drawer open with all the delicacy of a toddler high on Capri Suns.
Everything happens in slow motion.
The half-finished iced coffee I thoughtlessly left sitting on top wobbles. Teeters. Topples.
Directly into the open drawer.
The drawer.
The drawer.
I let out a strangled noise as cold, sticky coffee pours over my truly impressive collection of silicone and shame.
This is so much worse than him seeing my underwear.
Mads goes stock-still. His eyes flick to mine, then back to the drawer, then back to mine again.
“Wow,” he says slowly, “remind me to never underestimate your stamina.”
I bend over and pick up a cleat from the pile of shoes next to where I’m standing, and launch it at his face.
He ducks, cackling.
“Get out of my room!” I shriek, trying to slam the drawer shut with one hand while blotting coffee off a vibrator with the other. “You are banned. Banned from helping. Banned from breathing.”
Luca, bless him, makes a soft eep sound, covers his eyes with one hand when I pick up the shoe and throw it again, this time harder. Mads barely dodges it.
“I didn’t see anything!” Luca says, backing out the door slowly. “I don’t want to see anything. I’m going to go load my trunk with the stuff you already have packed up.”
Mads, unfortunately, is still here. Still grinning.
“You know,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you flustered. It’s kind of cute.”
I reach for the other cleat.
“Okay, okay!” he laughs, ducking behind the doorframe. “Truce. I come in peace. And full replacement value.”
“You are not Venmoing me for a drawer full of ruined orgasms,” I snap.
“No,” he says, straightening with a shrug, cocky as ever. “But I am offering to take you dildo shopping. You know. As emotional restitution.”
I blink at him. He’s so casual about it.
So infuriatingly at ease, standing there in that absolute menace of a sleeveless crop top and basketball shorts, arms crossed, like this is just another Tuesday.
And now I can’t help but notice the edge of a thigh tattoo peeking out from beneath his shorts—black ink, thick lines, curling right along the muscle, placed there specifically to ruin me.
God, I hate him.
I also hate that I do not hate the idea of him helping me pick out something silicone and battery-powered.
Which is deeply concerning.
“You’re disgusting,” I mutter, shoving a damp bullet vibe into a towel and pretending I’m not actively overheating.
“Add it to the list of things you secretly like about me,” he replies, and disappears down the hall.
I take a deep breath, stare down at the coffee-soaked mess he’s made of my top drawer, and seriously consider testing how long it takes campus security to respond to a homicide.
Instead, I toss every ruined toy into a plastic bag—most are probably fine since they’re waterproof, but that’s not the freaking point—knot it like a biohazard, and shove it deep into my duffle between two pairs of sweatpants and whatever’s left of my dignity.
The rest of the move happens in a blur of stairs, swearing, and Mads being just helpful enough to make it harder to stay mad.
He and Luca somehow managed to fit my mattress into the back of Coach Carmichael’s truck without murdering each other, which I personally consider a miracle, because we were about three seconds away from a full-blown “Pivot!” moment trying to get it around the corner between flights.
By the time we pull up to the Birch Unit—sun glaring off the warped tin roof, one shutter half-dangling, a “No Parking” sign duct-taped to a trash can—I’m sweaty, exhausted, and actively mourning the life I just left behind.
We spend the next forty-five minutes dragging every single box, bag, and poor life decision up two narrow, uneven flights of stairs.
The railing wobbles. The door sticks. Luca nearly eats it while carrying my fan.
Mads keeps insisting he “has a system,” which appears to involve announcing that out loud while doing absolutely nothing efficiently.
By the time the last box thuds onto the floor, I’m drenched, furious, and one twisted ankle away from snapping.
Luca gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and escapes before I can beg him to take me with him.
The place smells like dust and vague despair. Old wood and mildew and the faint, lingering stench of boy-sweat ghosts past. Everything about it makes me wonder how many bad decisions have been made within these walls.
Mads flops onto his already-made bed and grins at me like we’re about to start summer camp instead of mutually assured destruction. His arms are behind his head, crop top riding up his ribcage, and I hate how easy-going he looks in this fucking mess. Like he’s thriving here.
“Home sweet hell,” he says.
I throw a pillow at his face.