FACE TO FACE

Marcus leaned back in his chair. "Though I have to tell you, Nayla. The public loves a good redemption arc. And they love conflict even more. You have something every other student on this campus doesn't have. You have authenticity. You have a real reason to question him. You have something to prove."

I looked at the folder again. The letter.

My entire future, sitting on Dean Whitmore's desk, waiting for me to make the only choice that was actually a choice at all.

"How long would I have to do this?" I asked quietly.

"Eight weeks," Victoria said. "Through the championship season. The show airs weekly."

Eight weeks. Sixty days. Four hundred and eighty hours of pretending. Of being near him. Of selling a lie to millions of people.

Eight weeks for everything I'd ever wanted.

I reached across the desk and picked up the letter.

My hands stopped shaking.

"I want it in writing," I said. "All of it. The money, the fellowship nomination, everything. Before I film a single second."

Marcus smiled like he'd just won something.

"You've got a deal."

And I realized, staring at my name on that letter, that I'd just made a deal with the devil.

And the devil was smiling.

––

The café where we were supposed to meet was neutral territory.

Or at least that's what Victoria had said when she booked it. A small coffee shop two blocks from campus, far enough away that most students wouldn't recognize us, close enough that the producers could film everything from a discreet distance. I sat at a corner table, my fingers wrapped around a cold latte I'd ordered forty minutes ago, and waited.

Beck Ryder walked in at 2:47 PM.

I knew the exact time because I checked my phone, needing something to do besides watch him move through the café like he owned it. Like everywhere was his hockey arena and everyone was his audience. His ice-blue eyes scanned the room, found me, and for a moment, something flickered across his face. Irritation. Resignation. The look of someone walking toward a punishment they'd already accepted.

He sat down without saying hello.

"This is going to be a disaster," he said flatly.

"Agreed," I replied.

Victoria's voice crackled through the tiny earpiece I wore under my hair. "That's great energy. Keep the tension. The cameras love tension."

I wanted to rip the earpiece out and throw it across the café.

Beck's jaw tightened. He could hear them too. Some of the producers' chatter came through his earpiece, which meant he knew I could hear Victoria's direction. Which meant he knew this was all performance, even when we were trying to have an actual conversation.

"So how is this supposed to work?" he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "We sit here and pretend to like each other?"

"No," I said. "We sit here and pretend the cameras don't exist while we figure out how to pretend to like each other."

His mouth actually twitched. Like he wanted to smile but remembered who he was talking to.

"I've done press before," Beck said. "I know how to play a role."

"Good. Because that's all this is."

"That's all it's ever been," he said, and there was something underneath those words. Something tired. Something that sounded almost like agreement.

I leaned forward. I wanted him to see my face. To see that I meant every word.

"Two years ago, you destroyed my brother's life. You walked into that locker room angry and you walked out unscathed while Julian came out broken. So no, Beck, I don't care how well you can play a role. I care that you're a coward who's never had to answer for what you did."

The café around us seemed to get quieter.

Beck didn't respond immediately. His hands, which had been relaxed on the table, tightened into fists. His knuckles were scarred. I noticed that for the first time. Not fresh scars, old ones. Healed over but still visible. Evidence of a lot of fights.

"You think you know what happened that night," he said, his voice low.

"I know my brother came home bleeding. I know his career ended. I know my mother had to work three jobs to pay medical bills. So yeah, I know what happened."

Beck's ice-blue eyes met mine, and something in them shifted. It wasn't anger anymore. It was something harder to name. Something that looked almost like pain.

"You don't know anything," he said quietly.

"Then tell me," I shot back. "Tell me your version. Tell me why Julian's life fell apart if you had nothing to do with it."

"I can't,” he said.

"You won't," I shot back at him.

"No," Beck said, and his voice cracked slightly on that single word. "I can't. There's a difference."

Victoria's voice came back through the earpiece, bright and eager. "This is perfect. The emotion is real. Keep going."

I hated her at that moment. I hated all of them. The producers, the cameras, the contracts that forced me to sit here and dissect the worst night of my family's life for entertainment.

But I couldn't stop.

"My brother still has nightmares," I said. "He wakes up at three in the morning sometimes, and my mother has to sit with him until he falls back asleep. He watches you on television and his hands shake. Do you know that? Do you care?"

Beck stood up.

The motion was sudden enough that the chair scraped back against the tile floor with a sound that made people at nearby tables glance over. He was taller standing than I'd remembered. Broader. The kind of person who took up space just by existing.

"If only you knew what happened that night," he said again, and this time his voice was so quiet I had to lean forward to hear it.