Chapter 12: Sideline Stakes
1036 Words
Jake’s hand was still in mine, warm and tight, as we stood in his living room, the buzz of Coach’s text—“Locker room. Now.”—hanging between us like a storm cloud. The echo of Lexi’s slam still rang in my ears, but this felt bigger, heavier. Jake’s face was a mask—jaw set, eyes dark—and he dropped my hand, grabbing his jacket off the couch.
“I gotta go,” he said, voice clipped, already halfway to the door. “Stay here.”
“No way,” I shot back, snagging my bag from the table. “I’m coming. Whatever this is, we’re in it together, remember?”
He paused, hand on the knob, and looked back—half-annoyed, half-something softer. “Mia, this isn’t your fight.”
“Too bad,” I said, stepping up beside him. “You don’t get to shut me out again. Not after Lexi.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, then he sighed. “Fine. But keep up.”
We bolted outside, the night air sharp against my skin. His motorcycle gleamed under the streetlight, and he tossed me his spare helmet—black, scratched, too big. I fumbled it on as he swung a leg over, engine roaring to life. “Hold tight,” he said, and I wrapped my arms around his waist, heart pounding as we peeled out, gravel spitting behind us.
The ride to school was fast—wind whipping my hair, Jake’s back solid under my grip. The lot was empty, lights off except for the gym, glowing like a beacon. He parked near the side door, killed the engine, and we ran—boots and sneakers slapping pavement—straight to the locker room. The air inside was damp, thick with sweat and bleach, and Coach stood by the benches, arms crossed, face like thunder.
“Ryder,” he barked, barely glancing at me. “You’re late. And what’s she doing here?”
“She’s with me,” Jake said, stepping forward, chin up. “What’s this about?”
Coach’s eyes narrowed, and he tossed a crumpled paper onto the bench. “This. Found it in your locker. Care to explain?”
I peeked—scrawled numbers, dates, names. A betting slip, maybe? Jake’s face went pale, then hard. “That’s not mine,” he said, voice low, steady. “Someone planted it.”
“Planted?” Coach snorted, pacing. “Your locker, your mess. I’ve got parents breathing down my neck—rumors you’re gambling on games. You’re off the team, Jake. Done.”
“No,” Jake snapped, fists clenching. “I don’t bet. Never have. Check my record—I’m clean.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Coach said, voice rising. “This looks bad, and I can’t risk it. Test’s tomorrow, and you’re barely scraping by. You’re out.”
I stepped forward, anger flaring. “That’s not fair! He’s been working—I’ve been helping him. He’s not failing.”
Coach glanced at me, skeptical. “You his tutor or his lawyer, kid?”
“Both,” I shot back, surprising myself. “He’s not a cheat. Someone’s setting him up.”
Jake grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “Mia, stop. I’ll handle it.”
“No,” I said, shaking him off. “This is Lexi, isn’t it? She’s pissed you said no tonight—planting this to screw you over.”
Coach frowned, pausing. “Lexi? That girl from last year?”
Jake nodded, slow, eyes on the slip. “Yeah. She’s been on me—cash, threats. This is her.”
“Proof?” Coach demanded, crossing his arms again.
Jake hesitated, then pulled out his phone, scrolling fast. “Her texts. Tonight—‘You owe me.’ She’s done this before—trashed my bike when I cut her off. She’s got a key to the gym from summer camp.”
Coach took the phone, squinting at the screen, and grunted. “Thin. But if she’s got access…”
“It’s her,” I said, firm. “She warned me at the wedding—said he breaks things. She’s the one breaking him.”
Jake’s head snapped to me, eyes wide, then soft. Coach rubbed his face, muttering, “Christ, Ryder, you pick ‘em.” He tossed the phone back. “I’ll look into it—talk to security, check cameras. But you’re still benched ‘til the test. Pass it, or you’re done for good.”
“Deal,” Jake said, voice steady now. “I’ll pass.”
Coach waved us off, grumbling, and we slipped out, the gym door clanging shut behind us. Outside, the air was colder, stars sharp overhead. Jake leaned on his bike, staring at the ground, hands in his pockets.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, quiet, not looking up. “Stick your neck out.”
“Yeah, I did,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re not alone in this, Jake. Not anymore.”
He lifted his head, eyes meeting mine—raw, unguarded, like the night Lexi spilled his past. “Why?” he asked, voice rough. “Why stick around? I’m a mess—fights, family, now this.”
I swallowed, heart racing, and closed the gap, my hand brushing his arm. “Because you’re not just that. You’re the guy who danced with me, who’s trying. I see you, Jake—all of it.”
He stared, breath hitching, then grabbed my hand, pulling me in. His lips crashed into mine—sudden, desperate, tasting of mint and adrenaline. I froze, then melted, kissing him back, hands fisting his jacket. It wasn’t fake, wasn’t a deal—just us, real and messy, under the gym’s flickering light.
He pulled back, forehead against mine, breathing hard. “Mia,” he whispered, “I don’t deserve this.”
“You do,” I said, voice shaky but sure. “We do.”
His phone buzzed, shattering the moment. He cursed, fishing it out, and his face went white. “Kyle,” he said, showing me the screen: “Cops at the house. Get here.”
- Writer
