Chapter 10 Koa
Koa
The end of the summer rush is starting to piss me off.
Classes started today, and I’m left trying to tie up every loose end of these deals before I get swamped with homework and hockey.
I go big during the summers so that I can focus on real life when September hits.
And then really dial down when hockey starts in October.
Tonight’s drop is in a parking garage three blocks from campus.
Two minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness. An old Toyota Tacoma pulls in, parks opposite me. The driver kills the engine but doesn’t get out right away. Nervous.
Good. He should be.
I grab the duffel bag from the passenger seat, get out, and walk over.
My boots echo on the concrete. He finally opens his door, steps out.
Mid-thirties, thinning hair, cheap suit that doesn’t fit right.
His name is Marcus, and he moves weight in the suburbs—safe neighborhoods where people pay extra for discretion.
“Koa.” He nods, trying to sound confident. Failing.
I don’t say anything. Just hold out the bag.
He takes it, unzips it, checks inside. Everything under the sun. Enough to keep his clientele happy for two weeks, maybe one if he’s smart about it. But I need the money sooner.
“This is good,” he says, zipping it back up. “Real good. I’ll have the money for you by next week—”
“Monday.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I need it by Monday.” My voice is flat, leaving no room for negotiation.
“Koa, man, that’s only five days. I need at least a week to move this much product—”
I step closer. He steps back, hits the side of his car. I lean in, put a hand on the roof beside his head. Trap him.
“You’re not hearing me,” I say, voice dropping lower. “Monday. Or we have a problem.”
He swallows. I can see his throat bob, can smell the fear-sweat starting to bead on his forehead. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Monday. I’ll make it happen.”
“Good.” I step back, give him space to breathe. “Don’t disappoint me, Marcus.”
“I won’t.”
I turn and walk back to my car. Don’t look back. Don’t need to. He’ll have the money by Monday. They always do when you make it clear there’s no other option.
Back in my dorm, the silence is oppressive.
I toss my keys on the desk, strip off my jacket, and fall onto the bed. The springs creak under my weight. I stare at the ceiling, hands behind my head.
I can’t stop thinking about my night.
About Lexi.
The way she ran. The panic in her breathing. The feel of her body against mine when I caught her, all that defiance and rage vibrating under her skin. The way she begged when I tied her to the tree, the way her voice cracked when she thought I’d left her there.
Perfect.
She’s going to be so much fun to break.
I wonder how far I can push her. How much she can take before she shatters. She’s got fire—more than her brother, more than most people I deal with. But fire can be smothered. Controlled. Redirected.
And I’m going to do all three.
I pull out my phone, scroll through my contacts until I find her number. When I took Axel’s phone, I took her number. I could text her right now. Could make her squirm, keep her on edge, remind her that she’s mine.
But no.
I’m going to ignore her. Let her stew. Let her wonder if I’ve forgotten about her, if the deal’s off, if Axel’s back on the hook. The anticipation will eat at her more than anything I could say.
And I’ll keep my promise. Lay off her brother. Let him think he’s free.
I set the phone down, close my eyes.
Tomorrow’s going to be busy. Morning skate. Class. Music club in the afternoon—I need to talk to the instructor about my schedule once hockey practice officially starts October third. I can only do Mondays or Tuesdays at night after that.
I drift off thinking about Lexi tied to that tree, her muffled screams echoing through the forest.
Morning skate is at six a.m.
The rink is freezing, the ice fresh and smooth. Just a handful of us show up this early—the ones who give a shit, the ones who want to make the starting lineup when practice officially begins.
I lace up my skates, step onto the ice, and let the cold bite into my lungs.
Hudson’s already out there, doing lazy circles. Carter’s by the boards, stretching. A couple of freshmen are fumbling with pucks near the goal.
“Yo, Koa!” Hudson skates over, grinning. “You see the new freshmen? Kid can barely stay upright.”
I glance over. The freshman in question catches an edge, goes down hard. His helmet bounces off the ice.
“Pathetic,” I mutter.
Hudson laughs. “Want to play a quick game? Two-on-two?”
“Yeah.”
We grab Carter and one of the other guys, split into teams. No rules, no refs, just us fucking around and blowing off steam. I play hard—checking, stealing pucks, slamming shots into the net. It feels good to hit something, to let the violence out in a way that won’t get me arrested.
Nobody asks for drugs. Nobody even mentions it. For once, this is just hockey.
And I fucking love it.
After skate, I shower, throw on jeans and a hoodie, and head to my morning class.
Business. None of this really teaches you what matters in real life business.
This shit is… I don’t know. The professor goes on and on about supply and demand, about equilibrium and market forces. I take notes but my mind is elsewhere.
Halfway through, my phone buzzes. I glance down.
Cash Bag One: Someone hit the drop on Fifth Street. Cash is gone.
My jaw ticks. I type back fast.
Koa: Handle it. Find out who. Make an example.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and force myself to focus on the lecture. This is the part of the business I hate—loose ends, idiots who think they can steal from me and get away with it.
They’ll learn.
