by Mariah Dietz
Ian
“Whoa,” Arlo says as I stop at my locker. “I can feel the ice rolling off of you. Who pissed in your Wheaties?”
I glance in his direction and scowl, but Paxton and Cooper stop beside us before I can respond, their faces somber. “How’s Wickizer?” Pax asks.
Dusty Wickizer was today’s victim on that fucking site. They posted a picture of him kissing another guy this morning—a personal detail he had kept exactly that, personal.
“I’m ready to kick someone’s ass,” I tell them.
“We have to find a way to stop this,” Pax says. “I don’t know who is doing this or where they’re getting these pictures from, but they’re going to do damage that we’re going to have to pay the consequences for. This is bullshit.”
“Has anyone heard from or seen Wickizer?” Cooper asks.
I shake my head. “He didn’t answer any of my calls. I blew off my class this morning to stop by his place, but if he was home, he didn’t answer.”
Pax rubs his hands down his face. “I’ll talk to Coach. Maybe I should skip practice and go over there. This week’s game is going to be a gimme.”
I don’t share his same confidence. While we managed to defeat San Francisco, the game was closer than I would have preferred. Our defense still lacks the harmony that we possessed last year with a more seasoned team, and our offense is becoming predictable. This week, we’re home, playing against Utah, who posed a credible threat to us last year but lacks the same reputation because their biggest players graduated last year.
Pax looks at me. “Lincoln can lead the offense, and Jacob can get some playing time.”
“You can’t find anything on who’s doing this?” I ask Cooper.
He shakes his head. “They’re paying a server, so their name isn’t on it. They’re smart. I’ve tried hacking into it twice, and both times I did, they retaliated with doubling the pictures for the next day.”
I close my eyes. “Let me talk to my dad. He’s working with a team of people right now. Maybe one of them knows something or knows someone who can help us.”
Pax shares a look of hope and understanding. We were pulled into a meeting this afternoon with all of the coaches and some of Brighton’s faculty to discuss the rumor website. Many of the rumors have begun to sprout legs and are starting to circulate more and more, additional questions are being asked, and more answers are being demanded. Investigations are starting to open up as our lives and our reputation begin to unravel along with my sanity.
“There’s another angle we can take,” I tell them. “Rose had suggested that we could maybe get ahead of this and control the narrative.”
“What do you mean?” Paxton asks. “Like, post our own pictures.”
“Exactly,” I say. “We make fun of ourselves and change the narrative from anonymous rumors to sharing information so we can stop worrying about what is going to be shared and whether it’s true. Just feed them bullshit we don’t care about everyone seeing.”
Arlo flexes. “Take some pictures of these guns as I fix my Tahoe,” he says.
Paxton scoffs, turning his attention back to me. “But the reason people are paying attention to this site is because they’re saying ridiculous things that people assume are scandalous secrets.”
“We could use SEO and try to get our site to the top results, but theirs would still be up. I could try some more … illicit ways to see if we can get anywhere,” Cooper says.
“How illicit?” I ask.
Cooper shrugs. “We could try a DOS attack, but we’d have to hire someone on the dark web for that, or we could try flooding the search engines with reports on the website. They might take it off of search engines, but, it will likely remain online it just may not be found through common search engines.”
“Do you think either of them would do anything?” Pax asks.
Cooper shrugs again. “I don’t know how people are finding the site. Are they searching for the rumors? Or do they have the website saved?”
Paxton looks annoyed and bored by the details. “What would you suggest?”
“Depends how bad you want it to disappear,” Cooper says.
“Stick to the legal route. We don’t need to add more shit to this fire,” I say. “Do you have time to put something like this together?” I ask.
Cooper does a noncommittal nod. “Not entirely, but I know people who can help us.”
“Music to my ears,” says Arlo. “I know somebody who knows somebody.” He uses his native Jersey accent.
“Let us know what the cost is,” I tell him. “I’ll reimburse you if you can bury this shit and fast.”
He nods. “Buy me ten minutes, and I can have someone start a website using SEO features to pull up for a bunch of search terms.”
“I’ll give you twenty,” I tell him.
“This is good,” Pax says. “I’m sick of lying around waiting to see what pops up next.”
“You know who could probably help us?” Arlo asks, his gaze turning on me. “Rose. She’s still pissed that her editor hijacked her article and would probably write anything we ask.”
Pax shakes his head. “That last article was pretty damning. It had links and reminders about how often to check back on the site and how to follow it…”
“Hoyt fucking blasted the site everywhere,” Arlo points out. “Others have too.”
“But it was theirs to share,” I say.
Pax points at me. “Bingo.”
“Does it matter?” Cooper asks. “I mean, that article in The Daily Dose seemed to gain quite a bit of attention for the site. More people are looking at it, more are mentioning it…” He shrugs. “If the school paper has some reach and our objective is to touch that same audience, wouldn’t it make sense to go back and have them redirect readers’ attention?”
