Chapter 6: The Intern

Jessie Marlowe

I stay in the closet after Martins leaves. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe longer. Time snags between the door click and the ghost of his thumb still pressed below my jaw.

My legs don't work right. My jeans are buttoned now, but my hands had trouble with it. Kept missing. Twice.

That didn't happen. That didn't...

I touch my jaw where his stubble scraped. The skin is hot. The closet smells like wet cardboard and old rubber.

I push off the shelf and make it to the bathroom without falling.

The Welker mirror is cracked top-left. My reflection looks like someone else. Swollen lips. Mascara dried in streaks. And a mark. Faint red, low on my neck where his teeth grazed. I pull my collar up. The fabric makes it worse.

I splash cold water on my face until my skin goes numb. Gripping the sink. Counting breaths.

A knock.

"Jess? You alive in there?"

"Yeah." My voice comes out steady. Good. "Just sick stomach."

"You want me to grab your jacket? It's freezing out."

"No. I'm fine. Five minutes."

"Okay. But if you puke on my shoes I'm billing you."

Her footsteps fade. I press two fingers against the mark. It throbs.

The walk home takes twelve minutes. I count to a hundred and start over. Four times. Anything to keep the closet from replaying behind my eyes. My boots crunch on ice that wasn't there when we walked to the bar. A Zamboni hums somewhere behind the rink.

The wind turns and I get a hit of something. Pine. Cold rock. Then only parking-lot exhaust.

Stop smelling him. He's not here.

I walk faster.

Coach Rorvik's office smells like the dregs in his Golden Wolves mug and fresh rubber from the floor mats. Tape wads stuck to the desk edge. A framed photo of the '19 championship team by the window.

He doesn't look up until his clipboard snaps shut.

"Equipment room. Seven a.m. sharp." He flips a page. "Gibbs doesn't do late."

"Yes, Coach."

"You'll be under Gibbs for the semester. Team credit. Formal. Non-negotiable."

"I understand."

"You broke an eight-hundred-dollar suit, Marlowe. You're paying it back in labor." He finally looks up. Heavy, bloodshot lids. "And I don't carry soap operas on scholarship."

Too late.

I nod. The chair scrapes. He's already back to his paperwork.

Lila Beaumont is waiting outside. Leaning against the brick wall. Arms crossed. Gardenia perfume thick enough to taste. Two sorority girls flank her near the steps.

She pushes off the wall. Not fast. Just steady. Burgundy nails flick at a loose thread on her coat sleeve.

"You look desperate, Marlowe."

I don't say anything. My jaw goes tight.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, hanging around that locker room." She stops close. Too close. "But stay away from the team. Or I'll make sure the athletic board takes a closer look at your scholarship."

"I don't want your boyfriend."

She smiles. Genuinely pleased. "Good. Because he doesn't want you either. You're a scholarship case, sweetheart. A semester-long joke. Don't forget it."

Her breath mists. I don't flinch. But my nails dig crescents into my palms. The mark on my neck burns under my collar.

I walk away first.

Inside the athletic building, the hallway is empty. Rubber flooring. Black scuff marks. Lockers lining one wall. Hockey tape and sweat and rubber cleaner.

"You look like you slept in a closet."

I stop. Jonah Kline appears from a side corridor like he was waiting. Falls into step beside me. Too close. His jacket carries something warm. Pear. Pink pepper. Skin.

"Funny," I say.

"I'm hilarious." He grins. "Also, you got the intern assignment?"

"How do you..."

"Coach posted the intern list outside the locker room this morning." He shrugs. "Whole team knows. You're basically ours now."

Light. Teasing. But his eyes drop to my collar. Linger a second too long.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't smell like you." He leans closer. Voice drops. "You smell like..." He stops. Catches himself. The grin returns, forced. "Never mind."

I count the inches between his shoulder and mine. Four. Maybe five. The gap feels charged. Not like Martins. Lighter. Warmer.

I hate that I notice.

His hand brushes my lower back. Casual. Easy. Could've been an accident.

And behind us, a sound. Low. Subsonic. Not quite a voice.

Jonah's smile falters. He turns.

Martins Heller fills the doorway. Still. Watchful. His eyes aren't on my face. They're on Jonah's hand.

"Kline."

Jonah's hand drops. The grin returns, thinner. "Cap. Just welcoming the new intern."

"With your hand."

"With my personality, actually." He rubs the back of his neck. "The hand was supplementary."

Martins takes a step forward. "Stay away from her."

Not for me. Aimed at Jonah. I press my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger. Once. Twice. Grounding.

Jonah lifts both hands. Surrender. But his grin doesn't fully leave. He looks at me. Winks.

"Sure thing, Cap. Whatever you say." He saunters backward. Then, softer, to me: "See you at seven, intern."

His boots squeak until he rounds the corner. The hallway gets quieter.

Martins looks at me. I look at the floor.

Five seconds. Ten.

He turns. Walks toward the locker room. Doesn't look back. Footsteps heavy. Controlled. Like he's counting them too.

"I didn't ask for any of this," I say quietly.

He doesn't turn around. But his shoulders drop a fraction. "I know."

Two words. Then he's gone.

The mark on my neck itches. My breath shakes.

Welker Dorm. Room 214. Cinderblock walls. Radiator ticking.

Tinsley is on her bed, scrolling TikTok, lip gloss smeared. Brooke is at her desk, highlighting Professor Solberg's reading in four colors. They both look up.

I drop my bag. Stare at the wall.

"So." Tinsley props herself on one elbow. "How was your walk of shame?"

"It wasn't..."

"You were gone four hours, Jess." Brooke doesn't look up from her textbook.

"I walked around. I needed air."

"In this weather?" Tinsley raises an eyebrow. "You're insane." Pause. "You look like someone ran you over."

"Thanks."

"Compliment. You look entirely wrecked."

I laugh. It sounds fake. But Tinsley grins. Brooke turns a page. The radiator clanks. For thirty seconds, I'm just a nineteen-year-old in a dorm room.

My phone buzzes. I don't check it.

Later. Tinsley and Brooke asleep. I'm awake. Forehead pressed to the cold glass. The quad stretches below. Orange lights. Fresh snow. Nothing moving.

Except.

A shape at the tree line past the parking lot. Still. Too far to read a face. But the posture is wrong. Too straight. Too patient. Like something waiting for a door to open.

My breath fogs the window. The shape doesn't leave. I set my palm flat against the glass. Freezing. My handprint fades fast.

Who are you?

I grab my phone. Open the unknown message. Three words.

Stay away, Marlowe.

No name. No area code I recognize. I type back before I can stop myself.

Who is this?

Three dots appear. Stop. Start again.

One photo. My dorm window. Taken from outside. From below. My handprint still on the glass, lights on inside.

Timestamp: two minutes ago.

I look back at the tree line. The shape is gone. But where it stood, the snow is melted clean down to black dirt. A perfect boot-print. Still steaming.

My hand shakes against the phone. I set it face down on the radiator.

I don't sleep.