Page 15 of One Pucking Secret
True to his word, the following morning, while I’m still in bed, I check. It’s the first picture in my newsfeed—an explosion of pastel hues over the horizon, the city just waking up beneath it. And then comes his message, a notification that blinks like a challenge.
Wyatt: What have you been doing since graduation? Married?
Chloe: Hmm, graduation? I kept my head down, graduated, and started working at Luminous.
A simple truth, yet safely distant from the present.
Wyatt: No love life in the past eight years?
He writes back immediately.
Chloe: One question per post.
I remind him.
I lock my phone and stare at the darkened screen. My reflection stares back from the glass, shadowed and uncertain.
“Don’t let it get to you, Chloe,” I whisper, tossing my phone on the bed beside me. “You’ve handled worse than this.”
The gymnasium buzzes withthe energy of a basketball game, balls bouncing and sneakers squeaking on the polished wood floor. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and I stand on the sidelines, trying to stay unnoticed as I take videos and photos with my phone. Wyatt’s out there, fluid and focused, weaving through aswarm of teenagers—boys and girls alike—who orbit him like eager satellites.
Over the past week, every new post on social media has been followed by his probing questions—his price for compliance. And each answer I’ve given has been a careful dance, revealing just enough without giving too much away.
“Come on, guys! Defense!” Wyatt’s voice cuts through the noise, authoritative yet encouraging. His blue eyes are alight with competitive fire, though it’s more friendly than fierce, warming rather than scorching.
I snap pictures as he dodges a teenage opponent, muscles coiling and uncoiling with the grace of a panther. The respect he commands is admittedly adorable. These kids hang on his every move, every instruction. They trust him implicitly—a sentiment I find myself wrestling with.
“Nice shot, Malik!” Wyatt applauds as one of the boys sinks a basket, and their faces light up with pride. Something tightens in my chest, a knot of something like admiration.
I keep shooting, but the images I capture show more than Wyatt’s athletic prowess. They’re snapshots of character, of someone who hasn’t let fame harden his heart.
“Chloe, you getting what you need?” Wyatt calls out. There’s a twinkle in his eye that says he knows exactly how disarming he is right now.
“Every shot,” I assure him, my voice steadier than I feel.
He points a finger at me. “Don’t post them until I see ‘em.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Banks.”
He smirks, then turns back to the game. “Let’s go, two more minutes!”
The whistle blows a few minutes later, signaling the end of the game, and the teens gather around Wyatt, basking in the glow of exertion and camaraderie. As I lower my camera, I catch sight of his broad back, T-shirt clinging to him with the honesty of sweat.
And I remind myself again, like a mantra against the rising tide of his charm.Keep your guard up, Chloe. Remember why you’re here.
The basketball bounces away, and laughter fades as Wyatt gathers the teens into a semi-circle on the bleachers. I hover near the periphery, lens focused on more than just the play of light and shadow across their faces. A girl with braids leans forward, biting her lip before she speaks.
“Hey Wyatt, what’s with that picture online? The one where you’re fighting with a girl? She says you have a temper,” she asks.
Judging by the teens’ awkward reactions to her question—a snicker here, a swat on the girl’s arm there—they’re itching to know the truth, but no one else was brave enough to ask. I brace for a flash of anger, a crack in his composed veneer, but Wyatt only nods, a gesture of respect for the courage behind her question.
“Thank you for bringing it up,” he says, his tone even, eyes calm as a lake in summer. “That picture doesn’t tell the whole story. It’s important to remember that things aren’t always what they seem on social media.”
He pauses, making sure he has their attention. Every pair of eyes is locked on him.
“Violence is never, ever the answer—especially not against someone you care about. What’s being said about me isn’t true. Losing your cool, getting physical… it’s something I would never condone. And even though someone is trying to say I have a temper, I definitely don’t.”
Huh. No mention of Sonia. At least nothing negative. Come to think of it, he didn’t speak an ill word about her in a single meeting we’vehad so far. It’s as if he’s handling all of this from a neutral perspective, one driven by the facts, not emotions.
