Chapter 10
Mads
Ikeep one hand on the wheel and the other clenched tight in my lap, fingers aching from how hard I’m gripping my own thigh. My leg won’t stop bouncing. Every time I replay the look on her face when I pulled her out of that flat, I feel sick.
She could’ve died. If I hadn’t come home when I did, if I hadn’t smelled it when I opened the door…
No. Not going there. Not when she’s sitting two feet away, breathing, alive, and somehow still mad at me.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Blake snaps, arms crossed so tight she looks like she’s trying to hold herself together. “I’ll crash with Chelsey or something.”
“You’ll crash where I crash.” I fire back, sharper than I mean.
“There’s a party, Mayson’s there. Colin told the whole team, and I quote, ‘Skip and I’ll bury you in the yard next to the grill.
’ He saves the threats for people he actually likes, so I’m pretty sure he won’t mind if we stay the night. You'll be fine.”
She twists toward me, narrowing her eyes when I toss a wink in her direction. “Define fine.”
“Spare bedroom, doors that lock, probably a suspicious amount of beer pong happening on the lawn. Beats going back to the gas-filled deathtrap.”
“You don’t get to be the decision maker.” Her chin is tilted stubbornly toward the window.
“I’m not deciding. I’m helping.”
Of course, she doesn’t see it as helping. Blake doesn’t let anyone help. She is hyper-independent to the point of self-destruction. It’s not just stubbornness, it’s armor. And if I’m ever going to get through to her, I have to find a way to break that defense down without making her feel cornered.
She whips her head around, glare sharp enough to cut, shoulders squared like she’s ready to throw down in the passenger seat. “You’re kidnapping me.”
“Fine.” The word leaves me on a sigh, more worn out than angry. “Then don’t call it helping. Call it me not wanting to wake up tomorrow and find out you’re dead.” I flick my eyes toward her, quick, before fixing them back on the road.
That shuts her up, though only for about three seconds. She shifts in her seat, and I can feel her winding up again, ready to strike back.
Then, she surprises me when she says, "I’m not gonna be your problem to manage, Mads."
"You’re not. You’re Blake fucking Aster," I say, a bit affronted. "You’re the only person I’ve ever met who can still give me shit while actively suffocating. You’re not a problem to manage. You’re the reason I have absolutely lost my mind."
And it’s true. Every word of it.
I’ve been circling her for years, wanting her in ways I’ve never admitted to anyone, not even myself.
I’d light myself on fire for this girl. If she asked, I’d do worse.
I glance at her just long enough to catch the flicker of conflict in her expression. She looks tired. Pale. Her voice softens, barely audible over the hum of the road. "You shouldn’t be doing this."
"I should’ve done something a lot sooner."
Blake, never one to back down, replies in a tone that nearly cracks my chest open. “Mads, I think there’s something I need to tell you, and I need you to know that once I do, nothing that comes after will be easy.”
“I don’t need easy. I need you.” The words are out before I can stop them, raw and reckless. I clear my throat, softer this time. “I need you to be safe.”
She’s staring at me, her expression indiscernible. She seems to be holding back a hundred different answers, but finally lands on, “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re my kind of trouble,” I say, my mouth twitching even though my chest feels tight. “Every time you look at me, it feels like another nail in my coffin. And if I’m being honest, I’d let you bury me smiling.”
She doesn’t answer right away, and the silence presses in so heavy it drowns out the hum of the engine. I want to look at her, to see what she’s thinking, but I keep my eyes on the road instead. If she’s not ready to say anything back, I’d rather not see it written across her face.
I make the turn off campus and don’t say another word until we’re pulling up to Colin’s place. His parties are always the same. Wild as fuck, packed wall-to-wall, music rattling the windows. The kind of chaos you don’t come down from until the sun’s up.
Blake is in no shape to deal with it, mentally, physically, or otherwise. Not after what she’s just been through. If she thinks I’m letting her out of my sight again tonight, she’s delusional.
The second we step inside, it’s pure chaos.