In the afternoon, I head to the music building.
It’s tucked in the corner of campus, old brick and peeling paint. Inside, it smells like wood polish and stale coffee. I take the stairs to the second floor, where the practice rooms are.
The club meets in the biggest room—the one with the stage and the good acoustics. When I walk in, it’s chaos. Girls everywhere. Aspiring singers clustered in groups, all of them dressed like they’re auditioning for a music video instead of a college club.
One of them spots me. Her eyes light up, and she nudges her friend. They both stare.
“Hey,” she calls out, voice dripping with flirtation. “You’re Koa, right? Hockey player?”
I don’t respond. Just keep walking toward the instructor.
Ms. Reyes is in her fifties, gray hair pulled into a bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. She’s sorting through sheet music when I approach.
“Koa.” She smiles. “Good to see you. How was your summer?”
“Fine.” I get straight to the point. “I need to talk about my schedule.”
“Of course. What’s going on?”
“Hockey practice starts October third. After that, I can only do Mondays or Tuesdays at night. That going to be a problem?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all. We’ll work around it. You’re one of our best drummers—we need you here.”
“Thanks.”
She gestures to the room. “Go ahead and warm up. We’ll start in ten.”
I head to the drum kit in the corner, away from the chattering singers. I adjust the stool, test the pedals, pick up the sticks. The weight feels right in my hands.
I start slow. Simple beats. Kick, snare, hi-hat. Then I pick up the tempo, let my hands fly, let the rhythm take over. Everything else fades—the voices, the stress, the constant calculation of who owes what and who needs to be reminded why crossing me is a bad idea.
It’s just me and the drums.
I lose myself in it.
I don’t know how long I’ve been playing when I feel someone standing next to me.
I stop, look up.
It’s one of the girls from earlier. Honey-brown hair, hazel eyes, tight shirt that shows off too much. She’s smiling like she just won something.
“You’re really good,” she says, leaning against the drum kit.
I set the sticks down, already annoyed.
“I’m in a band,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “We’re looking for a drummer. You interested?”
“No.”
She pouts. Actually pouts. “Come on. We’re really good. We play gigs and everything.”
I stare at her. Brown eyes would’ve been better. Black hair would’ve been better. The look of defiance instead of this desperate need for my attention. This one wants to eat me alive, and I’m not into the easy ones. Easy pussy is easy pussy. I don’t want a pick-me girl.
I point across the room at my friend Derek, who’s messing around on the other drum set. “Ask him. He’ll be interested.”
Her face falls. “But—”
“Not interested,” I repeat, picking the sticks back up.
She huffs, walks away.
I go back to playing.
After club, I’m walking back to my dorm when Oxy catches up with me.
“Yo.” He falls into step beside me, hands in his pockets. “There’s a party this weekend.”
I shake my head. “So?”
“Thought you’d want to go.”
“You want to?”
“First party of the year, man. We should be there. Network, you know? Good for business.”
I shake my head again. “Not my thing.”
“Come on—”
“No.”
He sighs but doesn’t push. “Alright. Your loss.”
We split at the dorm entrance. He heads to his room, and I head to mine.
Inside, I lock the door, kick off my shoes, and fall onto the bed. I pull out my phone and spend the evening scrolling—checking messages from runners, confirming drops, making sure everything’s running smoothly.
The next day starts the same. Morning skate, class, lunch.
I’m scrolling through my phone between classes when I see a notification. A follow request on Instagram. I open it. It’s the girl from music club. The honey-haired one. Her username is something obnoxious—bandgirlvibes or some shit. Her bio says she’s a “singer/songwriter/dreamer.”
I decline the request.
Pick-me girl bullshit.
Then I see a text notification.
Axel: This week?
I ignore it. Delete the message without reading further.
I’m walking to my afternoon class when I hear footsteps pounding behind me.
“Koa.”
I stop, turn. Axel’s jogging toward me, face flushed, eyes wild.
He catches up, out of breath. “Hey. Where’s my shit for this week?”
I stare at him. Judge this weak link standing in front of me, all desperation and entitlement. “You have none.”
He laughs. Nervous. Confused. “What do you mean? Are you fucking with me?”
I shake my head. “No. You’re off the hook.”
His face goes blank. “Shit. Really? Why?”
“Ask your sister.”
Something shifts in his expression. Confusion turns to rage. He grabs me by the collar of my shirt, shoves me back.
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“What the fuck do you mean, my sister?” he snarls. “Stay the fuck away from her!”
“Now you have life in your eyes?” I push him off me, fix my shirt. “But it’s too late.”
He stares at me, chest heaving. “What the hell does that mean, Koa?”
“I don’t ever want to hear from you again. Beat it.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, fists clenched, jaw tight.
“Touch me again, and you’re dead.” I turn and walk away.
Behind me, I hear him swear. Hear his footsteps as he stalks off in the opposite direction, probably going straight to find Lexi.
A piece of me feels satisfied. More than satisfied.
I cut the dummy loose in trade for a beautiful ownership.
Easy fucking deal to make.