Chapter 2 ❅ Rivera’s family crisis

⋅ ₊ ⋅ ALISSON RIVERA (P.O.V) ⋅ ₊ ⋅

ㅤ

How did things turn out like this?

In a single night, the entire Rivera family faces a crisis and all because of one person—Tristan McKenna.

If I hadn’t gone to the stadium last night to register the Rebels’ win for Leah, I wouldn’t have broken a five-hundred-dollar camera lens, leaving me with no idea how to pay 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 way out of the chaos that has taken over the internet for the past few hours.

Everything started with an anonymous accusation.

A newly created account commented on the Rebels’ Star’s anger issues and how difficult it is for him to control his temper. Many other accounts followed, saying he’s violent, until things got out of control.

Logan has been grunting and cursing since the day started. That’s 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 bad.

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

Leah’s broken lens and camera have been on top of my bed since I got home last night, covered with a towel like a body at a wake. Every time my eyes drift in that direction, my stomach sinks 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 was dumb enough to agree to help her.

And now my brother is yelling because Tristan McKenna is crazy enough 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 it might make a noise that alerts him I’m approaching.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll do or say, but 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, and 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, then presses the phone to his forehead as if that might somehow give him a magic solution. If it works, I’d 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 lowers his hand, and a tired, worn-out smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry… things are a little hectic today.”

I lean against the opposite side of the kitchen island, watching the open laptop. The screen is split between headlines and a large photo of McKenna hugging his teammates—especially the team captain, his supposed friend.

That could make me laugh if the only image in my mind weren’t of his fist slamming into Miles’s face hard enough to echo down that empty hallway. Tristan’s jaw clenched, and his green eyes blazed with barely restrained violence.

And I hate recalling it in such detail.

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

Logan lets out 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 with sleeves rolled up, sitting upright, hair in place.

Somehow, 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, his tone clearly showing he’s repeated that too many times since early this morning. “And that means nervous sponsors, fans freaking out, the board applying pressure, and people who love turning rumors into facts. To make it even better, the reality show’s director keeps calling me every thirty minutes, expecting me to magically find a solution.”

“When did you start being sarcastic?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“The contract is already signed.” He ignores me. “The reality show starts filming in three days, and now these rumors… baseless rumors…”

“Mmm… 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 anything.

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

I should tell him, right? I mean, he’s my brother. He’s Tristan’s agent—the one who discovered him after an outstanding second-half performance at last year’s competitions and turned 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 when I called the team’s star a psycho on the phone just seconds before I wipe out on the sidewalk.

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

“Nothing.”

“Ally.”

“I just think it’s funny.” I shrug, settling 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 his hand.

Even with everything going on, I let out a short, weak laugh. Logan sighs and grabs the nearly empty mug, drinking the rest of the cold coffee without even making a face — that, more than any headline 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. “Really?”

“Don’t make that face.

“What face?” I bite back a smile.

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, in 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, expecting me to find a new participant in the blink of an eye.”

“Let me see if I get this…” I pause, trying to put my thoughts into words. “Your client is a moody player with rumors of a bad temper, and your brilliant solution is to put him in front of the cameras?”

“Tristan isn’t aggressive, Alisson. He’s quiet and a little gruff, but he doesn’t have anger issues.”

I disagree.

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

I open my mouth to argue back, but no words come out.

Logan is right. I don’t really know Tristan. I know a hallway that’s way too white, one hard punch, blood at the corner of Miles’s mouth, and those green eyes that hit me like I’m stepping into a fire.

But that’s not everything.

Apparently, catching Tristan McKenna in bad, unexpected situations is kind of my specialty. Because on my very first night as a first-year student, that’s exactly how we met.