The living room’s packed shoulder to shoulder with my sweaty teammates, a pyramid of empty beer cans is collapsing on the coffee table, and someone has decided the kitchen counter is now a dance stage.
Something blurs past my ear and smacks into the wall with a dull thud.
A football. No one bothers to apologize.
Above us, a shoe spins lazily on the ceiling fan, duct-taped to one of the blades.
Probably stolen by one player from another as a small Rites prank.
On the floor, someone’s dog waddles by in a too-tight team jersey, crunching down on a mouthful of Doritos someone must’ve dropped.
"Jesus Christ," Blake mutters beside me, pulling her hoodie tighter around her. "Is this what testosterone smells like?"
"Don’t breathe too deep," I say under my breath, hand hovering at her lower back as I guide her through the doorway.
"AYYYE, KELLER!" Matteo’s voice booms from the living room. He’s standing on a plastic chair with a beer can in each hand, looking one small wiggle away from disaster. "Back from exile, huh?"
"Something like that," I grumble.
Zayne lurches out of the kitchen with a Solo cup, eyes snapping straight to Blake like a moth to a flame. "And you brought a guest. Bold move during hazing season."
"She’s not yours to haze," I snap, steering her past him.
Blake, never one to waste an opening, gives him a flat little smile. "We just came from a gas leak. I nearly died. He’s emotionally attached now."
Zayne clutches his chest. "Romance. I’m moved."
Before I can bark at him again, Colin appears from the hallway, dark expression in place, Mayson right behind him with a plate of nachos. She does not look happy about it.
Colin’s eyes flick from me to Blake, unimpressed as ever. "Are you two planning to contribute to this circus, or just lurk in my entryway?"
"We’re crashing the spare room for the night," I tell him.
"Fine by me," Colin mutters. He may be an asshole, but he’s a laid-back one for the most part. Except for when it comes to his stepsister, but that’s a whole other story.
Speaking of whom, Mayson spots Blake and lights up, weaving through a couple of drunk defenders to throw her arms around her. Blake hugs her back just as tight, relief flashing across her face for the first time all night.
“Sorry,” Blake says, pulling back with a tired smile. “I’m kind of dead on my feet. Turns out conditioning drills and gas leaks don’t really mix.”
Mayson gasps. “Oh my god, are you okay?” She flicks an annoyed glance toward Colin, who’s already hovering like he’s personally guarding her from the rest of the house.
“I’m fine,” Blake says quickly, cutting off the concern before it can build. “Really. The EMTs checked me out and everything. We just can’t stay in the apartment tonight.”
“I’m just glad you’re safe, and if you need to crash, that’s more than fine. Colin’s a fuckwad and wants me glued to his side or locked in my room half the time anyway.” She rolls her eyes.
Colin scowls at both of them, muttering something that sounds like “the last thing you need is backup” before pulling her toward the stairs.
I nudge Blake down the hall, past the open bathroom door where someone’s shaving another guy’s eyebrow for reasons I don’t want to understand.
Colin’s spare room is halfway down, the door cracked just enough for me to push it open.
I flip the light on. It’s bigger than most flats I’ve lived in—a queen bed with an upholstered headboard, a sleek dresser that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and a folded stack of hotel-quality towels on the chair in the corner.
It’s the kind of room meant for guests he’ll never have, spotless and soulless, but right now, it feels like a godsend.
I close the door behind us and twist the lock. Just the two of us. And whatever the hell she’s about to tell me.
She doesn’t sit. Just paces. One, two, three steps across the carpet, arms crossed, mouth tight like she’s physically holding back whatever’s clawing to get out.
My stomach knots. With everything that’s gone on—gas leaks, stalker-level weirdness, her bag being messed with—I don’t know what I’m about to hear, but I know it isn’t small.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and wait, eyes tracking her every move as she winds herself up.
Finally, she stops. Looks at me.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Mads. Not your coach. Not your teammates. Not Luca. No. One.”
