Page 111 of Let You Love Me

The hell?

“Nichols!” Coach yells. “You better have a damn good explanation for what that’s doing in your locker.”

My head snaps up and my eyes widen as I take in Coach’s pointed gaze, his face red with anger. I open my mouth to protest, to tell him I have no idea how it got there, but the words won’t come. I’m too stunned.

My ears ring in the quiet that follows as I try and grapple with what the hell just happened.

I take a step forward, and my cleats crunch over what I assume is the shattered glass, but when I glance down at the floor, I discover it’s my phone. It must’ve fallen out of my locker, along with the bottle.

“Oh shit.” Someone nearby chuckles.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

My nostrils flare, but I tamp down my quickly rising emotions as I glance back up at Coach. “Sir, I swear I didn’t—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about your excuses. Get that shit cleaned up, you hear me?” He moves toward me, his stride clipped as he points in my face. “This is strike two.”

“Coach—”

“We’ll handle this on the field tomorrow,” he snaps with a stab of a finger in my face. “You wanna drink on my watch? You want to use your locker as your personal wet bar? Then you can runeveryone’sextra bleachers.”

I shake my head. “Coach, I swear—”

“Isaid, we’ll handle this tomorrow.” Then he turns and walks out the door, slamming it closed with an ominous thud.

“Fuck,” I hiss, raking my hands through my hair as I stare down at the mess.

Everyone eyes me with varying degrees of surprise, humor, and irritation as Tommy moves in front of me, blocking me from view. “That’s not yours,” he says.

Tommy knows me well enough by now to know I don’t drink in-season, let alone during practice, and I’m sure as shit not dumb enough to keep the evidence in my locker even if I did.

“No shit.” I exhale, placing my hands on my hips while my mind whirrs.

It’s a trick, a prank; it has to be.

Unless someone stashed it here with the intention to come back for it, but the possibility doesn’t compute.

“Who would have your combination?” he asks, reading my thoughts.

I glance up at him, my teeth clenched so hard they feel as if they might crack. “Hell if I know.”

“Damn, bro. This shit is fucked up. Coach’s car and now this?” Tommy whistles, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I say between gritted teeth.

I know exactly how screwed I am. Particularly because this will make it all that much worse when he finds out I want more from Lane than friendship.

Tommy turns toward his locker, and my gaze focuses on Chance who hasn’t budged an inch since Coach left. My eyes narrow.

Hewas the one to suggest the extra strategy session tomorrow, coincidentally during my time with Lane. Just likehewas the one to stop Coach before leaving the locker room. If it weren’t for him, Turner never would’ve been in here when the bottle fell. But Chance gave him ample time.

As if sensing the scrutiny, Chance lifts his head and when our eyes lock, his answering smirk curdles my blood.

His fingerprints are all over this; I’m fucking sure of it.

I don’t know how he knows Lane and I spend time together on my lunch break, or how he got into my locker. But I have places to be, so rather than dwelling on it, I turn away from him and bend down to start cleaning the mess beneath my feet.

I pocket my phone first, then hurry to gather the shattered glass. Piece by piece, I pick it up and collect it in the palm of my left when a large chunk slices clean through my flesh to the bone. “Shit!” I hiss and drop it as the coppery tang of blood scents the air, the red substance bubbling to the surface of my skin, quickly coating my palm and dripping down my arm.

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