Page 64 of One Pucking Secret
“Sorry, Banks. We have to follow protocol.” Coach’s voice is firm, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. “We need to search your locker.”
I stand abruptly, the chair skidding back a few inches. “There’s nothing to find,” I insist, but the assurance sounds hollow even to my own ears. I’ve always played clean, always stayed clear of anything that could tarnish the game I live for. Yet here I am, caught in the snare of an accusation I can’t fathom.
As we walk toward the locker room, my mind scrambles for answers, but I come up empty, save for the growing dread that this isn’t just a simple mix-up.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter under my breath, bracing myself for the scrutiny that awaits.
The metallic clang of my locker door echoes through the tense air as Coach’s eyes sweep the interior, scrutinizing every inch. My teammates’ fall silent, their gazes fixed on the unfolding scene. A staff member begins rifling through my things, and it takes everything in me to keep my cool as he digs into the pockets of the jeans, gym shorts, and sweater that are neatly folded inside.
“Like I said, nothing to find,” I say.
Then the staff member’s hand emerges from my duffel bag, holding an unfamiliar bottle. His fingers tremble slightly as he raises it for everyone to see.
“That isn’t mine,” I say, disbelief and frustration sharp in my voice. The room suddenly feels cold, like the ice we skate on, chilling the trust I’ve built among these walls, these people.
“We have to follow protocol and treat it as if it is,” one of the staff members says, skepticismetched across his face. They don’t believe me. My hands ball into fists at my sides, frustration boiling beneath my skin.
The results of the test are a slapshot to my credibility. “I didn’t take any pills,” I insist, but the words feel weak against the evidence staring back at me. I’m benched—like an injured player, only this time it’s my reputation that’s taken the hit.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, a curse for the unseen enemy who blindsided me.
“Mr. Banks, we’ll need a blood and hair sample before you go,” a young staff member says, his tone hesitant, like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Yeah, whatever.” Resignation tinges my words. Compliance is the only play I have left. As the team doctor takes the samples, I can’t help but feel like I’m losing a part of myself, leaving it behind in this sterile, unforgiving room.
“Go home and wait to be contacted,” Coach Reynolds finally says, his voice lacking its usual strength.
Without another word, I storm out of the stadium, the evening air biting against my skin. Gravel crunches beneath my feet, but it’s nothing compared to the angergrinding inside. Someone’s setting me up. My mind ticks through every recent interaction, every connection, desperate for answers. And then, unbidden, a face appears in my thoughts—Zach.
Zach, who was there during practice, who knows my habits as well as anyone. He was at the rink with Jasper and Chloe, part of every moment of my life these past few months. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Impossible. Zach’s loyalty has always been unshakeable, his support constant. Yet, as I replay recent conversations, doubt creeps in.
Could Zach…? I shove my hands into my pockets, anger twisting into frustration. “No,” I mutter, a voice barely above a whisper. It’s almost absurd to think he’d betray me. But the seed of distrust has been planted, and whether I like it or not, it’s taking root.
Chapter 23
Chloe
My phone buzzes withWyatt’s message, a digital nudge that draws an involuntary curve to my lips.
Wyatt: You can thank me a different way.
His words dance across the screen with a playful edge that sends a ripple of warmth through me.
Tucking the phone into my purse, I feel the weight of the media storm outside dissolve a little. With Wyatt, the chaos doesn’t seem so consuming.
I push open the bistro’s glass door, a tiny bell chiming above as I step into the cozy haven of clinking dishes filled with the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans. The hustle of the city falls away behind me, replaced by the murmuring hum of midday patrons indulging in their lunchtime escapes.
“Chloe, over here!” Lainey’s voice, her familiar cadence immediately comforting me,cuts through the low-level chatter. I scan the room, and there she is, a beacon of blond hair and blue-eyed calm seated at a table for two, tucked snug against the counter’s polished expanse.
Her hand flutters in the air like an elegant bird signaling me to safe harbor. As I reach her side, we embrace tightly, a momentary sanctuary from everything swirling around us. “Hey, Lainey.”
“Hey, you.”
I sink into the chair across from her. The wood of the table is cool beneath my palms, grounding me as I settle in. It’s moments like these—simple meetups with my best friend—that tether me back to normalcy amid the tempest of scandal and scrutiny.
“Cozy spot, right?” I remark, taking in the quaint charm of our surroundings.
“Perfect for a catch up,” she agrees, her eyes twinkling with an unspoken understanding that goes beyond words.