“I guess we should try it. But we need her to write the article with the message we want to share.” Pax stares at Arlo, who nods in agreement. “All right, talk to her. See if she’s on board. I’m going to go check in with Coach and then see if I can find Wickizer. I’ll be at the gym later.” Pax grabs his bag and disappears to find Coach Harris.
“I’m going to get our site up. We’re going to need some photos,” Cooper says, leaving it to just Arlo and me.
Arlo stares at me, his accusations silent, yet I understand them clearly.
“What?” I say when he doesn’t relent.
“You’re going to need to talk to her,” he says.
I shake my head. “This is all you.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Rose hasn’t written a football piece since that article. Her editor is about to cut her from the paper, and trust me when I say it’s not because she doesn’t understand the game because I’ve been fucking narrating our damn playbook to her.”
“She’ll write it for you. Rose likes and respects you. You’re friends.”
“Have you met Rose? Queen of stubbornness and crusader of injustice. She doesn’t give two shits about these rumors. Have you seen her articles? She’s been attacking the inferiority of female sports all week, and I know this because Liv keeps trying to convince her to co-write a book with her.”
“I have to go to practice, and this weekend I have the game, and then I’ve got to do a family thing on Sunday.”
“This is going to rest on your shoulders,” Arlo tells me. “Call her tonight or have her meet you Saturday morning before the game.”
“I’m sure, knowing Rose, she’s not going to be available for either of those times. She probably has a hookup already planned.”
“Rose?” he asks, surprise drawing his brows toward his hairline. He smirks. “It’s great to be on the other side this year, watching how idiotic it looks from the outside looking in.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Rose hasn’t had any dates or hookups since early last spring. She stopped going out to parties and hanging out with her other friends. She’s focused on work, school, and her fucking yoga stu
dio.”
I stare at him, waiting for something aside from relief to hit me.
Arlo reaches forward and pats my shoulder. “Trust me. It’s so much simpler on the other side. Getting there takes some work, but you’ve got this.”
“I hate you,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Let’s go take that anger out on the field.”
The thing is, I don’t have much anger about the situation—I have confusion. A lot of confusion. I have reluctance and a desire to draw maintain this distance she’s put between us because my will to stay away from her was demolished after she kissed me. Yet, she’s seemingly strengthening her defenses because I haven’t seen Rose since last Monday. She skipped our shared class last week, and our volunteering date at Shady Grove Park, yesterday, was canceled due to inclement weather. In addition to the myriad of feelings I’m feeling toward Rose, I’m feeling regret for having been so abrasive.
Arlo’s right. I need to fix this not only for the team, but to regain my sanity.
Rose
“Rose.” My heart thrums in my chest. I hate how Ian’s voice has a way of silencing everything else around me.
I turn to face him, ready with a pair of solid excuses to leave.
He holds a copy of the student newspaper in his hand. “A punishing loss for Oregon,” he reads my words back to me.
I stare at him, waiting to catch his angle. If he thinks I’m going to be flattered simply because he read my column—an article about our women’s soccer team—then he clearly doesn’t know me as well as I sometimes fear.
“I like that you made it so the players were relatable and mentioned their lives off of the field as well.”
Okay … maybe he can flatter me a little with my own words.
“Do you have a few minutes?”
I glance at my watch, primed with my first and easiest excuse: Olivia. “Actually, I’m on my way to meet Olivia.”
The ghost of a smile teases his features. “I won’t keep you for long. I have an exclusive for you with the paper that might get you on your editor’s good side?”
“What makes you think I’m not already?”
He raises his brows knowingly. “Call it a hunch.”
“He’s completely content with smiles in exchange for boob gazes. We’re fine.”
His humor vanishes, replaced by a clenched jaw that only enunciates the strength and power he emanates. He pulls in a long, slow breath through his nose and slowly opens his eyes. In the sun, the difference in color between his eyes is starker and distracting, making me forget about my need to keep my distance and our rather tumultuous relationship status. “I need a favor,” he says.
We stare at one another for a solid moment, and I wonder if multiple expressions are apparent on my face like his as I read the trepidation, nostalgia, and plea. And just like that, my defenses slip. “I can give you twenty minutes. There’s a new coffee shop just past the arboretum.”
He nods. “Let’s check it out.”
There’s a chill in the air today—another reminder of fall. Still, the sun is out, and the skies are clear, which keeps me from complaining about the cooler weather. Many students are outside, milling around on the brick pathways.
“How’d you know where to find me?” I ask. After all, running into someone on campus unless you have a shared class or similar crossroads is a rare event.
“Olivia told me,” he says, not working to hide his grin that tells me he knew I was lying. “I saw her and Arlo before they left for the beach.”
“Can you blame me?” I ask, skipping over apologies.
He grins. “I take full responsibility for that. I’m sorry for acting like a dick.”
“Like a bent dick.”
Ian chuckles, his eyes finding mine once again. I’ve missed this: the silent conversations that often have more weight and honesty than most verbal ones and remind me that being seen and understood is completely rattling. There’s also something really comforting in the fact that I’m not alone or unknown.
“I deserve that,” he says as we come to a stop at the crosswalk.
