33. Julian
Julian
The statement takes longer than I expected and somehow less time than it should for something that feels like cutting myself open on a polished conference table.
Blackthorne’s legal offices are all glass walls, dark wood, expensive coffee, and the kind of silence built by people who get paid too much to react visibly.
For some reason, three Blackthorne board members are present, two school attorneys, Mara because Killian apparently decided no one was breathing near me without King-approved counsel in the room, and one representative from the athletics department.
Killian sits beside me through the whole thing. Luca waits outside because I asked him to. Eli offered to come, and I almost said yes, but I knew if he sat there and heard me say all of it in that flat, official language, I’d end up watching his face instead of getting through the statement.
So, I do it without him.
Mara told me there is power in putting everything on record, and I want Blakely buried under every word he thought I’d be too ashamed to say.
Nobody interrupts much. Mara does once, gently, to clarify dates. One of the school attorneys asks about whether any communications happened on campus devices, and Killian’s head turns so slowly toward him that the man clears his throat and rephrases in a much less shitty way.
One of the owners, an older woman with steel-gray hair and a face like she’s signed checks that have ruined men, takes notes without looking away from me.
Another owner, a broad-shouldered man with gold-rimmed glasses, asks only two questions, both careful.
The third owner leaves fifteen minutes before the end after checking his phone and murmuring something to the woman beside him.
I notice him because he’s hard not to notice.
Sharp Italian features. Tattooed fingers resting briefly on the table before he stands, ink showing above his collar, not fully hidden by the expensive cut of his shirt.
Older, maybe early thirties, and stupidly attractive in a way I have no interest in unpacking because the last older, powerful man who took up space in my life just became the subject of a formal investigation.
Mara called him Matteo Vieri during introductions. I file the name away because that’s what my brain does now with men who hold power. Trauma is a shitty operating system, but it’s thorough.
By the time the statement ends, my mouth tastes of old pennies, and my hands are numb. Mara slides a glass of water toward me without making a big deal out of it, and I take it because refusing would be pointless.
“You did well,” Mara says quietly while the others gather papers and speak in low, cautious legal tones around us. “That was clear, consistent, and more than enough to support the timeline.”
I nod because if I answer, I might say something bitter like, great, glad my abuse has excellent evidentiary value. Killian reads my face well enough that he shifts closer before I can spiral into it.
“You’re done for today,” he says, voice low enough that only Mara and I hear. “No more statements. No more meetings. I’ll deal with the rest.”
I breathe out slowly. “Thanks, Kill. I got practice in a few. So, see you at home.”
He offers a nod, then turns back to Mara when I walk out.
The hallway outside the legal offices feels too bright after the conference room.
Luca is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms folded, and the second he sees my face, his own expression tightens.
He doesn’t ask how I am in front of people.
He just pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me.
“You good enough for practice?” he asks after we’ve made it down one flight of stairs and out of earshot.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m going anyway.”
“That’s the most football answer you’ve ever given me.”
“I’m versatile in every way.”
“TMI, bro,” Luca huffs a laugh and claps the back of my shoulder once. “Eli’s going to meet us there.”
We keep walking, making our way to the locker room, but when we pass the classroom wing connecting legal administration to the athletics corridor, something catches at the edge of my vision.
Ryan.
He’s near one of the empty classrooms, curls piled up high on his head, gym bag slung over one shoulder, mouth moving around what is probably some smartass comment. A man stands close to him, close enough that my body registers proximity before my brain registers context.
Matteo Vieri—the board member who left my statement early.
He says something I can’t hear, and Ryan’s face flashes with a grin that looks reckless. Then Matteo catches the strap of Ryan’s gym bag and uses it to pull him sideways into the empty classroom and closes the door.
Every instinct in me detonates.
I’m moving before I decide to. Luca says my name behind me, sharp and confused, but I’m already crossing the hall with my heart slamming into my throat.
The rational part of me tries to get a word in, tries to say Ryan is not me, Ryan looked amused, Ryan can handle himself, Ryan is a grown-ass man with a temper and half-Puerto Rican stubbornness enough to weaponize it.
None of that matters to the part of me that just spent the morning telling lawyers how easy it is for powerful men to close doors.
