I called Anastasia the minute we got home from the club, but she didn’t answer. Not the first time nor the second time. On the third time, Sabrina answered and told me she was asleep. I tried to explain I didn’t do anything, but she said she wasn’t the one I needed to convince.
On Sunday, Stassie texted me saying she needed some space because she didn’t know what to think. She was stuck between her partner and me, both promising we were telling the truth, and she needed to process the fact she’d have to pull out of her competition.
I told her I’d miss her, but she didn’t reply.
I spent all day Sunday bouncing from house to house to grill each of the guys who weren’t there last night, and they all swear it wasn’t them. Call me naïve, but I believe them.
I was sitting on a disgustingly sticky couch in a frat house with three underclassmen in front of me. Their eyes were bloodshot, and they collectively looked like they’d had five minutes of sleep. How I was supposed to be looking if my Saturday night out hadn’t been fucking hijacked in the worst possible way.
“We didn’t do anything, Cap. Johal said no messing with the skaters—even when they were being dicks. He said we couldn’t upset your girl, or you and Robbie would bench us.”
Your girl. She couldn’t be further from being my girl than she is now. She felt closer to being my girl the other night, but now I’m not even back to square one. I’m not even on the board.
Now that the weekend is over, I’ve been trying to sike myself up for college for an hour, but even the darkness of my room isn’t helping soothe the stabbing pain in my head.
My phone starts to vibrate, but instead of Stassie, I find messages from the team.
PUCKBUNNIES
ROBBIE HAMLET: Email from Faulkner: Award room at 7:30 a.m.
BOBBY HUGHES: Welp. Was nice knowing you guys. Fly high.
MATTIE LIU: Should have played fucking basketball.
HENRY TURNER: You haven’t got the hand-eye coordination for basketball, Liu.
NATE HAWKINS: My brain feels like it’s trying to turn itself into goo while simultaneously set itself alight.
JAIDEN JOHAL: You need Tylenol, buddy?
NATE HAWKINS: I need a shovel to the head.
KRIS HUDSON: I’m sure you won’t need to ask Faulkner twice.
This was always coming, so I can’t act surprised. Aaron told his coach something was on the floor outside only his locker, and he slipped.The hockey team is playing pranks again, he told her.
He told Anastasia someone saw me do it and told him afterward. But he doesn’t know who the supposed witness was, and he’s not told Brady it was me. No, he saved that bit for Anastasia, claiming he doesn’t want to get me into trouble because he’s looking out forher.
I only know because of Robbie, who has a distraught Sabrina on his hands. She’s stuck in the middle, unable to take sides or do anything to make things better. Her friends are all hurting.
She knows I’d never do anything to hurt Anastasia.
It’s all bullshit.
Seven thirty sneaks up on me quickly, and I’ve somehow managed to drag myself to Faulkner’s impromptu meeting. The room is in total silence as Faulkner sits and stares us all down, and for the first time, I can’t read his mood.
I don’t know what he’s waiting for. An admission of guilt? A look that says it was me?
“Did everyone have an enjoyable weekend?” Faulkner drawls.
I’ve been in enough of these meetings over the years to know he does not give a shit about our weekend, and it is not a question that needs answering.
Henry looks at me for guidance and I give him a slight shake of my head.
“Mine was great,” Faulkner continues. “I spent Saturday at my daughter’s volleyball game, filled with pride. They won and I couldn’t have been in a better mood. Even planned a family day on Sunday to celebrate together.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the three-plus years I’ve played on this team, you don’t mess with Faulkner and his family time.