Better make the roster #2
He gives me her name. I know it vaguely. A girl from one of Jenny’s media tutorials who once commented a heart beneath our 247 Gym campaign.
“Maddy, maybe wait until tomorrow before—”
“Mike. I’ll deal with it. Thank you.” I cut him off.
I turn towards the rowing group. They have stopped pretending not to watch us. The girl with the silver ring lowers her phone immediately when my eyes find hers.
There. Information.
I walk back towards them.
“Which one of you has seen the screenshots?”
Nobody answers.
The rower rubs the back of his neck.
Leila unfolds her arms and takes one small step in my direction. “Maddy—”
“Not you.” I do not look at her. “Silver ring?”
The girl beside the island goes pale. “I didn’t send them around.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She glances towards her friends before reaching for her phone. “Someone sent them to our rowing chat because one of the girls mentioned is on the women’s team.”
“How much of it do you have?”
“Four screenshots.”
“AirDrop.” I hold out my phone.
Her mouth parts slightly.
“Please.” The word sounds polite. My face does not, because she opens the files without another protest.
Four more images arrive.
Leila reaches lightly towards my wrist. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”
I step away before her fingers touch me.
No.
Absolutely not.
The last time people knew something about my relationship before I did, Leila was one of them. I do not require her assistance while discovering the new version.
I open the screenshots from the rowing girl. Two are duplicates. One contains a later section from the chat. The fourth shows system notifications near the bottom.
Rory left the conversation.
Leon left the conversation.
Mason left the conversation
Where’s Will?
Around the same time Will became strangely calm whenever their names came up.
Around the same time Rory disappeared from the juice-bar campaign entirely.
I zoom in until the letters blur.
“Maddy?” Mike has returned to my side. His face has that careful concern men wear when they are deciding whether I am about to cry, scream or commit a felony.
I do not feel like doing any of those things. Yet. “Why did they all leave on the same day?”
“I don’t know.” Mike is being deeply incompetent right now.
“You play with Leon.”
“That’s football Leon, not basketball.”
“You drink with all of them.”
“That doesn’t mean they provide me with minutes from their disciplinary proceedings.”
My gaze lifts. “What disciplinary proceedings?”
Mike freezes for half a second. Very small. Enough.
“Mike.” I grit my teeth.
“I don’t know anything for sure.” He lowers his voice. “There were rumours Coach pulled some of them into meetings. Mason was pissed for a while. Leon too.”
So the guys involved have apparently spent weeks processing the consequences of a conversation about me while I remained the only person without the information.
My phone vibrates.
For one stupid, hopeful second, I think it might be Will.
It is the juice-bar client who wants to reschedule our meeting for next week. Every time I look at the phone, it feels like less air makes it into my lungs.
Wait.
Is this why people laugh when I explain that our athlete access comes through friends?
Have they been assuming I obtain meetings on my knees while I have been literally on my knees in my bedroom organising campaign cards because my thoughts would not stop spinning?
The humiliation.
They have taken the hardest thing I have ever built and replaced the work with a sexual explanation simple enough for everybody to understand.
Of course the pretty blonde gets athletes.
Of course they answer her.
Of course the basketball captain is involved. Romantically.
I look through the open kitchen doors towards the pool. Will is exactly where I last saw him.
Nate is speaking with both hands, performing some story with enough physical commitment to require a safety perimeter. DJ stands beside him, expression neutral except for the slight curve at one corner of his mouth.
Will laughs. His head tips back, exposing the line of his throat. One hand holds his beer while the other briefly catches Nate’s shoulder when Nate nearly walks backwards into the pool.
He looks relaxed. Happy.
Everybody knows about these messages. Again. Except me.
Then I press my way through the back door while someone calls out my name.
Will sees me halfway across the yard. His smile changes immediately.
It becomes the one reserved for me, warmer and slower, while his body turns in my direction before I reach him.
His free hand lowers as though already preparing to fit around my waist. That movement nearly breaks something inside me.
I stop outside his reach. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His hand remains suspended for one second before falling to his side. “What?”
I unlock my phone and hold the screenshot between us. Will looks down.
Every trace of colour leaves his face.
Nate’s beer lowers beside him. DJ becomes completely still.
There is my answer before anyone opens his mouth.
Will’s eyes return to mine. “Maddy—”
“Why?” I demand firmly.
His jaw shifts. He looks briefly towards Nate, then back to me, already arranging the explanation. Captain face. Problem identified. Correct response loading. “They were dealt—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I raise my voice before I can stop myself.
Will stops. A pulse moves visibly at the base of his throat. “Maddy, let me explain.”
He reaches for my arm.
I tear it away before his fingers close around me. “Don’t touch me.”
His hand drops instantly, but he steps closer. “Maddy, I—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Maddy.”
“No.”
The word cuts through both of us.
I turn away before he can find any excuse. Jenny reaches the patio door as I cross back inside. Her smile has disappeared, and she looks from my face to Will behind me.
“What happened?”
I show her my screen instead of answering.
Her eyes move to the screen. “Maddy—holy fuck.”
“I know.” I keep walking towards the kitchen.
Behind us, somebody calls Jenny’s name from the dance floor. The music continues. The rower and his friends have shifted away from the island, creating an empty space that feels far too much like an audience politely pretending not to exist.
Someone has finally located the good tequila. Excellent.
I take the bottle from the guy holding it, pour more than a shot into an abandoned plastic cup and ignore his protest that it belongs to Jason.
Jason has excellent shoulders and limited conversation.
He will recover.
My hand is perfectly steady.
That surprises me.
I lift the shot and swallow. The alcohol burns down my throat, sharp enough to make my eyes water, but it does not touch the cold spreading through the centre of my chest.
A shadow moves across the kitchen doorway. I do not look up to see whether it belongs to him.
I reach for the bottle again.
Yes.
Don’t even fucking talk to me again.