Chapter 10: The locker room leak

Tristan POV I was tapping my stick with the kind of mechanical precision that usually kept my head clear before a practice, but today the rhythm felt off. The black tape wound around the blade in tight, overlapping layers, the same way I kept winding Juniper tighter into my orbit without her fully realizing it. The locker room smelled like sweat, metal, and the faint sting of Icy Hot—familiar, grounding. My teammates were scattered around me, lacing skates, banging locker doors, talking s**t about the upcoming match. Noise blurred into background static. My mind was elsewhere. Liam dropped onto the bench beside me, his gear half-on, phone already in hand like it was surgically attached. He was my closest friend on the team, the one who saw through most of my bullshit, but even he didn’t know the full shape of what I was doing with Juniper. Not yet. “You gotta see this,” he said, shoving the screen under my nose without preamble. His voice carried that half-amused, half-concerned tone he used when drama was about to bite someone in the ass. “Mabel’s Close Friends story is making rounds. She’s not even being subtle anymore.” I paused mid-wrap on the tape, eyes flicking to the phone. The post loaded: black background, white text in that elegant font she loved because it made her cruelty look classy. ‘Desperate girls playing dress-up with someone else’s leftovers. Some people never learn their place.’ Tagged with a broken heart emoji that was pure theater. Mabel had always been good at this—planting seeds that grew into weeds fast enough to choke whoever she aimed them at. The story was only up for her inner circle, but in a school this small and gossipy, that might as well have been a billboard on the quad. Instead of the annoyance I probably should’ve felt, something hotter surged through my chest. A dangerous rush of satisfaction that settled low in my gut like a goal horn going off at the perfect moment. Juniper had claimed me in front of Nolan and Mabel—and now Mabel was spiraling, crying to whoever would listen, turning it into a blind item because she couldn’t stand watching her favorite toy slip away. Good, let her burn. Nolan would be next. I could picture my brother right now, jaw locked, anxiety spiking, realizing the girl he’d kept in his back pocket for years had finally walked out. The thought made my mouth curve before I could stop it. He was spiraling. I knew it in my bones. Liam raised an eyebrow, watching me too closely. “You’re smiling. That’s never a good sign. Mabel’s basically calling Juniper a rebound chaser who stole you from her. The group chats are exploding. Half the campus thinks it’s hilarious, the other half is waiting for you two to crash and burn. You gonna say anything?” I finished taping the stick with a final sharp rip of the tape, then set it aside. My hands were steady, but my pulse wasn’t. Before I could answer Liam, my eyes caught on the edge of a folded paper sticking out of my bag. The one I’d snatched from Juniper’s floor after the lamp incident. I’d found out who slipped it into her back pocket during warm-ups earlier—some opportunistic freshman on the equipment crew who thought stirring twin drama would get him noticed. Idiot. He’d confessed in the hallway when I cornered him, babbling about Mabel offering him twenty bucks to “make things interesting.” He swore he didn’t know what it said. I didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter. The paper wasn’t for him to read. It wasn’t really for Juniper either, not yet. What was written on it stayed locked down tight: a printed screenshot of an email from one of the sponsors, the kind that threatened to pull funding if I didn’t “clean up my image” and stop the twin rivalry bullshit that was tanking team optics. Family debts tied into it too—Dad’s old gambling habits still haunting the Hale name. If Juniper had unfolded it that night, the fake dating might’ve crumbled before it started. She’d think I was using her as cover, which… maybe I was. But not only that. I pulled the paper out now, holding it between two fingers like it was contaminated. Liam leaned in, curious. “What’s that? Fan mail from your new ‘girlfriend’?” I smirked, the expression sliding onto my face easy as a practiced deke on the ice. Without a word, I tore it clean down the middle, then again, letting the pieces flutter into the trash bin at my feet. The freshman kid was hovering near the equipment rack, pretending not to watch. Our eyes met. I held his gaze long enough for him to squirm, then said it low, just loud enough to carry. “Try harder.” He paled and turned away fast. Liam laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a terrifying bastard sometimes, you know that? You’re not even going to tell me what it said? Or who planted it?” “Nope.” I stood, grabbing my stick and helmet. The satisfaction from Mabel’s post was still humming in my veins, mixing with the sharper edge of knowing I’d controlled the narrative again. Practice was brutal, the kind that left my shoulders burning and my mind sharp. I channeled the adrenaline rush into every drill, every check against the boards. Nolan wasn’t on the ice today—different schedule—but I could feel his absence like a phantom limb. He must’ve been spiraling hard after Mabel’s tears and that post. Good. Let him taste what it felt like to watch someone you thought was yours choose someone else. By the time I showered and changed, the locker room had mostly cleared. Liam clapped me on the shoulder on his way out. “Whatever this thing with Hayes is, don’t break her. She’s too good for our brand of Hale bullshit.” I didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong, but stopping now wasn’t an option. The walk across campus cooled my skin but not the edge in my blood. The library loomed ahead, brick and glass under the late afternoon light. I spotted her immediately, standing outside with her bag slung over one shoulder, hair still a little damp like she’d rushed out after a shower. She was scrolling her phone, brow furrowed, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose exactly the way they always did when she was spiraling. Mabel’s post had clearly landed. Juniper looked like she was bracing for impact—shoulders tight, bottom lip caught between her teeth. The sight hit me square in the chest, that dangerous mix of protectiveness and want I couldn’t shake. I didn’t announce myself. I just walked up, steps intentional, closing the distance until I was in her space. She startled when my shadow fell over her, head snapping up. Those eyes—wide, guarded, a little furious—locked on mine. She opened her mouth, probably to demand what the hell I was doing or to ask about Mabel’s story, but I didn’t give her the chance. I stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, something clean and lavender that drifted through the campus scent of cut grass. My hand moved before I could talk myself out of it, fingers brushing her temple as I adjusted her slipping glasses with a gentleness that felt foreign on my skin. The moment stretched, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with cameras or conditions. Her breath hitched audibly. My fingertips lingered a second too long against the frame, then her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw like I had any right to. She didn’t pull away. That rush from the locker room flared hotter, mixing with something deeper. Her lips parted, but no words came. Good. I wanted her off balance. I wanted her to think about my touch instead of Nolan’s indifference or Mabel’s barbs. From my other hand, I lifted the bag I’d been carrying—a plain black one with the team logo discreetly stamped on the side. Inside was the jersey. Number 17. My number. Folded neat, waiting for her to wear it like a brand. I pressed the bag into her hands, my fingers overlapping hers just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Her pulse jumped under my touch. I leaned in, voice low, rough from practice and everything I wasn’t saying. “Tomorrow night. Section 104. Don’t be late, girlfriend.”