15. Rowan
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rowan
The sharp, repetitive pinging of my phone slices through the silence, yanking me from a deep, blissful sleep. I wince, sore from my escapades.
My eyelids feel like they’re glued shut, crusted over from sheer exhaustion, and I let out a low groan, shifting onto my side.
The mattress dips slightly with my movement, and the warm bodies nestled against me stir in response. Bruno lets out a gruff, sleepy sigh, burying his face even deeper into the plush pillow.
Beside him, Thomas mumbles something unintelligible, his words dissolving into a hushed murmur as he rolls onto his stomach, his arm draping across Bruno’s back.
Between us, Jinx is curled up, her beautiful face angelic and serene, her breathing a steady, soothing rhythm. Her dark hair is splayed across the pillow, a striking contrast against the white linen, like spilled ink on a blank canvas.
My mind is still swaddled in a hazy fog, my limbs deliciously heavy with the lingering warmth of post-orgasm bliss.
A deviant smile crests my lips as vivid memories from the night before flood my thoughts: the way Jinx’s voice broke as she moaned my name, the way she trembled beneath my fingertips, the way all four of us fit together so naturally, so perfectly.
This whole thing, this wild, unconventional arrangement, feels like the missing piece of a puzzle finally snapping into place. I let out a contented sigh, rubbing a weary hand across my face before reaching blindly for my phone on the nightstand.
The device continues to pulse with light, buzzing incessantly and demanding my attention. I squint at the bright screen, waiting for my vision to adjust. Confusion knots my stomach as I make out the notifications.
Who is texting me at this ungodly hour?
I swipe open my phone, and the screen explodes with notifications. Messages from my teammates, unfamiliar numbers, and a barrage of social media alerts vie for my attention. My heart skips a beat at the sight of two names: my parents.
Anxiety knots in my stomach as I tap into my notifications, my fingers suddenly rigid and unresponsive, while a chill spreads through my veins.
My pulse accelerates as I scroll through the chaos, each comment more alarming than the last.
Damn, didn’t take you for the sharing type, Davis.
Y’all really just out here running a train in public?
Dude, what the hell is this???
Panic grips my chest like a vice. My breath becomes shallow, and my throat tightens as I hesitantly tap the link someone sent me. A website materializes on my screen, and there it is—the nightmare I desperately wished to avoid upon waking.
The headline blazes across the screen, searing into my eyes:
“Marauders’ Goalie Caught in Scandalous Group Affair: Public Rendezvous or Just Team Bonding with the PT?”
I scroll further, my fingers shaking uncontrollably, and the images flash before me like a series of sharp slaps to the face.
The first few pictures seem harmless enough—Jinx and I, along with Bruno and Thomas, strolling through the park on a sunny afternoon. We’re all laughing, arms draped around each other’s shoulders, the vibrant green of the trees casting playful shadows on the path.
But as I scroll through the images, a heavy pit forms in my stomach. The next set of photos is a hellstorm.
There’s Jinx leaning in, her lips locked with Thomas, her fingers tangled in his hair. Then a shot of her kissing me, the angle capturing the startled look in my eyes.
Another shows Jinx perched on Bruno’s lap, his hands gripping her thighs tightly, his eyes closed as if savoring the moment. One particularly damning image catches us all mid-laugh, my hand caught in the act of playfully grabbing her ass.
And, finally, the worst of them all.
A blurry but undeniably suggestive picture taken behind a thick row of bushes.
The darkened forest light of dusk cloaks us in shadows, but the way Jinx is pressed between us, with our bodies entwined, it paints a lurid picture, making it easy for anyone to assume we were having a full-blown orgy in the woods.
A wave of nausea rolls over me.
I hastily exit the article and flip back to my texts, my heart plummeting with each message that flashes on the screen.
Jack Anderson Bro, tell me this isn’t real.
Coach Walker We need to talk. Call me ASAP.
Mom Rowan. What is this? CALL ME.
My grip tightens around the phone, my jaw clenching so hard it hurts.
Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!
I drag a hand down my face, groaning as the weight of my actions sinks in.
Maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t have given in to that impulsive urge for a wild adventure in the woods when Jinx had playfully insisted I join her for a walk by the lake.
It had been exhilarating in the moment: Jinx’s melodic laughter echoing off the trees, her teasing words urging us to run ahead on the winding trail. She had mischievously pulled us into the dense thicket of trees when the path was clear of other hikers.
