Chapter 8 Talia
Talia
By the time Friday rolls around, my brain feels like chewed ice. Too many hallways. Too many doors slamming. Too many whispers with the words Reid and locker and coach braided together like a noose.
The Titans have a game tonight.
Clara texted me twice, asking if I’m going.
Zoe sent three increasingly dramatic gifs.
Genny just dropped a pin with be here, coward attached.
I almost said yes. Almost convinced myself to try.
But the idea of sitting in those stands again—the lights, the noise, the possibility of seeing Declan—makes something cold tighten around my lungs. The pressure is too familiar; it feels like the seconds right before a door slams shut and you realize you’re on the wrong side.
So I don’t go.
My phone rings just as the sun is setting, painting my dorm room in bruised purples and grays. It’s early—pre-game warmups haven’t even fully started yet.
Dad’s name fills the screen.
I answer. “Hey.”
“I’m looking at the stands,” he says—background noise muffled, like he’s in the players' box. “Your seat is empty.”
“Hi, Dad. Nice to hear your voice, too.”
He huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You know what I mean. You coming?”
“Not tonight,” I say, gripping the phone tighter. “Just… long week.”
He doesn’t buy it, but he lets me have the lie. “Fair enough. Get some rest.”
I sit up a little straighter on my bed, pulling my knees to my chest. “I, um… heard about what happened at practice. With Rylan.”
A pause—heavy, thoughtful. I can picture him leaning back in his desk chair, rubbing the tension from his jaw.
“Rumors travel fast,” he says slowly.
“Did Rylan… say something?” I ask. “Before it happened?”
“He always says something,” Dad says. “That kid’s mouth runs ahead of his brain nine days out of seven.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say quietly. “Did he say something that would make Declan react like that?”
Dad tests the edges of my question before answering. “Declan didn’t give me specifics. And Rylan sure as hell didn’t tell the truth. There’s a piece I’m not getting.”
“So you don’t think it was random?”
“No,” Dad says immediately. “Something set him off. Something specific.”
My heartbeat stutters. He doesn’t know. He genuinely doesn’t know. The whole campus is chewing on the story, and the one person who should see the pattern can’t see where I fit inside it.
“Do you… think he’d do it again?” I ask carefully.
Dad doesn’t hesitate. “No. Not unless someone pushes him the same way. Declan’s not dangerous to anyone who isn’t actively asking for it.”
I swallow, relief and something sharper tangling. Not dangerous to anyone who isn’t asking for it. I’m not Rylan. I didn’t provoke anything. But I’m still right there in the center of the blast.
“So you’re not… mad at him?”
“Oh, I’m mad,” Dad says. “He’s sitting out tonight. And he earned it. But I’m not turning him into something he’s not. He works harder than anyone. He carries more pressure than most of these kids can imagine.”
He lowers his voice. “That kid has been walking around like a live wire for weeks. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but I don’t think it’s something he caused.”
Live wire.
The phrase wraps around my spine like bare copper. I know what it feels like to be the thing humming with too much charge, waiting for a wrong touch to set everything on fire. My danger was always pointed inward; his is pointed outward. Both of us are still something people brace around.
I think of the booth. The heat of his thigh pressed against mine. The terrifying, electric hum that moved between us. I felt the charge then. I felt the current.
“He’s wound tight right now,” Dad goes on. “Between his old man, the donors, the season… he’s walking a fine line. I’m trying to help him find his balance again, but until I do, I need you to be smart about it.”
A chill slides down my spine. “Smart how?”
“Give him space,” he says. “If you see him around campus, be polite, be yourself, but don’t get pulled into the blast radius if something else sets him off. He’s not dangerous to you, Talia. But he’s a live wire. And live wires burn everyone touching them.”
Not dangerous to you.
He has no idea he’s already wrapped me in the middle of it. No idea the live wire is the one person who made me feel seen in a room full of noise. No idea that I’ve already touched it, and the burn is the only thing keeping me warm.
I swallow. “Got it.”
“I mean it,” he says, voice softening. “You’re my first priority. Him, the team, the record—that all comes after. If you ever feel off around him, you call me. Or Adrian. Or both.”
The protectiveness hurts in a different way. It’s love and blind spot, both. He wants to keep me away from the storm and doesn’t see that I’m already standing in the rain. I nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’m fine, Dad.”
“Yeah,” he says, not quite believing me. “You always say that.”
A whistle blows, signaling the start of warm-ups. Game time is approaching.
