Chapter 2 Five hundred dollars?

—ALISSON (POV)

How did things turn out like this?

In just one night, because of a single person, the Hughes family faces a crisis. And all because of Tristan McKenna.

If I hadn’t gone to the stadium last night to photograph the Rebels’ win—and, most importantly, the team’s star—I wouldn’t have broken a five-hundred-dollar camera without any idea how to pay Leah back for it.

And if Tristan weren’t a complete psychopath who goes around hitting people, my brother wouldn’t have been on the phone for hours trying to find a solution for the chaos that has taken over the internet in the last few hours.

Everything started with an anonymous accusation. A newly created account comments on the Rebels’ KING’s anger issues and how difficult it is for him to control his temper. Then, the situation escalates. Many other anonymous accounts appear, and honestly, things get out of control.

Logan has been grunting and cursing since the day started. And that is really worrying, considering he’s the most grounded and disciplined person I know. I grew up believing the only bad word he knew was “dang.” So when I just heard him yell one huge FUCK, I knew things were really bad.

“What do you mean she backed out?!” my brother says, loudly enough for me to hear from my bedroom. “These rumors are lies! I know him well enough to say that much!”

Leah’s broken camera has been on top of my bed since I got home last night, covered with a towel like a body at a wake, and every time my eyes drift in that direction, my stomach sinks all over again.

Five hundred dollars.

Five hundred dollars that I don’t have.

Five hundred dollars that I only owe because Leah got sick, and I am dumb enough to agree to help her.

And now my brother is yelling because Tristan McKenna decided to turn a stadium hallway into an underground fight ring.

I get up slowly and leave the room, my steps cautious and deliberate. I open the door with the same calm, worried that it might make a noise that alerts him I’m approaching.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll do or say, but I know I can’t let things like this slide. It’s my fault, after all. Even if I want to blame that stupid team, she trusted me with her camera, her ticket, her dream—and I messed everything up by not being careful enough.

Logan sighs way too loudly in the kitchen, ending the call with more force than usual and pressing the phone to his forehead as if that might somehow give him a magic solution. If it works, I would like to try it too.

But the seconds pass in silence, and when he opens his eyes again, his brown eyes, so much like mine, soften.

“Ally,” he says, lowering his hand. His whole posture softens, and a tired, worn-out smile appears on his lips. “I’m sorry… things are a little hectic today.”

I lean against the other side of the kitchen island, looking at the open laptop. The screen is split between headlines, notifications, and a large picture of Tristan McKenna hugging his teammates—hugged by the team captain, his supposed friend.

That could make me laugh if the only image in my mind weren’t his fist hitting Miles’s face hard enough to echo through that empty hallway. His jaw clenched. His green eyes were burning with danger.

And I hate recalling it in such detail.

“Looks worse than a little hectic,” I say, trying to keep my voice light

Logan releases a long breath through his nose and closes half the browser tabs with an impatient click. Even when tired, he still looks perfect, wearing a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, sitting upright, hair in place. My brother manages to look professional even on the verge of a breakdown, which I honestly find irritating.

“It’s an image crisis,” he corrects in a tone that clearly shows he’s been repeating that too many times since early this morning. “And that means nervous sponsors, the press all over us, fans freaking out, the board applying pressure, and people who love turning rumors into facts. To make it even better, the director of the reality show keeps calling me every thirty minutes, expecting me to magically find a solution.”

“Since when do you use sarcasm?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“The contract is already signed.” He ignores me. “The reality show starts filming in three days—and she just backed out. And now these rumors… baseless rumors…”

“Hmm.” I nod. “Bad day to be McKenna’s agent.”

Logan gives me that older-brother look that somehow asks for patience and warns me not to start.

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to appear casual, but I can feel the weight of what I see pulsing in the back of my chest.

I should tell him, right? I mean, he’s my brother. He’s Tristan’s agent— the one who discovers him after an outstanding performance in the second half of last year’s competitions and turns him into a top NIL star.

I should at least warn Logan that rumors don’t just appear out of nowhere.

Except that as soon as I imagine that conversation unfolding, I also see the restricted area, the absurd escape, and the very obvious tone I used to call the team’s star a psychopath on the phone just seconds before I wipe out on the sidewalk.

“You’re looking at me with that suspicious silence,” Logan comments, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Ally.”

“I just think it’s funny.” I shrug, leaning more comfortably against the counter. “The universe really woke up and decided to make your Sunday miserable.”

“It’s already been long, and I haven’t had enough coffee for it,” he mutters, rubbing his face with a hand.

Even with everything going on, I let out a short, weak laugh. Logan sighs, as if that's the only normal sound in the house since the day began, then grabs the nearly empty mug and drinks the rest of the cold coffee without even making a face.

That, more than any headline open on the laptop, shows me how serious the disaster is.

“What exactly is the crisis?” I ask, choosing my words carefully. “Besides the internet doing what it does best.”

“The young woman who signed the contract to be on the show just backed out. For no reason at all. It’s one of those reality shows where people from different worlds agree to share their opposite routines.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Reality show?”

“Don’t make that face.”

“What face?” I bite back a smile.

“That face like you just heard the worst idea of the century.”

“But I did.”

He closes his eyes for a second, breathing deeply through his nose.

“Don’t start, Ally. It’s a good idea. It’s supposed to show discipline, the behind-the-scenes, the reality! Something fun, a different side from what the public is used to. Going beyond the sport, something more personal, more intimate… human.”

Logan speaks quickly, with the rhythm of someone who has been repeating the same explanation for hours.

“But now half the strategy fell apart. These rumors spread, and I got executives calling me, like I could find a new participant in the blink of an eye.”

“Let me see if I understand this.” I tilt my head, taking a deep breath. “Your client is a moody player with rumors of temper, and the team’s brilliant solution is to put him in front of cameras?”

“Tristan isn’t aggressive. He’s quiet and reserved, but he doesn’t have anger issues.”

I disagree.

“These rumors are lies, Alisson.” Logan suddenly gets serious, making me straighten on instinct. “You don’t know him.”

I open my mouth to argue back, but no words come out. Because he is right, I don’t really know Tristan. I only know a hallway that’s way too white, one hard punch, blood at the corner of Miles’s mouth, and those green eyes hitting me like I’m stepping into a fire.

That isn’t truly knowing someone; it’s witnessing their worst moment and having it linger under your skin.

“Fine,” I say at last, crossing my arms tighter. “Then maybe you should explain that to the internet. Because from here, it does seem like anger issues.”

Logan remains silent, watching me closely… too closely.

His brown eyes narrow slightly, attentive, calculating something, and oh, crap… I recognize that expression. I grew up seeing that exact look every time he’s just had a terrible idea.

Suddenly, my stomach drops.

“No,” I say, already knowing exactly what he’s about to say.