Page 38 of Bend & Break
“It’s gone,” Blake says, too calm for the mess spinning in my head. Probably in shock. “Maybe the drive was rigged to self-destruct.”
“Then what the fuck was thepoint?” I all but yell.
I want to throw my laptop across the room. What was the point in sending this to Blake if it was impossible to crack, and once we finally did, it just disappeared after a few hours? How the fuck are we supposed to figure any of this out, let alone take it to the police, if we don’t have a shred of proof left?
We’re left with nothing but the absolutely fucked memory of what we saw.
And I have no idea where the hell to go from here.
Chapter 13
Blake
The locker room hums with the kind of nervous energy that always settles in before kickoff. The sounds of zippers, muffled laughter, the slap of palms against thighs to shake out nerves—it all blends into a rhythm I know by heart. It should settle me.
Tonight, it barely scratches the edge of the storm in my head.
I tug my jersey over my head, the black fabric clinging for a second before I shake it into place. Number six, bold and white across the back. The logo—a coiled viper, fangs bared—catches the fluorescent light on my chest. Vipers. Our name doesn’t feel like a mascot tonight. It feels like a directive. Fast, relentless, lethal.
My shin guards scrape against my legs as I strap them on. Cleats next—laces pulled so tight I can almost feel my circulation cut off, but I want it that way. Every piece of gear is armor, every layer a promise that for ninety minutes, I’m not Blake-who-can’t-sleep, not Blake-who-saw-a-dead-kid-on-video, not Blake-who’s-in-too-deep. I’m Blake Aster, striker, and my only job is to put the ball in the net.
Samira hums under her breath as she braids her hair, quick and neat. Mayson paces, jersey half tucked, muttering strategyto herself. Lucy’s already in full kit, gloves on, bouncing in place like she’s got caffeine for blood. We’re all wound tight in our own ways, but the moment Coach Carmichael’s voice cuts across the room, it sharpens into focus.
“Let’s go, Vipers. Time to show them who owns this field.”
The cheer rises automatically—loud, raw, united. My throat strains with it, and for a second, the weight in my chest lifts.
We form the line, shoulder to shoulder, cleats clicking against the concrete tunnel. The stadium lights bleed in from ahead. The roar of the crowd grows louder with every step we take toward the field.
At kickoff, the whistle cuts through the night, sharp enough to slice through the last of my scattered thoughts.
We start aggressively, pushing into them before they can settle. Mayson takes charge in the middle of the field, every touch crisp, her eyes flicking constantly around to see the whole picture before anyone else does. Out wide, Sam is already sprinting down the left side, forcing their defender to chase her and pulling the shape of their back line apart. That’s my cue. I drive forward into the heart of it, locking in shoulder to shoulder with their biggest defender, holding my ground and waiting for the opening I know is coming.
The first ten minutes are all noise and speed. Cleats sinking into the damp soil, the snap of passes connecting, the crowd’s energy rolling over us like a tide. Lucy shouts directions from the box, voice carrying across the pitch with that no-nonsense authority only a keeper can manage.
I get an early chance—Mayson threads the ball through the defense, perfectly timed so it rolls right into my path. I take a touch to control it and go for the shot, but their goalkeeper reacts fast. She charges out before I can plant my second step, throwing herself at the ball. In an instant, it’s gone, trapped under herbody and the scramble of defenders closing in, my swing cut short in the mess of legs.
We regroup and press forward again. The ref whistles for a few fouls on both sides—nothing nasty, just the kind of small, scrappy clashes that always come with night games under the lights. Shoulders bump, shins knock, and no one gives an inch. Sweat’s already running down my back beneath the jersey, my lungs burning in a way that feels less like punishment and more like fuel. After a week of nonstop spinning, my head’s finally clear, focused.
By the time the referee signals for the first water break, we’ve got them trapped in their own half, forced to defend wave after wave. Still, the scoreboard stares down at us, stubborn and unchanged: 0–0.
The rest of the game blurs into hard edges and rougher hits. Elbows jab when the ref’s turned away, cleats scrape down calves in scrambles for the ball, and late tackles skirt the line between reckless and outright malicious.
We hold our ground.
Lucy dives full stretch in the fifty-fifth minute to claw away a shot that looked unstoppable, her body stretched so far it’s a wonder she doesn’t snap in two.
Sam slices in from the left, unleashing a strike that rattles the crossbar and bounces out, the sound like a gut punch to the whole sideline.
And Mayson—she’s everywhere at once, directing traffic, barking orders, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead as if sheer willpower is the only thing keeping us upright.
My girls are impressive.
Me—I wait. I push forward again and again, lungs searing, legs heavy, until the chance finally breaks. Eighty-fourth minute. One of their defenders miscontrols, the ball slipping loose justlong enough for Mayson to pounce. She scoops it up and threads it straight through the gap. It’s mine.
I sprint, cutting hard across their back line, every stride a gamble. The goalie charges off her line—too fast, too confident, thinking she can smother it before I get there. I plant, swing, and drive my foot through the ball, hammering it low and brutally into the bottom corner of the net. The roar hits instantly, the crowd exploding, swallowing every thought in my head.
And then pain. A defender from the opposing team barrels through me late, shoulder slamming into my ribs, studs raking across my ankle as my body whips sideways. I crash onto the turf, the air ripped clean from my lungs, every nerve sparking where bone smacks ground.
