Page 66 of Wicked Games

“I have to get to class…”

“I’ll write you a fucking note.”

I exchange a glance with Riley, then scramble to grab my bag and follow him. He doesn’t go toward the athletic wing, though. We head into the cafeteria.

The bell rings, and students suddenly stream around us.

Okay, aroundhim. I do my best to stay right behind him. Did he see right through the note Riley put on his desk? And now he’s going to expel me.

Wait.

Can he expel me?

Maybe he’s just going to find the principal…

Wepassthe principal, whose attention locks on to Coach, then jumps to me. “Ms. Wolfe?”

“She’s with me,” Coach snaps.

Not something I hear every day. And that rules out my immediate expel theory.

We get into the cafeteria, where the only lingering people happen to be the cheerleaders and the hockey team.

They all go quiet at our arrival. Although it has less to do with me and more to do with Coach.

“Asher!” Coach roars.

Everyone stops moving—except Caleb. His brow is furrowed on approach. It’s the only indication that he’s not sure what’s happening.

Coach turns, and I trail after him. Caleb stalks behind me like a shadow. Down the hall, past students—including Riley, who stares at me with wide eyes. Into the athletic wing and right into Coach’s office.

“Shut the door.” He takes a seat behind his desk. “And sit down.”

I hurry to one of the two chairs, perching on the edge of it. Caleb follows more slowly, shutting the door and dropping into the seat next to me. He kicks his legs out, then leans back. His arms fold over his chest.

Now is the time to act like my life depends on it—but there’s no need to fake nerves. I’m so anxious, I might throw up.

“Not sure what this is about, Coach,” he says.

I glare at him. “And you think I do?”

His eyes cut to me. “Well, you were chasing after him?—”

“Quiet.” Coach leans forward. “Do you know what I had on my desk today? Hmm?”

Caleb pauses. “No, sir.”

Coach looks at me, and I shake my head quickly. It’s a lie, but I’m hoping my sudden terror—I wasn’t supposed to be dragged into this—masks it.

He throws a picture across the desk. Caleb grabs it before it slides off and hits the floor, taking one glance at it. He winces. He doesn’t even show me—he just tears it in half, and then in half again.

“I got rid of this,” Caleb says in a low voice. “Where?—”

“A note,” Coach says. He holds up the piece of paper that accompanied the picture. “I’ll read this out loud, and you can tell me what sort of bullshit we’re dealing with.”

He clears his throat.

“Coach Marzden,” he reads. “Your teams are held to a high standard. I, along with the rest of the school—faculty and parents included, I’m sure—find this admirable. We’ve watched the determination and focus of your football and hockey teams go to national championships because they avoid distractions.

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