I grin. “That’s brilliant. Jacey’s been googling people at Franklin West.”
The guys laugh. They’ve both met Jacey and instantly claimed her as their honorary little sister.
“I have no idea how to go about organizing a black-tie event,” I say. “You guys will help, right?”
“Sure,” Alex says. “But I’m sure there’ll be someone at Franklin West who knows all about fundraising. I’ll ask around discretely.”
“Same,” Zak offers.
“Thanks, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They chorus a goodbye, and I hang up, but continue staring at my phone as I mull over what they said. Chewing my lip, I open the Franklin West intranet and click onto Friday’s issue of The Howl, wondering if there are any fundraisers listed. My gaze snags on a byline, my thumb hovering mid-scroll.Wes Bowers.
After I finished dancing with Peyton, I couldn’t find him. Not that I was looking for him, but I’m pretty sure he left. My heart speeds a little as I recall the warmth of his arm against mine, the rich smell of his cologne and the way he’d asked if he had a reason to stay. I’m not sure why I freaked out. It’s not like I haven’t had guys flirt with me before. If anything, I’m flattered. There’s just something so incredibly intense about Wes.
Shaking it off, I continue scrolling through The Howl, before switching to googling fundraising tips. When my dad shouts from upstairs, announcing that he’s home, I look up in surprise to find that it’s already dark. My joints pop as I stand and stretch before heading upstairs, ready to fill Jacey in on my plan so far. I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to pull it off, but excitement is already fizzing in my veins. If Jacey wants a fundraiser, I’m going to give her the most incredible fundraiser that ever raised funds. Or something like that.
If we do this right, it could change a lot of lives. I grin to myself, my chest swelling at the thought of doing Jacey proud. Now, I just have to find someone to help me.
WES
This is exactly why I hate frat boys. My teeth grind together painfully as I sit in one of the uncomfortable gray chairs in Dean Mason’s office. I’d been on my way to the gym when the dean called me in for an emergency meeting. Somehow, someone managed to slip another of Sasha’s diary entries into The Howl. I just know it’s a Wolf. No one else would be so stupid. My hands curl into fists on my lap. I don’t know how they did it, but when I find out who it is . . .
“It’s not my staff,” I insist. “None of them would do something like this.”
Dean Mason pulls a hand over his face. “Well, clearly your trust is misplaced because someone did.”
My skin is clammy, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “It’s got to be one of the Wolves. Sasha probably turned them down, and this is their juvenile attempt at revenge.”
“You’re probably right,” he says. “But we have no way of proving it.”
It takes every ounce of strength not to roll my eyes.
“Look, Wes.” He sighs heavily, sliding his hands into his pockets where he’s leaning against the front of the desk. “The Howl is well respected and it’s an integral part of Franklin West, but if parents hear about this and panic, I’ll be forced to take action.”
My clammy skin turns ice cold. “You’d ax The Howl?”
“I might be forced to.”
Removing my glasses, I wipe a hand over my face as my stomach rolls. “It won’t happen again. I’ve already told the team that I’ll be manually publishing until we find out who’s responsible. I’ll check the issue letter by letter personally before it goes live.”
Dean Mason’s shoulders sag a little with what I assume is relief. “Great. I appreciate your cooperation.”
I press my lips together, biting back the smartass reply I know will do me no favors. “Are we done here?”
He nods and I stand, grabbing my gym bag from beside the chair. It might be rude, but I don’t so much as look at the dean as I storm from his office. Anger swirls in my blood, clouding my vision, and I jog down the stairs two at a time, desperate to get outside into the fresh air.
Three years of hard work in jeopardy because of a stupid prank. My jaw works as I stride down the path toward the sports building. It’s a journey I’ve taken every day for three years, so my feet move on autopilot while I lose myself to frustration and rage.
Which is how I end up walking straight into Sol Brooker.
“Hey!” he shouts as I almost knock him to the floor.
Reaching out, I grab hold of his forearm, halting his fall. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
His eyes widen as he realizes who he’s bumped into—or rather who charged into him like a linebacker—but then the surprise is gone, replaced by an easy smile.
“No worries,” he says. “I’ve faced worse on the field.”