Chapter 2 Two Hundred And Eighty Thousand Views

I opened the link with my thumb already shaking.

It was a photo. Me, on the front walk of the Alder Street house, my duffel bag over one shoulder, Dax's arm around me as he held the door open. Taken from across the street. 

It was taken last night, in the dark, with the porch light making us look wrapped around each other in a golden spotlight.

The post had been up for three hours. It had 280,000 views.

The caption read: Ridgemont's starting QB just moved in with the star cornerback. Wonder what else she's giving up to keep her job.

The comments were already a landfill.

Priya's second text arrived while I was still staring.

Only you, Coach, and Dax knew you were moving there. So who took the picture?

Down the hall, a shower turned on. Water pounding the tile. I could hear Dax humming off-key, like nothing in the world was wrong.

I looked at the photo again. Someone had been watching me walk through that door. And whoever it was had just jeopardized my career.

By the time I got dressed, the number had doubled.

Five hundred and sixty thousand views. Eleven thousand comments. A sports account with a blue checkmark had reposted it with three skull emojis. 

I stood in the hallway in my practice sweats, my phone clenched so hard the case creaked, while I waited outside the bathroom like a prisoner outside a firing squad. The shower finally shut off. The door opened on a cloud of steam.

Dax stepped out in gray sweats and a damp T-shirt, a towel around his neck. He took one look at my face and stopped smiling. "You've seen it."

"Who took it?" I glared at him.

"Somebody across the street." He shrugged.

"Obviously across the street, Dax! Who knew we were moving in?"

"You. Me. Coach." His jaw flexed. "Coach wants us in his office at seven-thirty. Eat something first."

"Don't act like this is normal." I eyed him, not backing down.

"Nothing about this is normal." He pushed a mug of coffee across the kitchen counter and a banana after it. "Eat anyway. You can't throw on an empty stomach."

I hated that he was right. I ate the banana.

——————-

Coach's office had too many people in it.

Coach Briggs sat behind his desk like a man at his own trial. Beside him stood Dr. Helen Pruitt, our athletic director, in a navy suit and an expression carved out of ice. A compliance officer I'd never met held a tablet. And in the leather chair by the window, one ankle crossed over his knee like he was watching a game, sat Harlan Walsh.

Trent's father. The Booster Club chairman. The man whose name was on our weight room.

"Ms. Mercer." Dr. Pruitt didn't offer me a seat. "Under our conduct policy, we are obligated to review any allegation that a student received an athletic benefit through a personal relationship."

"There is no relationship. He's my roommate because Coach ordered it." I shot back at him immediately.

"I did," Coach said, very quietly.

"And yet the photograph," Harlan Walsh said pleasantly.

"The photograph shows me carrying a duffel bag." I tried to explain.

"Perception, Ms. Mercer, is the only currency in a program like this." He gave me a sarcastic smile. "Mr. Holloway volunteered for this arrangement, I understand. Though I’m curious."

Dax's shoulder brushed mine. I felt him go still. When I glanced up, he wasn't looking at Dr. Pruitt. He was looking at Harlan Walsh, and there was nothing lazy in his eyes at all.

"The review will take ten days," Dr. Pruitt interrupted us. "You may play Saturday against Hartwell State. After that, we'll see." Then he dismissed us.

We'll see. The two most terrifying words in the English language.

The locker room went silent when I walked in.

Not the normal silence. The other kind, the kind where two dozen men suddenly find their shoelaces fascinating. I kept my chin up and walked to my locker, number 7, the brass plate with my name still bolted on.

A shadow stopped behind me. "Rough morning, Q?"

Trent Walsh. He was the backup quarterback, All-Conference smile, a face designed for magazine covers. He leaned on the next locker, with his arms crossed.

"I heard there might be an opening on the roster," he mocked. "If you need a little time off. To focus on... your living situation."

"Your dad's been busy I guess."

The smile didn't move. "My dad's always busy."

"Back off, Walsh."

Marcus Deal. The same two-hundred-and-eighty-pound defensive tackle who'd flattened me at scrimmage. He stood in the aisle, helmet under one arm, looking at Trent like he'd found something on his shoe.

"I don't care who she lives with," Marcus said. "I care that she throws the ball where I'm running." He nodded to me. "Mercer."

It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day.

—————-

Priya found me in the training room after practice, taping my ribs.

Priya Nair has been my best friend since freshman orientation, when she told me that if I was going to bleed on her tables I could at least be quiet about it. She is five feet tall and has never once been intimidated by a linebacker.

"You need to see this," she said, and held out her phone.

I looked.

It was the same account. A new post, uploaded twenty minutes ago. A photo of me in a dorm hallway, my door open, my keys in my hand, a gym bag on my shoulder. Daylight. Timestamped on the corner of the picture.

Same girl. Same story. Ridgemont's Golden Girl always gets what she wants.

"That's my dorm," I whispered.

"That's Thursday," Priya looked at me. "Look at the date."

Thursday. The day somebody copied my key.

Priya's voice dropped. "Quinn. Whoever's running this account has been following you for weeks."

I refreshed the page. The account's bio had changed in the last minute.

Next stop: Saturday.