I pull in a deep breath knowing this is where I should accept his apology and offer my own and some kind of explanation for kissing him. Maybe it would smooth things over? But then again, I’ve never been the best at accepting apologies. Words are so simple, so easy, so recycled. And too often, people say the right words when it stands to benefit themselves, and Ian’s already forewarned me that he’s looking for a favor.
“Find a good study group, yet?” he asks.
I cut my gaze to him again, liking the whisper of his smile more than I should. “I’m still heartbroken Leah graduated. No one ran a study group like her.”
His smile brightens. “I was thinking about that yesterday.”
“About Statistics?”
“About meeting you there though you weren’t taking the class. You wouldn’t tell me your name for two months.”
“You didn’t ask,” I say.
Ian flashes a full smile, one that makes him tilt his head back and close his eyes. “I still don’t understand why you thought you needed a study group to focus. You understand economics better than anyone I know.”
“Don’t tell my dad that.”
He grins but doesn’t tack on a question or retort. He knows my dad is one of my least favorite topics of discussion.
“It can be hard for me to focus sometimes,” I admit.
Ian nods. “I know what you mean. For me, I concentrate best when there are no distractions, and it’s silent.”
“That’s the hardest time for me to focus.”
He raises his brow with a silent question, and for whatever reason, I continue down this path of honesty we’ve begun to construct. “When it’s quiet, and I’m alone, my thoughts can be very loud. Distracting.”
“Maybe it’s because there’s something you’re trying to avoid,” his brow quirks upward.
There’s a meaning behind his stare, yet without asking or prying, I know it has nothing to do with him. I’m sure he’s assuming it has to do with my mom’s passing or my struggling relationship with my father—most seem to think this. Like all of my thoughts are consumed by doom and things I can’t impact. “Pretty sure it’s just my OCD,” I tell him.
The crosswalk icon turns from red to green, and without wasting another second, I make my way across the street with Ian at my side. I don’t wait for him to open the door to the small, white brick coffee shop. Inside, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans greets me like a warm hug.
“Welcome,” a man with a bald head calls from behind the counter. Behind him is a chalkboard filled with eclectic designs that remind me of an adult coloring book.
“I have a feeling I’ll know where to find you every Wednesday,” Ian says as he stands beside me, letting me soak up the rich scent of coffee and the subtle lights that twinkle over our heads in small glass jars against a black painted ceiling.
“They might have terrible coffee,” I whisper. “Looks can be deceiving.”
His eyes dance between mine again, a similar uncertainty to the one I often feel when I’m around him. Neither of us seems to know when the other is talking about each other or something else entirely, and both of us are too smart—or stubborn—to believe it’s the former, which leaves a lot of missed opportunities for flirting and innuendos.
Ian saunters up to the counter, hands tucked into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. It’s a beautiful view. His shoulders are broad, stacked with muscles that are defined even under his red Brighton T-shirt. There’s something incredibly sexy and masculine about not only his shoulders and chiseled back but the way he carries himself. Even now, he greets the barista with kindness and respect, yet there’s a noticeable difference in him compared to most guys, and it lies in being confident in himself and not caring if this guy knows that he plays football or could likely bench press his weight.
“Could we have a chocolate mocha and a drip coffee with skim milk
, please?”
The barista nods. “Anything else for you?”
Ian looks at the small glass case at his side and then back at me. “They have sour cream doughnuts.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“We’ll take two,” he tells the barista as he takes out his wallet.
I’m the only weirdo who doesn’t care much for doughnuts, but sour cream doughnuts are in a separate league, and my weakness.
I shake my head and turn toward the wall of windows at the front of the small shop. There’s a dark green couch facing the window with two mustard yellow pillows at either corner and a gold floor lamp on one side with fuchsia-colored flowers on the lampshade. I love funky fashion, and this place is filled with it. I really hope their coffee doesn’t suck.
I skip past the couch, the setting too intimate. I need a physical barrier between Ian and me, so I take a seat at one of the tables set for two. It’s painted a glossy black with high back chairs that make me feel short and petite even though I’m tall. I pull out my phone and skim over my schedule. Between classes, the paper, yoga, and a couple of associations I’ve recently joined for aspiring professionals, it seems like nearly every minute of my day is booked.
Ian places a cup of coffee and a doughnut on the table in front of me. Real dishes. It’s a charming detail that I appreciate because it makes me want to forget about should-dos and need-to-dos and just stay here sipping on refills for the rest of the day.
“I’ve gone up a pant size since June,” I tell him, pushing the doughnut away.
He slides the plate back toward me. “You’ve never looked better. Eat the doughnut. I’m around guys counting their calories and carbs all fucking day.”
His phone buzzes.
“Arlo doesn’t,” I tell him as I work ruthlessly to ignore his compliment. “He eats everything in sight. He’s like a human garbage disposal.”
Ian chuckles. “I knew I liked that guy for a reason.”
“Do you have to pay close attention to what you eat?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, but his gaze jumps to mine. With the muted light, his eyes appear gunmetal grey. “We have nutritionists who tell us how much protein and carbs and how many cups of vegetables to eat every day.”
