Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Olivia POV
La Reunion Dormitory
“ I don't get it.” Cathy stared at me over the top of her laptop. “If you're going to hack, don't hand over the blueprint on how to catch you. Dumbasses.” She went back to typing something into her computer.
While I agreed with her, that didn't solve the problem. The problem being, or, well, the potential problem being that I didn't want any of my team, er, the baseball team caught in scandal. Or, at the very least, I wanted to bring it to the coaches—with my commentary, of course—before it went anywhere. “Our faculty sponsor, Mrs. P, she's already alerted the professors' whose tests had been accessed without permission.”
“Sure, makes sense.” She grabbed her Star Struck cola and sipped at it. One hand continued to fly over the keyboard, not missing a beat. I stared, watching the evolutionary battle of wills: fingers versus keys. “So, there's, ya know, not any actual harm done. Right?” I blinked.
“Hm, in the words of past tense Liv: ‘I'm pretty sure there’s some acceptable use language that says it’s against policy to hack things.' I'm paraphrasing of course.” Cathy's mess of red curls bobbed from side to side as she mimicked me.
“But the people who got it from that pastey site didn't hack anything.” I crossed my arms. “But then how did they know about it?”
“PasteBin is a site that stores blocks of plain text. Gonna have to work on your leet-speak.” She stopped typing long enough to shoot me her playful know-it-all smirk over her shoulder. I rolled my eyes.
We're missing something . There couldn’t have been multiple students stealing the same tests at the exact same time. “I wish I knew what Rivers's angle was. Does he think there was a group that went in together and like hired a hacker or something?” I paced the length of our living room couch. “Then the whole group would be guilty. And that's fair. But, doesn’t sound like something a group of athletes would do. It’d be a huge risk.”
“Uh-huh,” Cathy exclaimed like she was actually paying attention. But was she listening?
“What if a friend found it? What if I was minding my own business and my friend Cathy just happened to send me a link?”
“It wouldn't be me. And you should report it for phishing.”
“Not actually—” I stopped and ran a hand over my forehead. I flopped down on the creaky sofa. “I mean, theoretically, a real person—not you.” I pointed at her. “But still real. Sent me a real link to a real test bank, but claimed it was a study guide or something for my class?”
“Wouldn't common sense say that's hella sus?”
“I think your standards on security awareness are too high.”
Cathy huffed. “What's the point of your theoretical exercise? You don't want your baseball players to be guilty? Or you just don't want your hot baseball player to be guilty?”
“Hot?” My face inflamed in an instant, and the whole room shot up ten degrees. I decided to play dumb. “You mean Tanner?”
“Good try. The guy with the record we keep telling you to stay away from. Cooper something. Ish.”
“Oh. He's not . . . He's hot-tempered and an ass.” I groused. It was a lousy lie, a terrible attempt even. I doubt she'd believe?—
“Fallen out of favor already? I thought they usually lasted a season. Maybe even post-season.”
I sat up and glared at her back. I pitched one of the couch cushions, smacking her square in the arm. Hah! “I'm not that bad.”
She spun halfway around to face me. “You go ga ga for any baseball dude with a decent batting average and hardcore abs.”
The door clicked open. “Usually lasts a season. One.” Hilda stepped into the room and tossed her bag onto the coffee table. “Can't blame her on the abs, though.”
I waved my hand. “I'm right here.”
Cathy grinned. “There's worse things.”
“You know who has great abs?” I shot Hilda a wicked grin.
“Can it.” She pointed at me and glared. “I don't want to hear one more word about that estupido gili Jimenez.”
“Would I say something about him?” I raised my eyebrows and looked at the ceiling. “I don't think I would. I mean, I think he's a good guy. And nice-looking, funny, and smart.” I shrugged. “But?—”
“Don't you start with me, Livia. Estoy caliente y cansada y no estoy de humor para que seas idiota.”
I gave her a look. “I'm being an idiot?”
“Mi favorita gili.” She amended with a wink as she turned the corner and disappeared into her bedroom.
I moved to follow, calling out after her: “You're the one being a gili. He practically thinks you walk on water.” I huffed and leaned back against the wall outside her room. “If one of the guys I liked thought I was that amazing, I'd be thrilled.”
“You'd be pregnant.” Dublin's dry voice announced her arrival. I poked my head around the corner in time to see her shut the front door like the knob was covered in germs. Who gave her a key?
“Jesus Dubby, where'd you magically materialize from?”
“I let myself in.”
No shit.
