Chapter 9 Gio #2
It makes my body go sharp, like I’m about to step into a fight I’ve been pretending I don’t want.
I grab my helmet.
Adrian shifts with me, not blocking my path—just close enough to force a decision. His eyes hold mine. Threat-silent. Captain-silent. The kind of quiet that says: choose, and live with it.
“Practice,” I say.
Declan’s voice drops. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Cole’s tone goes flat. “You’re about to do something stupid.”
“Probably,” I say.
Dante steps half a pace closer. “Don’t do it sloppy.”
That’s all he gives me. Not a plea.
A standard.
I meet Adrian’s eyes finally. The pressure sits there, thick and familiar. The same kind they used on Declan when he tried to carry everything by himself.
I don’t give.
I move.
Because once I step onto the sheet, the team falls into rhythm. And rhythm is cover. Rhythm is what you do when the world wants a headline and you decide you’d rather give it a scoreboard.
Cold air hits my lungs hard enough to reset my breathing the second my blades bite.
Good.
Pain is simple. It doesn’t ask questions.
I push into the first lap, edges biting, legs burning, the familiar violence of it settling my shoulders even as my head stays loud.
Adrian slides in beside me without asking, matching pace like it’s instinct. He doesn’t talk the whole time.
Good.
That’s him. That’s the captain I trust—present, pressure, not commentary.
We run drills. Contact. Breath. Bodies colliding. Enough structure to look normal from the outside. Enough friction to keep my hands from shaking.
It should burn the noise out.
It doesn’t.
Every pass, every pivot, the same calculation keeps running in the background, sharp and unavoidable.
Reach.
Where it reaches next.
Who it stains.
And the worst part—the part I refuse to give a name—is that Zoe keeps showing up in the math like she belongs there.
Not as a move.
As a pull.
I hate it.
I use it anyway.
Practice ends hard and fast. Whistle. Noise rushes back in. We peel off toward the locker room, and I can feel it now—the attention, the quiet tracking. Nobody asks outright. They don’t need to. This kind of pressure spreads without words.
Inside, the air is thick with sweat and metal. Lockers slam.
I pop mine and pull my phone out where I left it, the screen already lit with notifications I didn’t ask for.
Dante’s on the bench, phone loose in his hand, eyes flicking up when I reach my stall. “That account posted again,” he says. “Just added another hashtag.”
Of course it did. It’s a gossip column. It lives on speed.
“I know,” I say.
Cole’s voice comes from my right, flat and unamused. “You gonna keep pretending this is nothing, or do we start adjusting for fallout?”
“I’m not pretending.”
Dante’s mouth twitches. “You are. You just do it better than most.”
My phone vibrates in my hand before I can shove it away.
Unknown number. No context.
You’re quieter than you used to be. That’s how people start connecting dots.
My jaw tightens.
Rylan.
Established. Familiar. A specific kind of hate.
He’s not guessing. He’s poking a bruise he helped put there.
Adrian notices immediately. He doesn’t ask—just holds his hand out.
I don’t give it to him. “Don’t.”
He lets his hand drop. No argument. Just a look that says: fine. Keep bleeding in private.
“That bad?” he asks.
“Bad enough.”
Declan steps closer, voice low. “This isn’t just about you anymore.”
He’s right.
That’s the point. That’s the leverage. The Whisperer isn’t aiming for my guilt—it’s aiming for collateral. Team. Program. Anyone standing near me.
“I’m aware,” I say.
“Then say something useful,” Dante pushes. “Because silence is starting to cost us.”
I tuck my phone into my jacket and pull the zipper up like it seals the conversation. “I’ve got it.”
Cole watches me for a long second. “That means you’re about to move.”
I don’t answer. I grab my hoodie, shove my arms through it, already halfway gone in my head.
Adrian steps into my path—not blocking me, just close enough to force eye contact. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s because it matters.
“If you’re going to play leverage,” he says, voice low, “don’t do it blind.”
“I’m not.”
“Then loop us in.”
“Not yet.”
Declan’s mouth tightens. “That’s a choice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
I head for the door.
Dante calls after me, “At least tell me you’re not about to do something sloppy.”
I don’t slow. “I don’t do sloppy.”
Outside, the cold cuts clean, the sky still that ugly gray that comes before morning decides what it’s doing.
My phone buzzes again before I can pocket it. Same number.
Careful who you stand next to. Some people draw attention just by breathing.
I stop walking.
A redirect.
Toward her.
My grip tightens until the phone creaks. “Fuck,” I mutter.
And there it is—the price.
Hers.
Because if he’s willing to drag her name into this for clicks, for revenge, for whatever rot he feeds himself at night, then standing next to me doesn’t make Zoe safer.
It makes her visible.
It gives the machine a new target.
And if my plan backfires—if my mess stains her instead of her reputation steadying mine—then I’ve done exactly what I swore I’d never let my father do to me again.
Use someone. Label it family. Call it necessary.
My stomach turns, hot and mean. I don’t respond. I don’t forward it. I don’t warn anyone.
I pull up the campus map, thumbing through building schedules. Design studio. Open blocks. I check the time.
8:45 a.m.
We started before dawn. We always do. Enough time has passed that most of campus is awake now, moving, watching, hungry.
I turn toward the design studio anyway.
The decision locks in without ceremony. No speech. No justification. Just alignment snapping into place like it always does when there’s only one move left.
In the glass doors, my reflection stares back—shoulders squared, face blank, already committed.
Then I see her through the glass.
Design studio lights are on—too bright for morning—and she’s inside, alone at one of the long tables. Tote dropped at her feet. Sleeves pushed up. Focus locked so tight the rest of the building might as well not exist.
She shifts her weight, reaches for something, and keeps working like the rest of campus can wait.
My stride slows half a beat before I catch it.
Annoying.
I adjust. Keep moving. Don’t let my eyes snag on details I don’t need.
They do anyway—her posture, her stillness, the way she makes concentration look like dominance.
My chest tightens like my body recognizes her before my brain gets a vote.
Heat slides in under the armor, unwanted and precise.
I hate that it’s there. I hate that it makes the math feel personal.
I stop outside the studio doors.
Calculation.
If I walk in there, this stops being a reaction and becomes a choice.
And choices have consequences.
For her, too.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don’t check it. I already know what it says.
She straightens, stretches her neck once, and turns—finally registering me through the glass.
Our eyes meet.
No smile. No surprise. Just assessment.
My pulse kicks anyway. Like she hooked her fingers into my throat and decided she likes the grip.
Good.
I push inside.
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing the noise out.
Her gaze flicks once—my shoulders, my face—and then she stills like she’s bracing for impact.
She doesn’t soften. Of course she doesn’t.
That’s part of why I’m here. That’s part of the problem.
I say her name. “Barnes.”