Chapter 25: The meeting

Every time I look out the window, I see the muddy tire tracks from Jaxson’s sedan. It’s a reminder that no matter how much we kiss in the dark, his name is written on the checks that are slowly chipping away at my world.

"I need to see you," Jaxson’s text comes through at 9:00 PM. "Properly. Not in a car, and not behind a shed."

"Where?" I type back, glancing at the living room. Leo is passed out on the recliner, the TV flickering over his exhausted face.

"My house. My dad is in the city for a gala. He won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon."

Sneaking out is easier than it should be. The window in the laundry room doesn't lock right, and the night air is quiet. I bike up the hill, my lungs burning by the time the massive stone pillars of the Thorne driveway come into view.

Jaxson is waiting at the side entrance, near the six-car garage. He’s back in his hoodie, the corporate version of him from the afternoon scrubbed away.

"You made it," he whispers, pulling me inside.

The house is cold. Not the temperature—that's perfect—but the feel of it. Everything is white marble, brushed steel, and silent. It doesn't smell like a home; it smells like a showroom. There are no cluttered shoes by the door, no piles of mail on the counter.

"It’s huge," I say, my voice echoing off the high ceilings.

"It’s a cage," Jaxson mutters. He leads me up a floating staircase to his room.

His space is the only part of the house that feels alive. There are hockey sticks leaning in the corner, a messy desk covered in schoolwork, and a window that takes up an entire wall, looking out over the valley. From here, the flats look like a toy town. I can almost see the roof of my own house, a tiny dot in a sea of shadow.

"My dad didn't want that land for a condo," Jaxson says, sitting on the edge of his bed and pulling me down beside him. "He wanted it for a private parking annex for his firm. I told him it was a waste of money. I told him it was... aggressive."

"And?"

"And he told me I was thinking with my heart instead of my portfolio." Jaxson sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. "He thinks because he pays for the roof over people's heads, he owns the ground they walk on. I hate that he put me in that position today. Facing Leo... it felt like I was holding the match for the next fire."

"Leo is just scared, Jax. He feels like he’s losing the only thing he has left to protect."

Jaxson turns to me, his eyes dark and intense. "He’s not the only one who’s scared. I’m scared that every time my dad makes a move, you’re going to see his face instead of mine."

I reach out, taking his hand. His knuckles are still red from where he gripped the steering wheel earlier. "I’m here, aren't I?"

He doesn't answer with words. He pulls me closer, his lips finding mine in a way that feels like an apology and a plea all at once.

We spend the next hour lying on top of his comforter. "I want to show you something." He says out of nowhere. He pulls out a drawer and shows me a map of the college campus he wants to go to.

" But that’s three states away." I notice.

He shrugs, hiding it under his pillow. " I want a life where I'll just be a guy who plays hockey. Not a Thorne."

I don't say anything. I just pull him into a comforting hug. When the clock strikes 11 I know I need to leave as but while I put on my sneakers I see something on his nightstand. It’s a framed photo of him and Miller from last year’s championship. They’re both grinning, arms around each other's shoulders, holding the trophy.

"You haven't taken it down," I say.

"I keep it there to remind myself," he says, his voice going hard. "To remind myself that even the people you trust the most are capable of burying a knife in your back."

He walks me back down the stairs. At the door, he stops me. "One more thing. Miller is back in school tomorrow."

"Will he tell people about us?"

"I don't think so." Jaxson says.

I bike back down the hill in the dark, the wind biting at my face. I sneak back through the laundry room window and crawl into bed, Jaxson’s scent still clinging to my skin.

The next day

I’m headed toward the library to drop off a book before first bell when a shadow shifts near the alcove of the gym. I freeze, my hand tightening on my backpack strap. Miller is standing there. He isn’t wearing his varsity jacket—he’s in a plain, wrinkled gray hoodie, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

He looks small.

"Maya," he says, stepping into my path. He doesn't move with that usual predator grace; he’s twitchy, his eyes darting toward the main hallway as if he’s expecting Jaxson to drop from the ceiling.

"Move, Miller," I say, my voice cold. "Or do I need to remind you what's on that tablet?"

"I know what's on the tablet," he whispers, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Look, I’m not here to fight. I’m not here to threaten you. I just... I need to talk to Jax. He’s blocked my number. He won't even look at me in the locker room. It’s like I don't exist."

"That’s because to him, you don't," I snap. "You betrayed him. You recorded us. You wanted to ruin his life."

Miller flinches. A genuine, pained look crosses his face, but I don't buy it for a second. "I was desperate, Maya. You don't know what it’s like—the pressure to get out of this town, to have something of my own. I messed up. I know that. But I can't leave things like this. We've been friends since we were five."

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a plea. "Please. Just tell him I want to apologize. Properly. No cameras, no hidden agendas. Just tell him to meet me at the old rink tonight. I just want to say I'm sorry before... before everything else happens."

I narrow my eyes, stepping back to keep the distance between us. "You're sorry? Or are you just sure that if you get him alone, you can find a way to get that tablet back? Or maybe the Polaroids?"

Miller’s face pales at the mention of the photos of him and Chloe. "It’s not about the tablet. Jax can keep it. He can burn it for all I care. I just... I need my friend back."

"You should have thought about that before you started playing spy," I say, heart thumping. "I'm not your messenger, Miller. If you want to talk to him, find another way. But if I see you near me—or my house—again, those ledger photos go straight to the principal's inbox. Do you understand?"

Miller looks at the floor, his shoulders slumping. "I understand."