Page 67 of Wicked Games

“Parties. Girls. Drinking. You understand best of all how detrimental this is to our athletes.

“I’m disheartened to report that your star hockey player, Caleb Asher, has been seen indulging in all three of the aforementioned distractions. His scandalous fling with Margo Wolfe was even caught on camera, as seen by the evidence. This photo was passed around the school, right under the administration’s noses.

“If this is what student leadership is, then I am ashamed to attend Emery-Rose and be represented by such monstrous boys. Get your team under control, Coach.

“Sincerely, Unknown.”

Caleb scoffs. “They didn’t even sign their name?”

I swallow. It sounds worse read out loud, my name coming out of Coach’s mouth. The foul accusations…

“What do you have to say for yourself, Ms. Wolfe?”

I am going to pass out. My chest is tight, my mouth dry. I am pretty sure I’d rather face the principal and Ms. McCawandthe Bryans in a room together before I ever considered putting myself back in front of Coach Marzden.

Honesty is the best policy… right? Especially when it comes to lying.

“I’ve been harassed by someone via text messages for months. Their number showed up as Unknown. It seems fishy that this person would sign their name as Unknown, too…” I lift one shoulder, my gaze staying firmly on the desk.

“You’ve been gettingharassed?” Caleb whispers beside me. “What the fuck, Margo?”

“Language,” Coach snaps. “Show me.”

I bite my lip and find the thread. I hand my phone over, and he scrolls through the messages. His scowl deepens.

“What happened with Ian?”

I jerk. “What?”

“They say, ‘this is the only time I’ll help you,’ with a photo of you and Ian Fletcher.”

“Um…”

Caleb’s gaze is on me, too.

I suppose I dug myself into this hole. “Ian…”

“Beat her in the woods,” Caleb finishes, not looking away from me. “And I found her.”

I blink back tears. This, at least, I don’t have to fake. Caleb’s hand lands on my knee, squeezing slightly. I shift away and use my sleeve to catch the tears before they fall.

Coach grunts. I have the feeling he doesn’t often deal with girls, much less crying ones.

“The note is a lie,” Caleb says. “The photo?—”

Caleb’s coach sighs and slides a travel pack of tissues to me.

I grab one and blow my nose.

“This type of thing will not get you into Harvard,” Coach says.

I go still.

Harvard?He’s going to Harvard? Or—no, he didn’t say he was going. Just that he wouldn’t get in with this behavior. Shit, he wants to go to college in Massachusetts?

I don’t know why that’s unsettling. It shouldn’t be.

He and I arenotendgame. We arenotgoing to end up living happily ever after with kids and a picture-perfect life. I’ve got trauma, he’s got anger issues. Our past makes the water between us murky.

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