Chapter 15 — One Keycard Problem
Sabrina didn’t like being the person with access.
Access turned into responsibility. Responsibility turned into blame the second anything went wrong.
That was the whole point of her job here: build structure so nobody could claim they “didn’t know.”
She was finishing a last note at the front desk of the performance wing when the facilities manager, Mr. Barlow, hurried past with a ring of keys and an exhausted face.
“Quick heads-up,” he said, not stopping. “Reader’s glitching. Your keycard might be the only one that works after hours until morning.”
Sabrina’s pen paused.
“Mine,” she repeated.
Mr. Barlow flashed a thumbs-up like that solved it. “Yours. Don’t lose it.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the hallway.
Sabrina stared at the card clipped to her lanyard like it had gained weight.
Perfect.
She packed her bag with the careful speed of someone trying to leave before another problem could find her.
She stepped into the hallway and almost ran straight into Max.
He wasn’t in full kit. He had on a team hoodie with the hood down, hair still damp from rain practice, face set in that locked-in expression he wore when he was trying not to feel anything too loudly.
He didn’t say hi.
He said, “I need the film room.”
Sabrina stopped. “It’s after hours.”
“I know.” Max’s voice stayed flat, but there was something tight underneath it. “Coach Price wants striker tape broken down before tomorrow.”
Sabrina’s instincts rose fast and sharp.
No.
No closed doors.No late-night sessions.No situations that could be interpreted.
“I can’t,” Sabrina said. “The wing is closed.”
Max’s jaw flexed. “It’s a room with a screen.”
“It’s still the performance wing,” Sabrina replied, steady. “And I’m not risking—”
Max’s hands twitched.
Just once.
Like his body tried to do something with the adrenaline and didn’t know where to put it.
Sabrina saw it. Clean and clear in the fluorescent hallway light.
His fingers curled into fists, then released, then curled again.
He was breathing like he was fine, but his hands were telling the truth.
Sabrina’s throat tightened.
This wasn’t romance. It wasn’t a moment.
It was an athlete with too much noise in his system and nowhere safe to put it.
Max stared past her shoulder for a second, like he couldn’t look at her and stay contained at the same time.
“I can’t go back to my room like this,” he said, quieter.
Sabrina’s chest went still.
She didn’t ask what this was.
She knew. She’d watched it all week—the way control cost him, the way he carried it like a burn.
She lifted her chin. “If I let you in, it’s on my rules.”
Max’s eyes snapped to hers. “Fine.”
Sabrina held up one finger. “Door stays open.”
Max nodded once.
“Lights stay on,” she added.
Another nod.
“And we are not alone,” Sabrina said. “Coach Price will know you’re here. My supervisor will know I unlocked the wing. It will be documented.”
Max’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t fight it. “Do it.”
Sabrina walked past him without letting her shoulder brush his. She unclipped the keycard with calm hands that didn’t match her heart rate.
She swiped.
The reader blinked green.
The door clicked.
Sabrina stepped inside first, holding the door wide, bright lights spilling down the hall like a spotlight.
Max followed, hands finally still, like the structure had given his body permission to settle.
Sabrina didn’t relax.
She just led him toward the film room with the kind of professionalism that could survive a camera angle.
Behind them, the hallway stayed bright and open and un-romantic.
As they passed the main lobby screen, Sabrina’s phone buzzed again.
She didn’t check it right away.
She already knew what the feed would do with any late-night movement in athletics.
When she did glance down, the new post was waiting like it had been written on a timer.
“Someone’s using the performance wing late. Soccer season is spooky.”