“And really, Liv, I just call things like I see them. You're as frigid as they come, but I'm one hundred percent certain if one of your many baseball boytoys would prostrate himself the way that Antonio the Cinnamon Roll does—” She gave me that haughty look that was practically her trademark.
“Frigid? I'm not frigid.”
She arched an eyebrow and perched on the edge of the couch. “So who've you taken as a lover?”
I didn't want to answer that. And I really hated the triumphant look on her face. “I haven't, yet. But that doesn't mean I don't . . .” Think about it. Want to. Dream about it. Oh God . . .
“You're around men dripping with testosterone. And you have an A-plus figure. Your taste in clothes, well.” She rolled her eyes.
“I need tennis shoes to run around on campus, and they have a dress code, so I can't wear shorts to class. I can't imagine wearing jeans when it's still almost ninety degrees. In October.”
“So you wear dresses or skirts . . . with sneakers.”
“Her legs are a feature.” Hilda placed her arm around my shoulder as she came back into the room. “So back off.” She gave me a side-hug, then released me to assume some sort of 'battle stance'.
Those two had never really gotten along. And each of them made sure to tell me how little they saw in the other. I glanced at Cathy but she had her headphones on, leaving me stuck between Dubby and Hilda on my own. Great.
“Her legs are a feature. And they should be wrapped around a chosen man's muscular hips getting a workout of a lifetime. Finally.” She shot a look at me. “But as I said before, she's frigid.”
“I'm not. I just haven't had time to be?—”
“Even I don't buy that one, Livia, and I don't agree with Dublin as a matter of principle,” Hilda said. She fixed me with a heavy-lidded stare that screamed: I'm not amused.
“I don't want to talk about this right now.” I mumbled.
“Take a lover, or two or five. Why choose after all?” Dublin swept her long dark hair over her shoulder. “We may resort to drastic measures if you're still a virgin come sophomore year. Consider yourself warned.”
“She doesn't need a timeclock. She just needs to stop chasing the ones wearing baseball pants.”
“You're the one who should stop running from the one who thinks you're a goddess on Earth, and happens to look damned fine in baseball pants.”
Her lips thinned and she pointed at me. “If he doesn't stop stalking me, Liv, I swear to heaven?—”
“What stalking? You make it sound like he sneaks around and steals your garbage.”
She threw up her hands. “He's like the anti-visa. He's everywhere I don't want him to be.”
“He's nice, funny, attractive—and worships the ground you walk on. Why not humor him and go on one date? Like over coffee in the middle of the day. Lots of onlookers.”
“That's how it starts. And I do not have time verga. Not for dating or a relationship. And definitely not for some hotshot ballplayer who thinks everything he does would come first. No mames.”
“You never know. Maybe he'd be the kind that would make sure you cum first. He does seem like a cinnamon roll.” Dublin yawned. She cast a sly glance at me. And I wished to God I had some kind of control. But blood rushed to my cheeks. My skin blazed like fire. Again.
I have this terrible feature. I turn bright crimson when I'm super embarrassed. Dublin has always found it hysterical. And I swear she says the most outlandish things just to see if she can make me turn red. I think more places should plant hydrangea bushes so I can blend in with the scenery. Anytime she opens her mouth.
“And what do I win?” Her grin was this over-much expression straight out of a stock photo marked 'excitement'. “Liv's actually redder than a cherry tomato this time.”
I snarled at her. “I hate you.”
“You love me, darling. Especially since I just sent you money.” She stood from the couch, balancing herself on five-inch heels with some dainty flick of her wrist.
“You'll just be back to borrow it tomorrow.”
“Oh, I'm flush until at least next week.” She tossed her hair as she runway-stalked to the door. “But you know me too well. Tah!” She closed the door behind her.
“And she's gone again.” I glanced over at Hilda. She finished a large gulp of water from the plastic bottle.
“What does she even do?” She shook her head. “No, I don't want to think about it. I have to study.” She waved a hand and picked up her bag from the coffee table.
“So, when will you need my help?” Cathy stood and pitched her empty Star Struck can into the trash.
“I'm waiting on a text from Rivers.”
“What help?” Hilda said. “Did I miss something?”
“It's nothing. Just a journalistic source thing.” I sat and found a very interesting string stuck to the hem of my dress.
“Livia . . .” Hilda's voice started low and she drew out my name. I cringed.
“It's a hacking thing.”
“Alleged hacking.” Cathy chimed in. She opened a new can of soda.