I reach the classroom and stop with my hand half raised because I hear Ryan through the door.
“Damn, Papi,” he says, voice full of exaggerated sweetness and absolutely no fear. “Dragging me into empty rooms on campus now? That’s bold, even for you.”
My whole body goes very still at the flirtatious tone of his voice.
“You keep calling me that like it irritates me.” Matteo’s voice comes smoother, threaded with something that makes my shoulders tense despite Ryan’s tone.
Ryan laughs. “Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“Shit,” Ryan says, sounding annoyed and entertained at once. “Then I’ll workshop.”
I stare at the door. Behind me, Luca catches up and stops close enough that I can feel him trying to understand whether he should intervene or tackle me away from the classroom before this becomes another formal report. I raise a finger to my lips and cock my head toward the door. Listen, I mouth.
“You missed dinner,” Matteo says.
Ryan scoffs. “I had practice.”
“You had practice until six. Dinner was at eight.”
“Look at you keeping track. That’s not weird at all.”
“You owe me,” Matteo says, and this time the words land with enough weight that my hand flexes toward the door handle.
“I owe you? For what, exactly? Because I distinctly remember saving your ass from a very boring alumni event by being charming as fuck for two hours.” Ryan doesn’t sound intimidated. If anything, the little brat sounds delighted.
“You ate my food, drank my wine, insulted a donor’s son, and left before I could take you home.”
“First of all,” Ryan says, voice bright with shamelessness, “that donor’s son insulted himself by existing with that haircut. Second, you told me not to behave as if I belonged to you in public, so I left like an independent citizen.”
“You left with my jacket.”
Ryan scoffs, and I can picture his face too clearly, all rolled eyes and sharp mouth. “You’re rich. Buy another.”
“You think this is about the jacket?”
“I think you’re very dramatic for a guy who probably owns twelve identical black suits and one emotion.”
Matteo’s laugh is quiet enough that I barely catch it through the door, but something about it makes my stomach twist. Not because it sounds cruel—it doesn’t.
It sounds amused and intimate. Like this is a game they’ve played before, one where Ryan is absolutely participating, maybe even driving everyone involved insane on purpose.
“You know, for an old man, your memory is very selective.”
“I’m thirty-five.”
“My condolences.”
Matteo says something in Italian too low for me to catch, and Ryan laughs.
“Use English if you’re going to scold me,” Ryan tells him. “I only know the fun Italian.”
“The fun Italian,” Matteo repeats, voice flat.
“You know. The kind you say when you’re mad but still trying to sound hot.”
“You test my patience, carino.”
Ryan makes another scoffing sound. “I said Italian, Papi. But keep talking like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.” Ryan’s answer comes too fast, bratty and edged with enough heat that even through the door I understand I may have misread something.
“I did miss you,” Matteo says, and there is no sarcasm in it at all.
My hand drops away from the door.
For one second, I stand there, caught between my body’s panic and my brain finally receiving the new information. This isn’t Ryan being cornered the way I was. This is something else. Something secret, charged, messy, obviously full of bad decisions, but not what my fear told me it was.
Luca leans closer to my ear and murmurs, “Jules, maybe don’t burst into the middle of whatever the hell that is.”
I should listen.
I do not.
Because then Matteo says, “You don’t get to disappear for two weeks, ignore my calls, leave my messages unanswered, and then act surprised when I come to collect what’s mine.”
All the air leaves my body.
Collect what’s mine.
I don’t hear Ryan’s answering laugh the way I should. I don’t hear the lack of fear in it—I hear mine.
My player. My boy. My secret. My rules. Don’t make me angry. Don’t make me remind you who can ruin you faster.
I shove the door open, and it slams harder than I intended against the inside stopper.
Ryan and Matteo both turn.
The classroom is empty except for the two of them near the front row of desks.
Ryan is sitting on the edge of one, posture loose, ankles crossed, gym bag on the floor beside him.
Matteo stands in front of him, one hand braced on the desk near Ryan’s thigh, not touching him, but close enough that the air between them looks alive.
Ryan looks like he’s been caught stealing tequila and is deciding whether to deny or double down. “Jules?”
“Are you okay?” I ask him, because my body is still ahead of my logic and refuses to let the question die unspoken.