Her daring challenge to let go of our inhibitions and embrace the raw excitement had been irresistible. And yeah, we did let go.
Now, staring at the chaos unraveling on my phone screen, that momentary thrill seems less like a cherished memory and more like the most foolish choice we could have made.
The photos, damn it, they look incriminating. Though nothing explicitly scandalous was captured, anyone with even a shred of perception could easily deduce what was happening in those frames.
My heart races, pounding against my ribs, and my stomach churns with anxiety, twisting into tight knots. I press my fingers against my temples, desperate to think clearly, but the rising tide of panic settling in my gut is making rational thought nearly impossible.
I nudge Thomas harder with my elbow, and he lets out a low groan, his eyelids fluttering open. “What, man?” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
I thrust my phone toward him, the bright screen illuminating his face in the dim room. He squints at the harsh light, rubbing his eyes before the headline snaps him into full awareness.
“Ah, shit,” he mutters, the realization hitting him like a cold splash of water.
Beside him, Bruno stirs under the rumpled covers, still heavy with sleep. I reach over and shake his shoulder with urgency.
“Wake up,” I insist.
He grumbles incoherently, but when Thomas mutters, “Seriously, we’re fucked,” the gravity of the situation pulls Bruno upright, his eyes wide with alarm.
The three of us exchange hurried whispers, the tension between us as palpable as the morning chill. Jinx remains curled up in the sheets, her breathing steady, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing around her.
“Who’s waking her up?” Thomas whispers.
Bruno shakes his head, adamant. “Not me.”
Thomas lets out a resigned sigh. “Dude, you’re the one she actually listens to sometimes,” he points out, glancing at Jinx.
We all turn our eyes toward her, hesitating. But before any of us can muster the courage to disturb her, Jinx shifts, stretching languidly like a lazy house cat in the warmth of the morning sun.
She blinks sleepily at us, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Morning,” she greets, her voice still heavy with sleep.
Then, as if struck by lightning, her expression shifts to one of horror. Without a word, she bolts upright and dashes for the bathroom, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room.
We all exchange glances, eyebrows raised and lips pressed into thin lines, as the unmistakable sound of retching echoes from the hallway bathroom. The air feels heavy with unease.
I grimace, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. “She’s still sick?”
Bruno, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, shakes his head. “She’s been acting weird for weeks,” he replies, his brows furrowing in worry.
Thomas sighs deeply, raking a hand through his disheveled hair, the strands sticking out in all directions. “Yeah,” he murmurs, a hint of reluctance in his tone. “And now we have to drop this bombshell on her, too.”
Jinx strides back into the room a moment later, her complexion a shade paler, but her expression defiant as she rolls her eyes at us.
“If you three don’t stop staring at me like I’m some fragile flower, I swear—” she starts, her voice laced with a mix of irritation and humor.
Bruno, without a word, hands her my phone. She frowns slightly, taking it from him, her eyes darting across the screen as she scans the message.
For a moment, her face is a blank canvas, betraying nothing. Then, with a barely audible sigh, she sets the phone on the table, unlocks her own, and begins flicking through her notifications.
“Coach emailed me,” she mutters, more to herself than to us, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “Wants to see me when I get to work.”
She doesn’t offer any further explanation, just drops the phone back into her bag with a quick, decisive motion and heads toward the bathroom, her footsteps echoing on the tiled floor.
We try to ask if she’s okay, but the sound of running water drowns out our voices.
“I’m fine. Don’t wait for me,” she calls out, her voice slightly distorted by the closed bathroom door.
Her words hang in the air, leaving an uneasy feeling that doesn’t sit right with any of us.
We all pull on our clothes hastily, the air in the room thick with nervous anticipation. Silence stretches between us as we head out, each weighed down by our own contemplations.
I’m determined not to linger at home today. Staying in would feel like I’m hiding from reality. Even though the doctors haven’t given me the green light to play, I’m heading to practice anyway.
As we drive up to the rink, my heart starts to race. The parking lot is packed with more cars than usual, a clear sign that the media has already descended upon us.
“Shit,” Thomas grumbles under his breath, glancing nervously at the crowd.
Bruno’s jaw tightens, his shoulders drawing up with tension. “Just keep walking,” he instructs, his voice low and steady.
Together, we move in a tight group, our heads bowed as we slip through the side door.
I inhale deeply, trying to calm the tremor in my gut.
It’s time to face whatever comes next.