“I thought we said no hacking, cuate.”
“It wasn't me ,” Cathy said with a shrug. “Liv says some idiot stole a live test bank.”
Hilda stared at her. “How does anyone steal a test? It's all online now, right?”
“Basically, there's a database where questions are stored and correlated to answers. Most likely they're two different tables. The professor generates a “test” in advance, but the same questions can be presented in any order. I dunno, if you're going to drop the table with the questions, just grab the table key and?—”
“You're giving me a headache. Someone hacked tests to cheat,” Hilda said.
“Right. And some sleazeball reporter, no offense Liv, is making a witch hunt out of it. Trying to catch anyone who may have just opened an email and not actually touched . . . anything.”
I cut in. “It’s like entrapment.”
“Which is where I come in. I'll do the log analysis and validate what actions were actually taken on the files.” She turned away still muttering something about how she would do all the amazing and complicated things she does.
Hilda crossed her arms. “If Antonio's name is on that list of cheaters. No coffee, mana.”
“Did you just call him Antonio?”
Her nostrils flared. “I mean it, Liv. No cheaters.” She spun on her heel.
“Wait!” I went after her. “Are you talking? Texting? You mean you'll go out with him if he's not?” She fast-walked away from me, book bag swinging as she moved. “Hilda?” She shut her bedroom door with a bang. I rubbed a hand over my forehead and turned back to Cathy. “Was that a yes?”
She shrugged. “Sounded like it. Unless his name's on Mr. Hacker's list.”
“Hm.” I made my way back to the couch. I sat down and leaned back in the lumpy grumpy thing and contemplated the bland ceiling tiles. Who's around athletes and ? —
“I'm not entirely sure why you care so much,” Cathy said over the rapid fire of her keyboard. “But you're Liv, and I gave up trying to figure you out . . . probably five minutes after we met.”
“That's fair. Can't believe you tried for a full five minutes, though.”
“And that right there.” She turned and gave me a winning smile. “Is why we're friends.”
Dark thirty the next morning, my cell phone vibrated itself off the painted box they gave us as a “nightstand”. It landed with a loud thud, and I guess, to my credit this one time, my lite-sleeping tendencies found their way to the “plus” column.
Rivers : I got the file.
Rivers : Hopefully you'll be up before noon.
Rivers : Sending a FastTransfer file. Let me know when you get it.
Rivers : If you want a mention in my Pulitzer acceptance speech, get the fuck up!
I groaned and pulled my pillow over my head. Asshole.
I pulled myself out of the bed with my fingernails, and texted him back.
Liv: On it.
I dragged into the living room and found Cathy . . . still up? At her laptop. What on earth she did on that thing at all hours of the day . . . did she even go to class? Ever? Maybe I should ask her one of these days. I sighed, grabbed another Star Struck cola out of the fridge. I placed the extra caffeinated beverage of cyber champions on the table and hugged her from behind.
“How can I help?” She patted my arm.
“He's asking for names associated with the IP addresses. I can't ask you to not find anyone.”
“But that was the point, wasn't it?” Her voice rasped. “To save your baseball who-whatever-they-are to you?”
I rested my forehead on the back of her head. Her soft red curls smelled of vanilla and roses. “I can't save individuals from bad choices they've already made. But maybe I can help the team still . . . somehow. This is a matter for the school administration and the IT department. But they do need the names and any information you can, uh?” I struggled for the right words. “Find out?” I stood and scrubbed my palms over my face. I needed to make coffee.
“I'll get it done, no worries.” Cathy picked up the soda and sipped.
“It's a FastTransfer file, let me get it for you.” I shuffled in a direction. Maybe toward my room.
“Liv dearest.” She yawned. “You grossly underestimate your friends.”
“What's that?” I looked over my shoulder.
She stood from her chair. “We're fans, you know.”
“Huh?”
“In your corner. Rooting for you. Just like when one of us needs a pick-me-up, you always find a way. Even if it's just listening and taking our side—with a vengeance.” She met my gaze. “But you really need to stop viewing the world as if you're the one on center stage, babe. It's not your best feature.”
I squinted at her. Light filtered in the room at strange angles and lit her face. It gleamed in her eyes. “I'm not sure I—? Center stage, what? Am I the one who went without sleep?”
“I'm a hacker. You say Pastebin, I say Anonpaste.” She stretched her arms above her head. “Either way, I found the files about thirty minutes after you went to bed, and have been working on it all night.” She paused then added. “Now, you owe me one.”
