Chapter 28 The Last Warning
T he championship bus left at dawn.
Which meant Westbridge had exactly one night left to fall apart.
Lena would have preferred more notice.
Maybe a printed schedule.
A polite email.
A campus-wide announcement that said, Hello, please be advised that all emotional disasters, public scandals, father-daughter confrontations, anonymous threats, and unresolved romantic consequences must be completed before 6:00 a.m. departure.
Instead, she got Nico’s hand in hers under the Court One lights, Declan’s message on his phone, and the horrifying realization that for the first time since everything began, Nico was not hiding the threat from her.
That should have made her feel better.
It did.
A little.
It also made her want to throw his phone into the nearest drainage ditch and personally challenge Declan Vale to a duel using media ethics and a folding chair.
Nico stood beside her, still holding her hand, his face lit by the cruel glow of the screen.
Enjoy the romance. I’ll see you on the court.
Six words.
That was all.
Declan did not need more.
He had built his entire strategy around knowing exactly how little poison it took to ruin a person’s blood.
Lena looked from the message to Nico. “He wants you thinking about him.”
Nico’s mouth tightened. “He’s not subtle.”
“No. He’s predictable.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “That worse?”
“Sometimes.”
The night around them felt suddenly too open. The same court that had held their confession now felt exposed, the fences too thin, the shadows too crowded. Somewhere beyond the walkway, whoever had taken the latest photo might still be nearby. Or gone. Or uploading. Or waiting.
Lena hated that she had started thinking in angles again.
Where a person could stand.
What a camera could catch.
How a moment could be cropped into a lie.
Nico slid his phone into his pocket. “I should walk you back.”
She looked at their joined hands. “Should?”
His thumb moved once over her knuckles.
A careful, unconscious touch.
Her heart softened so fast it annoyed her.
“Want to,” he said.
There it was.
Direct communication.
Tiny. Rough. Miraculous.
Lena squeezed his hand. “Look at you. Almost emotionally fluent.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, I’m making a certificate.”
His mouth curved.
Small.
Real.
It lasted one second before his phone buzzed again.
Not Declan this time.
Coach Hart.
Nico’s expression flattened.
Lena’s stomach dropped.
Of course.
Because no romantic confession was complete without her father arriving via text like a thundercloud with reading glasses.
Nico turned the screen so she could see.
My office. Both of you. Now.
Lena closed her eyes. “Wonderful.”
Nico looked toward the athletic building. “You don’t have to—”
Her eyes snapped open. “Finish that sentence and I will make your championship week very difficult.”
His brows lifted.
“I was going to say you don’t have to answer him tonight if you’re exhausted.”
Oh.
Well.
That was inconveniently considerate.
Lena cleared her throat. “Fine. Continue being evolved.”
“I’ll try not to overdo it.”
They walked to her father’s office together.
Not touching once they left the court.
Not because they were hiding.
Because both of them seemed to understand that whatever waited behind Coach Hart’s door needed them steady, not tangled together like proof of the exact thing he feared.
Still, Lena felt Nico beside her with every step.
That was new.
Not his presence.
His choice to stay.
The athletic building was mostly empty at night. The trophy cases glinted beneath dim hallway lights. A cleaning cart stood outside the training room. Someone had left a stack of championship travel packets on the front desk, each one stamped with the Westbridge logo and tomorrow’s departure time.
6:00 a.m.
The countdown had become real.
Nico’s wrist was braced.
His reputation was bruised.
Their relationship was no longer fake but still very much on fire.
And in less than twelve hours, he would be on a bus toward the biggest match of the season and a rival who had already proven he knew exactly where to hit.
Coach Hart’s office door was open.
That was never a good sign.
Open doors meant this was not private enough to be tender but too private to pretend it was professional.
Her father stood behind his desk, phone in hand. He had changed into a navy Westbridge pullover, as if emotional conflict required team branding. His face was pale with anger and something else Lena now recognized too well.
Fear.
Talia stood near the window with her tablet tucked against her chest, looking like she would rather be anywhere else, including a live press ambush.
Lena stopped in the doorway.
Nico stopped beside her.
Her father’s gaze moved from Lena to Nico, then down to the small space between them.
The space where their hands were no longer joined.
Somehow that seemed to bother him more.
“Close the door,” Coach Hart said.
Lena did.
The click sounded too loud.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then her father lifted his phone.
The gossip post glowed on the screen.
The photo of her and Nico on Court One.
His hand on her face.
Her body angled toward his.
A moment that had felt private even under lights, now flattened into evidence.
Coach Hart set the phone on his desk.
