Chapter 8: Rumors

By my second day at Easton, I had something that almost resembled a routine. Northbridge during the day, Easton in the evenings, and whatever energy I had left went into assignments and the quiet effort of holding myself together. What surprised me most was how quickly Easton stopped feeling unfamiliar. A week ago, walking into its arena with a media badge would’ve felt like stepping into someone else’s life. Now I nodded at security, found my way through the halls without thinking, and slipped into the rhythm of the place as if I’d always belonged there.

“You’re late.”

I glanced up from my desk to find Blake leaning against it, arms crossed, wearing the kind of expression that suggested he’d been waiting specifically to say that. “I’m three minutes early.”

“Exactly,” he said, pointing as if that proved his case. “That’s late here.”

I dropped my bag with a quiet thud and shook my head. “Good evening to you, too.”

He grinned, clearly satisfied with himself. “Melissa liked your article.”

“I know.”

“Praise is rare. You should enjoy it while it lasts.”

I laughed despite myself, the tension of the day easing just slightly. “Thanks for the warning.”

“You’re welcome.” He pushed off the desk, already halfway out of the conversation. “Also, Northbridge definitely hates us now.”

I groaned. “Still?”

“Always,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

The frustrating part was that he wasn’t wrong. Easton was becoming easier with each passing day, its pace and expectations settling into something I could manage. Northbridge, on the other hand, felt like walking into a room where everyone had already formed an opinion about me, and none of them were interested in hearing anything that might complicate it.

The evening moved quickly. I helped prep content from a recent practice, edited photos, and tried to keep up with the steady flow of work that never seemed to slow down. Melissa checked in occasionally, offering brief nods of approval that were both reassuring and quietly intimidating.

Around seven, my phone buzzed. I ignored it at first, assuming it could wait, but it buzzed again, then again, persistent enough to break through my focus. I picked it up, already bracing myself.

Ava.

CALL ME.

That was never a casual request.

I stepped into a quieter corner and called her back. “What happened?”

“You tell me.”

“That’s not helpful,” I said, already feeling a shift in my stomach. “What are you talking about?”

“Check social media.”

I opened one of the sports gossip accounts, regretting it before the page even finished loading. The post had already gathered thousands of likes. At the top was an old photo of Mason and me after one of his games, both of us smiling in a way that felt distant now, like something preserved from a different life. Beneath it was a newer image—me walking into Easton’s arena, taken from far enough away to feel invasive, as if someone had been watching and waiting for the right moment.

The caption was blunt.

MASON HART’S EX JOINS EASTON.

I scrolled through the comments despite knowing better.

Traitor.

“Guess we know where her loyalty was.”

“She’s doing this for attention.”

“Northbridge gave her everything.” The words blurred together after a while, each one sharper than the last, as if people were competing to see who could be the most cutting with the least effort. I closed the app before I could read more.

“People are insane,” Ava said.

“They really are.”

“You got a job.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t join a crime ring.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even transfer schools.”

“I know.”

She let out a frustrated sound that was unmistakably Ava. “What do they expect you to do?”

“Apparently, starve.”

“That’s not a career plan.”

“It might be if tuition keeps going up.”

She laughed, and for a moment, I did too. Then another notification appeared. Not social media this time—a text. I didn’t need to open it to know who it was from.

Mason.

We need to talk.

I stared at the message longer than I intended; its simplicity was almost absurd after everything that had happened. Of course, that’s what he would say. As if there were still something left to untangle, something unresolved that could be fixed with a conversation.

“What does he want?” Ava asked.

“Mason things.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you answering?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I deleted the notification and locked my phone, telling myself that was the end of it. That I wasn’t going to let him pull me back into anything. That I had work to do and better things to focus on.

That resolve lasted about ten minutes.

The rest of the evening, I stayed busy on purpose. My next assignment took me back to the rink. I lost myself behind the camera, focusing on timing, angles, and movement until the noise in my head finally quieted.

I adjusted my camera, moved along the edge of the rink, and focused on capturing the moments that mattered—timing, angles, the rhythm of the game unfolding in real time.

When practice paused, Ryan spotted me first and waved enthusiastically. I returned it, earning a laugh from him after he said something to Dean. Dean glanced over, gave a small nod, then looked back at the ice.

I caught myself smiling before I turned back to my camera, refocusing on the task at hand.

Practice wrapped up soon after, the noise gradually fading as players headed toward the locker rooms and coaches drifted off to whatever came next. I packed up my equipment and gathered my notes, ready to call it a night.

Later, after the post had already begun circulating and Ava’s call had ended, Melissa found me lingering longer than necessary, my attention drifting despite everything I’d tried to focus on.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping closer.

I hesitated, then said it plainly. “Apparently, someone already exposed me working here.”

She made a soft sound, something between sympathy and mild annoyance. “That’s sad,” she said, then shrugged. “But honestly, nobody here cares.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “Your scholarship was revoked. You have every right to find another way to pay for school.”

I nodded.

Easton simply moved on with its day. Less interested in tearing people apart just because it could.

The next day, my last class at Northbridge ended just after noon. I stepped outside, scrolling through emails, trying to hold onto that fragile sense of calm I’d managed to build.

Then I stopped.

He was leaning against the brick wall across from the building, like he’d been there for a while, waiting.

Mason.

He straightened when he saw me, as if this moment had been inevitable.

And just like that, whatever calm I had left slipped out of reach.