Page 147 of Dirty Hit
Delete. Too much. Too real.
Finally, I type the only thing I can manage.
Me:Are you awake?
I stare at the message for a second, then hit send before I can overthink it. The little “delivered” pops up under the text. No read receipt. No dots.
I let the phone drop back to the desk and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
My parents just disowned me. My funding’s gone. My future is a giant question mark. Someone out there has video of me worshipping my boyfriend like a god while I ride him in the woods. The only person I want to call is the one man my father just blamed for ruining me.
I’m sore and exhausted and drowning and still, beneath all of it, my heart twists when I think of him, of the way he looked at me when he said ‘you’re the only thing that matters.’ Then my phone pings, and relief rushes over me when I see his name.
Jericho’s going to have a lot to listen to tonight.
Dominic
Thebusridehomeis hell.
It should feel good. We won. Coach is in one of his rare good moods, still barking at guys, but smiling—the kind of rough affection he saves for nights like this. People are loud, music’s going on someone’s portable speaker, and a couple of the guys are already half-asleep with their hoodies pulled over their faces.
This is the part where I usually lean back, close my eyes, let the post-game buzz roll through me, and think about how I’m going to celebrate when I get back to Lakehaven. But tonight, there’s just a crater in my chest and a knot under my sternum that’s been there since this afternoon.
Coach took our phones before we headed into the locker room. ‘Distraction,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you looking at social media bullshit or girlfriends or whatever. Heads in the game.’
I handed mine over with everyone else, because that’s the rule, and I can’t afford to pick a fight about minor things when healready has his eye on me. But, as he came around, Brendon texted me.
Brendon:Are you awake?
Me:Yeah, baby. Coach is about to take our phones, though. What’s wrong?
The typing dots popped up, disappeared, and popped up again. The last thing I saw on my screen before it went into the lockbox was Brendon’s name, and two words.
Brendon:They know.
My stomach dropped out. But before I could reply, Coach was in front of me.
“Volkov,” he barked. “Phone. Now.”
I could’ve told him no. Instead, I locked my jaw, dropped the phone into the box, and told myself I’d get it back in a few hours, when we were on the road—and then I’d deal with whatever “they know” meant.
I lie to myself for four quarters straight, and it works well enough to keep me from throwing the ball into the stands and hitchhiking home. As soon as Keller hands our phones back on the bus hours later, the lie cracks.
I grab mine out of the box like I’m reaching for a weapon. The screen lights up. Notifications flood in—group chats, social media, a couple of thirst texts from numbers I don’t recognize. I swipe them all away, until it’s just messages that matter.
But there was no response from him.
I try calling him, but it only rings twice, then goes to voicemail. I hang up before his recorded voice finishes saying his name. Then I text.
Me: Baby, answer your fucking phone. Keller took mine, so I couldn’t text back.
Nothing.
Colton drops into the seat across the aisle from me, still high on adrenaline. “Dude,” he says, grinning. “You see that last drive? You were fucking possessed! I swear, if scouts weren’t already drooling, they’re going to be eating each other alive after this.”
“Yeah,” I say absently, because my heart is lodged in my throat and I can’t think about anything but the sound of Brendon’s voicemail.
He gives me a long look, and I know he’s thinking about pushing. He’s not stupid; he knows I’ve been weird for weeks. He also knows I don’t talk when I don’t want to. He nods once and drops into his seat across the aisle, leaving me with my thoughts and my phone.