“I'll owe you seventeen. Well, maybe three. Three sounds reasonable. What'd you find?”
“Called in a favor for some API access rights. Temporary, of course. Setup a query and it's been running a few hours, now, against the asset database. Should finish in maybe another thirty?”
“That's time for us to grab coffee.”
She smiled, but her eyelids sagged almost completely shut. She wiped at the corner of her eye with one hand. The other gripped the back of her chair as if to keep her steady, or on her feet at all. But this was Cathy, my longtime friend since grade school. And she was a powerhouse.
Wait. “Called in a favor from who?” My brain kicked into gear at the same time my mouth did. “We've only been here three months and you try to avoid the IT team like the plague to 'stay off radars' or whatever.”
“You know what they say: keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she sat down, again, eyes glued to her monitors.
“Enemies might be a little strong. It's not like they'd call you gutless. Or spineless. Or a snake in the grass. Some of them would probably find you admirable. You are pretty amazing.”
“I feel pretty exhausted. It just hit me, and this Star Struck thing for all its hundred and thirty milligrams of caffeine can't seem to work fast enough.” She stopped. “Why are you mooning over that guy again?”
“I'm not mooning over him. I'm hating over him. I'm hoping he can feel the hate I'm manifesting and channeling in his direction.” I laid down on the couch. It sounded good. And maybe I would if I had the energy. The coffee maker seemed so far away, still.
My eyes closed, and the rest of me reminded my brain, in its impressionable, semi-conscious state . . .
Of those dark midnight eyes. His woodsy, masculine scent. How much I'd wanted to feel those apple-scented lips against mine.
“I can count the number of people you claimed to hate over the years, Liv—on like one finger.” Cathy's voice held a warning tone.
I groaned and sat up. “You mean . . . third grade playground bully.” We finished the sentence at the same time.
“Him! That guy. Whatever his name was. What a ginormous asshole in a pint-sized body.” I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled the rest of the way to the coffee station we set up by the door. Turned on the coffee-pod machine. It grumbled to life, as if it, too, was annoyed to be up before sunrise.
“Why does this guy bother you so much?” Cathy's voice called out over the sound of her rapid keyboard fire.
Because I admired him. Because I'm on his side. Because I wanted him . . . to like me. I opened the container from the pod-machine and poured water from the gallon jug we kept to fill it up. “He's bad for the team image and the team. His attitude sucks and he's—” Better than that.
“He seems determined to be pissed off at anyone, everyone. Even someone who?—”
A buzzing sound, sharp and nasally cut into my rant. I turned and looked. Cathy's head leaned against the back of her chair, her neck bent at an unfortunate angle. I let out a sigh. Hit the button to fill my mug with glorious caffeine, then headed off to my room to grab a blanket. I snagged my favorite fluffy throw and returned to the living room to wrap it around Cathy's shoulders.
I sent a text back to Rivers.
Liv: Work in progress.
He sent a thumbs up in reply.
I retrieved my cup of coffee, splashed in a healthy dose of creamer and curled up on the couch. Of all the things, freshman ECON seemed like a weird choice. Stealing the test bank questions without answers was a weird choice. Was it maybe an extortion scam? Prove the hacker could get to the database and thieve questions, but if someone wanted the answers, they'd have to pay? Was it just to cause havoc? Hackers were notorious for hacking something just to prove they could.
Was it a desperate student with the skill to do it? Why the athlete angle? I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the not-even-remotely-comfortable edge of the couch. Sleep nagged at my brain, offering to soothe the tired, burning sensation in my eyes.
“I need data . . . Back issues of the Van Weekly. I'm thinking that if I can pull the last issues from each season, I can build out a database of key metrics. Injuries, hit ratios, all kinds of stuff.”
Darkness pulled me closer. Warm, soft . . .
“Yeah, this is the worst.” Lan blew out a breath.
My heart thudded, hard. Light seeped under my eyelids. Something pushed against the warm, wonderful arms of sleep. Why was I remembering . . . Lan? Or was it just reliving the nightmare that was Schorr's anti-technology bent? Think we can safely remove him from the list of possibles. Hah, Schorr the hacker. I sighed and crossed my arms against my chest. The whir of Cathy's computer a soft hum . . .
I'm sure it's cliched in this day and age to consider athletes as all-brawn and no-brains. Even Coop stood out for his custom scouting website. Had its own searchable backend database of his and his team's stats, schedule, roster.
I blinked my eyes open. Oh no. He wouldn't, would he?