“I have to go,” he says. “We’ll talk Sunday. Maybe grab brunch? Somewhere that doesn’t sell hot dogs.”
A tiny laugh slips out. “We’ll see.”
“Love you, kid.”
The words land like a rough hand on my shoulder, heavy and steady.
“Love you too,” I whisper.
The line clicks dead.
I stare at my reflection in the black of the TV for a long moment, Dad’s words looping. Live wire. Not dangerous to you. Be smart.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Maya’s right—the truth will come out.
And when it does, it’s going to hit every fault line at once.
I spend the rest of Friday night holed up in my dorm, pretending the silence is a choice.
But it isn't, not really. It’s the residue of everything he left in me.
Hiding is what he taught me. Hiding is his language, not mine.
Skipping the game feels like I handed him another piece of my life and said here, take this too.
Saturday lands with the weight of a decision.
So I put on my softest sweatshirt, the one that still smells faintly like detergent from home, tug my hood up, and walk out the door anyway. Every step down the hall feels like an argument I’m having with my own body.
We’re going. We are not giving him this too.
I’m not testing noise tonight. I’m not testing crowds.
Tonight is about proving something smaller, quieter: that I can sit in a room with my friends and not flinch every time the world remembers it can slam.
That I can exist in softness without bracing for impact.
The first real laugh I’ve had in a week is stolen by Clara cheating at Cards Against Humanity.
“It’s not cheating,” she insists, her face a mask of pure innocence as she tucks a white card back into her lap. “It’s strategic recycling.”
“It’s cheating,” Zoe says, throwing a piece of popcorn at her. “You’re a disgrace to this family, Hale’s Girl.”
Genny just smirks from her throne of pillows, phone held up to film the argument. “This is why I don’t play. I prefer to document the moral decay.”
We’re in Genny’s apartment, a space so clean and minimalist it’s almost sterile. Half-empty snack bags litter the expensive rug. Fairy lights are strung across concrete-grey walls, casting a soft, warm glow that feels like a shield against the world. A low indie-pop playlist hums from a speaker.
The couch is too soft, swallowing me whole, but the weight of it against my back is… grounding. There are no hidden locks here, no deadbolts disguised as safety. Just throw blankets and ridiculous, overpriced candles that smell like “rainy bookstores” and “cinnamon libraries.”
It’s cozy, achingly normal, and it all feels like a costume I’m wearing.
I force myself to be here, to not make an excuse. This is how it starts.
This isn’t the cafeteria. This isn’t the arena.
This is the smallest battlefield yet—being present. Not ghosting my own life.
The thought is a small, hard stone in my gut. I roll it around, let the anger scrape against the fear. Anger wins by a hair.
“You’re lucky we even let you in,” Clara says, pointing a finger at me. I’m curled in the corner of the sofa, feet tucked under me, the mug warm against my palms. “You keep skipping out on us. You’re allergic to fun.”
“Or allergic to hockey players,” Zoe adds, waggling her eyebrows.
Genny snorts. “Maybe she just has taste.”
“Or maybe she’s just smart,” Maya murmurs from the floor, not looking up from her phone. “Statistically, they’re a bad investment.”
“I’m not allergic to fun,” I say, my voice a little rough from underuse, ignoring Maya’s comment. I force a lightness I don't feel. “Some of us actually came to college to study, you know. A foreign concept to you heathens.”
Zoe throws popcorn at me this time. I flinch on instinct, then force myself not to duck, letting the kernel bounce off my sweatshirt and fall harmlessly into my lap. My shoulders want to climb to my ears; I make them stay down.
“See?” she says. “Recluse. We’re your court-mandated socialization.”
“Parole officers,” I correct, surprising myself. “Get the terminology right.”
Zoe grins, satisfied. “Our client is showing growth.”
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my mouth. My hands are restless. I keep worrying the seam of my sleeve, rolling the soft cotton between my thumb and forefinger.
Stop it. Be normal. Be here.
I flatten my palm against my knee, fingers splayed, and focus on the slight scratch of denim through the cotton.
The conversation moves on, as it always does, to the Titans. Zoe is recounting a rumor about a freshman getting caught with a professor. Genny is fact-checking it on her phone, thumbs quick and precise. And Clara… Clara is just blissfully, annoyingly in love.
“Stop staring at your phone,” Zoe says, nudging Clara’s foot. “He’s not going to melt if you don’t text him back for five minutes.”
“I’m not,” Clara protests, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “I am still his tutor, you know.”
“Tutor,” Zoe repeats, deadpan. “Tutor with benefits.”