“Tell me this is not what it looks like.”
Lena inhaled slowly.
Beside her, Nico went very still.
Old Lena would have smiled.
Old Lena would have said something clean and strategic.
Old Lena would have softened the room before she knew whether she wanted to.
This Lena was tired.
And in love.
And very, very done.
“It is what it looks like,” she said.
Her father’s eyes closed briefly.
Talia’s mouth parted.
Nico turned his head toward Lena.
She did not look at him.
Not yet.
If she looked at him, she might lose the courage that had arrived shaky but standing.
Her father opened his eyes. “Lena.”
“No,” she said softly. “I’m not going to lie about it.”
Coach Hart’s jaw tightened. “This is championship week.”
“I know.”
“He is under review.”
“He was reinstated.”
“Provisionally.”
“I know that too.”
“You were removed from media duties because this had already crossed too many lines.”
“Then I suppose being honest now is efficient.”
Talia made a tiny sound.
Possibly fear.
Possibly admiration.
Coach Hart’s voice lowered. “Do not make light of this.”
“I’m not.” Lena stepped farther into the office. “I love him.”
Silence.
The sentence did not echo.
It did not need to.
It landed on the desk, the trophies, the framed team photos, the old boundaries, every rule her father had ever drawn to keep her safe.
Nico stopped breathing beside her.
She felt it more than heard it.
Her father’s face changed.
Not shock.
Not exactly.
He had known.
Of course he had known.
But knowing a storm was coming and hearing the first window break were not the same thing.
“You think that fixes the consequences?” he asked.
“No.” Her voice was steadier now. “It just means I’m done lying about why I’m willing to face them.”
Talia looked down at her tablet like she had suddenly become fascinated by spreadsheets.
Nico’s hand brushed Lena’s.
Not taking it.
Just there.
A quiet I’m here.
Her chest tightened.
Her father saw it.
Pain moved across his face before he buried it.
“Nico,” he said.
Nico straightened. “Coach.”
“You understand what this could do to her?”
Lena’s anger flared. “Dad—”
Nico spoke before she could.
“Yes.”
One word.
No defense.
No flinch.
Coach Hart’s gaze sharpened. “Do you?”
Nico’s face was calm, but Lena knew him now. She saw the tension in his left hand. The way he held his braced wrist close. The way guilt moved beneath his skin like a familiar ghost.
“Yes,” Nico said again. “I know what people are saying about her because of me.”
“Not because of you,” Lena said.
Nico looked at her.
She held his gaze. “Because someone is using both of us.”
His expression softened by a fraction.
Then Coach Hart said, “People will not separate the two.”
Nico looked back at him. “I know.”
“And if you lose control tomorrow?”
“I won’t.”
“You cannot promise that.”
Nico’s jaw tightened.
For a second, Lena thought he would snap.
He did not.
He breathed once.
Then said, “No. I can’t promise I won’t feel it.”
The room shifted.
Nico continued, voice rough but controlled. “Vale knows exactly what to say. He knows where to hit. I can’t promise it won’t make me angry.”
Coach Hart said nothing.
Nico’s eyes stayed on his. “But I can promise I’m not giving him another clip.”
Lena’s throat tightened.
Not because it was a perfect answer.
Because it was honest.
Her father heard it too.
She saw the recognition move through him.
Reluctant.
Hard-won.
Talia cleared her throat gently. “Evan, that matters.”
Coach Hart did not look away from Nico. “Your wrist?”
Nico’s mouth tightened. “Medical check before we board.”
“And if Mel says you are not cleared?”
The room went colder.
Lena looked at Nico.
This was the question.
The one under all the others.
Could he stop if stopping was the right thing?
Could he trust that losing a match did not mean losing himself?
Nico’s throat moved.
For a moment, she saw the fear rise in him. Family. Scholarship. Scouts. Sofia’s applications. Carmen’s bills. Every version of the future balancing on one damaged wrist.
Then his eyes shifted to Lena.
Not for permission.
Not for rescue.
For grounding.
She gave him the truth with her face.
Whatever happens, you are still worth loving.
He looked back at Coach Hart.
“If Mel says I’m not cleared,” Nico said slowly, “then I don’t play.”
The words cost him.
Everyone in the room knew it.
Coach Hart’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Lena saw the exact second her father understood that Nico Reyes was trying.
Not performing.
Not rebranding.
Trying.
Talia exhaled quietly.
Coach Hart looked down at the phone on his desk.
Then back at Lena.
“This will be public by morning.”
“It already is.”
“Worse by morning,” he corrected.