“Blake.” I meet her eyes, and whatever she sees in mine must land, because she finally exhales and drops onto the floor across from me, back against the dresser. She pulls her knees up, arms looped tight around them, bracing herself.
“It started months ago,” she says quietly.
“I met this girl online, in a biomechanics forum. She’s in the same program at Briarwood—same classes, same labs, different campus.
We bonded over late-night posts about professors who can’t lecture their way out of a paper bag and whose research is bullshit.
I didn’t think much of it. Just another stressed-out STEM friend who got the same jokes. ”
Her mouth tightens. “One night, I told her about the Rites. You know—how childish the pranks get here. Glitter bombs, protein shake sabotage, the usual ‘Northgate chaos’ brand. I thought she’d laugh.”
I tilt my head. “She didn’t.”
Blake shakes her head. “She told me I was lucky. Because at Briarwood, it’s not just silly little pranks, but real hazing.
The kind of thing that sends people to the hospital.
Ends scholarships. Wrecks careers. Broken bones, concussions, players pushed until they collapse, and then told to suck it up or get cut.
Remember when their captain collapsed on the field during warmups last season?
They spun it as dehydration, but there were so many rumors he’d been run into the ground.
The coaches look the other way, and the administration buries it.
She said she had proof. Photos, video, even statements from other players.
But she didn’t feel safe going public, because too many people are willing to hurt her if she tries. ”
Her fingers twist into the fabric of her hoodie.
“I couldn’t just not do anything. Not after hearing that.
So I told her I’d help. If she gave me what she had, I’d find a way to get it out without having it linked to her.
Publish it, leak it in some way, whatever it took to get eyes on it.
She was terrified, but she agreed. Because it was a forum, we didn’t even get to the point of knowing each other's real names, so there was no way I could throw her under the bus.”
“So she got you the info?” I ask.
She nods. “She didn’t want to send anything online.
Said it was too easy to trace. So she left a drive in a drop spot on campus, and I picked it up.
” Her voice falters. “I haven’t been able to open it.
It was locked behind a password I had to crack, but even after that, I can’t get any of the files to open.
And she hasn’t answered me in days, which is concerning as well.
But whatever’s on there? It’s bad, Mads.
Way worse than just a couple of locker room bruises.
She made it sound like careers, maybe even lives, were on the line.
And now I can’t shake the feeling that someone else knows she gave it to me.
That they’re trying to get it back before I can see what’s on it, maybe even doing something to prevent her from contacting me again in the meantime. ”
The room feels too small, the silence between us too taut.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to anchor myself in the steadiness she clearly doesn’t have. “So you’ve been sitting on this the whole time?”
Blake’s eyes lock on mine, fierce even through the exhaustion. “I couldn’t tell anyone. Not until I knew what exactly it was that I was holding. And not until I knew who I could actually trust with it.”
“You still have it?” It’s a daft question, I realize.
She nods quickly, the motion clipped, almost impatient.
I shift closer. “Let me take a crack at it.”
Blake rolls her eyes. “Since when are you a professional hacker?”
“My mum works for a data forensics firm,” I shrug. “She used to show me how to get past encrypted files when I was a kid. Stuff she probably shouldn’t have, but I loved it. I can’t promise anything, but I might be able to get to it.”
Being the youngest meant I was always underfoot, always needing something to keep me occupied so I didn’t drive everyone insane.
Football wasn’t enough on its own. Not when I was ADHD to the max and needed ten different things going on at once.
My brothers could burn off their energy just training, but I’d come home still buzzing, so Mum handed me puzzles, passwords, little challenges to crack.
Turns out I liked it. Enough that I stuck with it, and ended up majoring in information systems.
Her eyes widen, doubt and relief flickering at the same time. “You’re serious.”
“Dead.”
She swallows. “You really think you can do it?”
“I think it’s worth a shot.” I pause, watching her shoulders tighten with everything she’s been carrying alone. “And Blake?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to keep burning yourself out trying to hold this all together. Whatever’s on that drive, we’ll deal with it together.”