Page 50

The airport is busy this morning, and I’m operating on pure adrenaline and determination because our next game is in fucking California.

Let’s fucking go!

I pull out the burner phone I use for my drug dealer and copy the number that Sage definitely doesn’t know that I have from my regular phone.

Slater: Are you busy tonight?

I wait, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes.

FUCK YOU: Who is this?

Slater: You know who this is.

I share my location, then quickly type.

Slater: I’m getting on a plane right now

FUCK YOU: Sage?

The fact that he immediately assumes it’s her makes my blood boil. This sick fuck has been expecting her to reach out, probably hoping she’d come crawling back.

Slater: We need to talk

FUCK YOU: I have a game tonight

FUCK YOU: Pauley Pavilion

Perfect. UCLA. I know exactly where that is.

Slater: I’ll see you then

I clench my phone, so fucking happy this idiot took the bait. I sit back and wait for boarding, my nerves running high. I need to pull this off without getting caught, without ruining my career, without leaving any evidence that could trace back to me or Sage.

When I board the plane, I text Sage that I’ve arrived safely, then switch back to the burner. The flight to California feels endless, but it gives me time to plan every detail of what’s about to happen.

When we land, I stop sharing my location with him. Me and the team head straight to our hotel to prep for tonight’s game. The coaches shove a stack of papers at me—plays I’ve missed during my week of absence.

“Study these,” Coach barks. “You’re already behind.”

The game is brutal, but it’s exactly what I need.

I get thrown in the penalty box more than I should, knocking guys on their asses when it’s completely unnecessary.

The referees are getting pissed, but I don’t give a shit.

I’ve got pent-up rage coursing through my veins, and this is the perfect release before what I have to do later.

After we win, the team heads back to the hotel bus. I grab my bag but don’t get on.

“Where are you going, Castellano?” Coach calls out.

“Got an old friend I want to see while I’m in town,” I lie smoothly. “I’ll be back at the hotel later.”

Coach gives me a warning look. “No drinking. No trouble.”

“Scout’s honor,” I say, throwing my gear bag on the bus.

The Uber I called is already waiting. I’m wearing all black—disposable clothes I bought specifically for tonight, just in case there are blood stains. Can’t have any evidence linking back to me.

As we drive toward UCLA, I pull out the burner phone.

Slater: Share your location so I can find you

FUCK YOU: Are you here?

Slater: Almost

FUCK YOU: Shares location

Slater: Shares location

FUCK YOU: Meet me at my car.

I stare at the text. His car? For what, a quick fuck? This piece of shit really thinks Sage is coming to him willingly after all his threatening texts. The delusion would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking sick.

I need to lure him away from the parking lot where there might be witnesses. Somewhere more isolated where I can have a proper conversation with him.

When the Uber drops me off, I check his location. He’s in the main parking lot, but I’m on the opposite side of campus. Perfect.

Slater: Locker room

FUCK YOU: I’m in the parking lot

Slater: I’m not. I’m on the opposite side

FUCK YOU: Can’t meet in the locker room. You can’t get in.

Slater: Fine. Find me

I lead him through campus via shared locations, away from populated areas, toward a section of academic buildings that should be empty this late. I scope out the cameras as I move—there are some, but not many, and definitely blind spots I can work with.

I’ve got hockey tape ready, a sharpie, and a knife. It’s game time.

He enters the empty hallway, glancing at his phone.

“Sage?” he calls out, his voice echoing.

I’m hiding in a nearby bathroom, listening to him get more confused and agitated.

“Where are you?” he calls again. “Sage?”

I stop sharing my location and shove the burner phone in my back pocket. Time to make my appearance.

I walk out of the bathroom casually. The guy is still staring at his phone, trying to figure out where “Sage” went. I have to give her credit—she likes her men tall and built. This asshole has about an inch on me and looks like he could handle himself in a fight.

Too bad for him, I’m not planning on fighting fair.

“Can I help you?” he asks as I stop in front of him. He looks up from his phone, not putting it together yet.

“You know this girl?” I say, showing him a picture of Sage on my phone.

Understanding dawns on his face, and his expression shifts from confusion to something darker. “Is this a sick fucking joke?”

“No joke,” I say, and then I waste no time.

I punch him so fucking hard that he goes down immediately. Before he can recover, I grab his head and slam it against the metal railing, then drag his semiconscious ass into the bathroom.

He tries to fight back, throwing weak punches, but I get him in a headlock that cuts off most of his air supply.

“If you ever fucking threaten Sage ever fucking again,” I whisper in his ear, “I will fucking kill you.”

“Fuck you!” he manages to choke out, so I tighten my grip.

“No, fuck you, you piece of fucking shit!”

He’s strong, trying to claw at my arm, using his legs to push off the ground, but I’m stronger. I wrap my legs around his body, keeping him pinned while I slowly choke the fight out of him.

“I should just kill you right fucking now,” I hiss. “Save everyone the trouble.”

He struggles for another few seconds, then goes limp. I hold the position for a few more beats to make sure he’s really out, then force myself to let go. Can’t kill him—that would cause more problems than it would solve.

I work quickly, using the hockey tape to bind his wrists tightly behind his back. Then I pull out the Sharpie and write RAPIST across his forehead in big block letters. I rip his shirt and write the same thing across his chest. FUCKING RAPIST.

When I drag him back out to the hallway, he’s starting to come around, groaning and blinking in confusion. I slap his face a few times to wake him up fully.

“Rise and shine, asshole.”

He’s still too dazed to resist as I position him against a concrete pillar and start wrapping hockey tape around him and the support beam.

Around his torso, his legs, even a few strips across his mouth to muffle any screaming.

By the time I’m done, he’s completely immobilized.

I yank his pants zipper down and let his small dick hang out.

I wish so badly I could cut it off, but again, I have to remind myself that I’m not trying to go to fucking jail and never see my girl again.

I pull out the burner phone and take several pictures. Then I grab his phone from where it fell and unlock it with his face and take a ton of pictures with his small dick out and all.

I start posting the photos to his social media accounts—Instagram, Twitter, Facebook—with captions like “I’m a rapist. A sick fuck.

” “This is what happens to guys who threaten women” and “Karma is a bitch.” Then I send a few of the best shots directly to Sage’s number from his phone. She’s going to love this.

I wipe his phone clean of my fingerprints.

I pull out my knife and get to his eye level. He’s fully awake now, eyes wide with terror above the tape covering his mouth.

“I want you to listen very carefully,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “I will fucking kill you if you threaten her again. Stop fucking texting her. Stop thinking about her. Forget she exists, or I promise you, next time won’t be nearly this nice.”

He’s making muffled sounds behind the tape that I think are supposed to be words. It’s actually pretty funny.

I drop his phone at his feet, making sure it lands face-up so he can see all the social media notifications already pouring in. Then I give him one final slap across the face.

“Fuck you.”

I disappear into the night, pulling off my black hoodie and stuffing it in a trash can several blocks away. By the time campus security finds him, I’ll be back at the hotel with a solid alibi.

Mission fucking accomplished.