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Caleb scoffs and throws his hands up. “She barges in and starts accusing me of sending her emails or blackmailing her or something. I don’t even know what she’s talking about.”

I turn on him. “You’re a liar.”

“You’re paranoid.”

Eli steps forward. “What emails?”

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. My hands shake only a little as I unlock it and hand it to him. “Go ahead. Read them.”

He scrolls.

His expression doesn’t change, but the tension in the room shifts. Caleb leans over his shoulder and pales.

“What the fuck…” Caleb mutters. “That’s… that’s you and Eli.”

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Eli keeps scrolling, his thumb moving slowly over each message. Then he clicks on a video. His mouth sets into a hard line.

“This wasn’t me,” Caleb says quickly.

“What?” I ask, looking at him. “You said you’d ruin me.”

“I was a fucking asshole before you let me have you, bunny. Now everything’s good between us. Why do I need to ruin you when I can just fuck you?”

Eli hands the phone back to me. “Who would it be?”

I look at Caleb. “Are you serious?”

He glares at me. “Dead fucking serious.”

“Are you playing games with me?” I snap.

Caleb’s pacing now, one hand on the back of his neck. “Someone’s watching you.”

I grip the phone tighter.

“It’s not just the pictures,” Eli says. “Some of these… you wouldn’t even know when they were taken. These were planned.”

A silence falls between us.

All the anger drains out of me and what’s left is confusion. Dread. Not because I know who’s doing it—but because I don’t.

“I thought it was one of you,” I say quietly. “But now I don’t even know who else would care enough to do this.”

Eli steps toward me. Not close, but closer. “You’re being blackmailed,” he says more to himself than anything.

I nod. “I don’t know by who.”

Chapter 32

I’m supposed to be focused on drills. Coach is watching from the rafters, arms crossed, probably tracking our formations, checking my footwork, but I can’t lock in. My stick moves on instinct. My body goes where it’s supposed to. But my head’s somewhere else.

Every slap of the puck is duller. Every shout from Caleb, every call from Thatcher, it all filters through cotton. I know I should be focused on practice. But all I see is her face.

Every photo, every clip, someone watching her like it was a game. And it’s possible—maybe even likely—that the reason any of this started… is because of me.

She got caught between Caleb and me. That alone would give someone a field day. But the way it happened, the way it spiraled… it’s too pointed. Too personal. It started the moment we crossed that line.