Page 59 of Second Shot

Victim.

Shock jolts through me as what they’re saying slowly sinks in. They’re saying Gabe Jacobs, my teammate, is Gabriel Jacobs from middle school? The boy I bullied? They’re the same person? What the fuck? How is that possible? What is happening right now?

“Ryan,”A reporter with bleached teeth and a predatory smile shouts. “Freddy Morrison is claiming you systematically bullied students at Morningside Middle School. Can you comment?”

Freddy Morrison.

The name hits me like a punch to the gut, dragging up memories I’ve spent years trying to forget. The kid who made my life hell if I didn’t go along with his cruelty. The ringleader who made other people’s pain his favorite pastime. The kid I detested, but obeyed, because I lived in fear of him discovering things about me I preferred to keep hidden.

My teammates behind me on the bus move forward, and I stumble off the steps of the bus. The reporters surge forward, and panic rushes through me. Niko and Foster step in front of me, shielding me as the reporters try to claw at me.

“Hey, keep your fucking hands off him,” Niko growls, shoving a reporter back.

Unfazed, the reporter screeches, “Sources say Gabriel Jacobs was your favorite target.”

Another reporter shouts, “Are you aware your current teammate was allegedly one of your primary victims?”

The big bus’ engine rumbles behind me, and as I breathe in the fumes of diesel fuel, my stomach turns. But it’s not just the fumes that are making me sick. It’s the idea that Gabe, my Gabe, could possibly be the boy I tormented for years. This has to be a mistake. Gabe can’t bethatkid. There’s no way.

Please God, tell me this isn’t true.

The team is behind me now, muttering and growling at the reporters to stay back. I look around desperately, trying to find Gabe in the chaos. When I spot him near the back of the crowd of players, his face is chalk white, his eyes wide with something that looks like panic.

Or guilt.

Or both.

“Mr. Jacobs.”A reporter breaks away from the pack surrounding me and thrusts a phone in Gabe’s direction. “Morrison claims you reached out to him to expose Caldwell’s past. That you wanted his help to make Caldwell pay for bullying you. Is that true?”

“What?” Gabe’s voice is barely audible over the noise. I can see his lips forming words, but I can’t hear him over the yelling reporters.

The press continues shouting over each other, and I feel on the verge of passing out. My brain can’t comprehend what’s being implied. Are these vultures actually saying that, not only is Gabe one of my past bullying victims, but that he set me up? Are they actually saying he worked with Freddy just so he could publicly call me out and humiliate me? Is that really what they’re saying?

How can Gabe be that same kid? My mind is reeling, trying to piece together fragments that don’t make sense. I’ve grown so close to Gabe. I feel like I know him. Really know him. How could he be that boy from middle school? He’s nothing like that kid. How could I havesleptwith him, but not known he was that same person?

But even as I’m asking the question, I know the answer. The Gabe I know is a perfect male specimen. He’s lean and confident, with sharp cheekbones and silky dark hair that falls perfectly across his forehead. That kid was pudgy and awkward, with stringy black hair that hung in his face like a curtain. I’m not sure I ever really even saw that kid’s face clearly.

Plus, how the fuck is Freddy Morrison in the middle of this? I haven’t seen or spoken to him since my dad moved us across the countryall those years ago. But the reporters definitely said that Gabe had reached out to Freddy to expose me. He’d only do that if he hated me. But if he hated me, why had he slept with me? Why would a boy I tortured and humiliated havesexwith me? Bring me to his home? Draw me into a friendship? A sexual relationship? That’s so twisted and fucked up.

And the whole time, like a gullible fool, I was opening up to him, telling him what a piece of shit I used to be. I’d told him how much I regretted how I was as a kid. How I wished I could go back and change things. But he saidnothing. Not one fucking word. He just let me pour my heart out, let me trust him, while he sat there with the truth in his pocket. Was he laughing at me the whole time? Did he find it hysterical that I had no idea who he was? Was everything just a fucking joke to him?

The thought makes bile rise in my throat.

“Ryan.”Another reporter materializes in front of me, waving a phone with what looks like social media screenshots. “Morrison posted these photos of Jacobs from your shared middle school yearbook. Do you remember him now?”

I catch a glimpse of the screen. It’s a chubby kid with dark hair half over his face, looking miserable in what’s clearly a school photo. The name underneath reads “Gabriel Jacobs, 6th Grade.”

My legs nearly give out.

“Are you ashamed of how you treated Gabriel?” someone shouts.

“Is it true you’re sleeping together?”

“Did you approach him or did he approach you?”

The questions come from every direction, overlapping and distorting until they’re just noise. But through it all, I can hear Gabe trying to get to me, trying to push through the crowd of reporters and teammates.

“Ryan,” his voice carries over the chaos, and when he finally reaches me, he grabs my arm. “Let me explain—”

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